No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark

Author:Mary Higgins Clark [Clark, Mary Higgins]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-04-20T20:24:13+00:00

39

All Monday evening, I struggled to tell Alex that I wanted to hire a criminal defense lawyer, but the words kept dying in my throat. The pleasant weekend at Spring Lake had relaxed some of the tension between us, and I was coward enough to want that good feeling to last a little while longer.

On the way home from the riding lesson, I had of necessity gone food shopping. Kathleen, my adoptive mother, is the kind of cook who can concoct a feast out of whatever she finds in the refrigerator. I can’t compete with her, but I do enjoy cooking, and I actually find it calming.

Jack and his babysitter, Sue, had gotten along splendidly while I was gone. She had taken him for a long walk on his pony, and he excitedly told me about the kids he’d met on the next street, one of whom was in his class. “The Billy who doesn’t cry. And remember, Mom, you have to call his mother to say I can go over for a play date tomorrow after school.”

Jack helped me mix the flour and butter and milk for biscuits, and turn the salad spinner to dry the lettuce, and make a mustard sauce to coat the salmon, and by himself he put the asparagus in the poacher.

When Alex got home at six thirty, we all sat together in the living room. Alex and I had a glass of wine and Jack a soft drink. Then we had dinner in the dining room, our first meal there. Alex told me about his aging client who finally did make it in to change her will. “This time the grandniece gets the house in the Hamptons, which is going to start the third world war in the family,” he said. “I really think that old gal gets her jollies torturing her relatives. But if she doesn’t mind running up billable time, I’m happy to help her play her game.”

Alex had changed into a sport shirt and chinos. As usual, I found myself thinking what an absolutely great-looking guy he is. I love the shape of his hands and his long, sensitive fingers. If I were asked to sketch how I envision a surgeon’s hands, I would sketch his. Still, I know how strong they are. If he’s in the kitchen when I’m struggling to open a jar, all I have to do is to hand it to him. With one easy motion of his hands, the lid begins to turn.

It was a pleasant dinner, a normal family dinner. Then, when Alex said he had to go to Chicago tomorrow afternoon to take a deposition in a case he was handling, and would be there for at least one night, possibly two, I almost was relieved. If any more of those terrible calls came in, he wouldn’t be around to answer the phone and hear them. I wanted to call Dr. Moran, who had treated me when I was young. He’s retired now, but I have his number.

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