She filled her plate a second time. “So how are things with
Clare?”
“Not so
good. She hasn’t answered when I’ve called. We’re scheduled to talk tonight at
eleven. I’m sure there are good reasons. I don’t exactly know when her classes
are. But I don’t like it. I can’t sleep if I don’t know that she’s safe,
wherever she is.”
“I get
that.”
“How’s
Stan doing?”
“Moving
into a private room tomorrow. They don’t know how long he’ll have to be there.
Depends on his recovery. But I’m guessing maybe four days, then home.”
“How
will you handle him here?”
“Good
question.”
“Have
you hired help?”
“I contacted
a service. I hate having a stranger living in our house. But I won’t be able to
handle Stan alone. He’ll be in a wheel chair because he broke the leg and wrist
on the same side. So, he can’t handle a crutch. Not yet, anyway.”
“It
won’t be forever.”
“I’ll
have to move out of the guest room.”
“You’re sleeping in the guest room?” His
eyebrows shot up.
She took
a drink of wine and blinked rapidly. “I can’t stand sleeping in our bed without
Stan.”
It was
his turn to comfort. Terry reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder.
“I
understand. I hate sleeping without Clare.”
“Oh, of
course. Then you get it.”
“I do.”
Terry
finished the huge plate of food, then added a little more. “How’s your writing
coming?”
“My
writing?”
“Yeah.”
He cut a meatball with his fork.
“I’m not
writing.”
“Why
not?”
“All day
at the hospital. Making plans for bringing Stan home. Dealing with that fucking
brat, Marcy.”
“But
you’re home at night, right?”
“I get
home around six, usually.”
“And
what do you do with the evening?”
“I
collapse.”
“That’s
no excuse.”
Anger filled
her. “What do you mean that’s no excuse?”
“You
have plenty of time to write. You’re being a baby.”
She
stiffened. “I need Stan.”
“Bullshit.”
“You
don’t know…”
“You’re
a grown woman. You can write or not write. It’s your choice. And all the
excuses in the world aren’t going to change that.”
“You’re
pretty high and mighty. What do you do with your empty evenings?”
“Ah,
good one. Change the subject.” He smiled and looked at his plate, then up at
her.
“I
thought that was pretty clever.”
“You’re
not going to weasel out of this so easily, Jen. If you want to write –and you
say you do—then write, God damn it!”
Indignation
warred with hurt feelings. Jen had no come back, no reply. She sipped her
drink, staring at him with angry eyes.
“Why do
you have to be so damn right?” She hated when she got petulant but couldn’t
stop.
Terry
burst out laughing. “Glad you admit it.”