This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Lynne Hugo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-4967-2567-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2567-7
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2567-0
For Alan, Brooke, and Ciera, with my heart
And in memory of my son, David Alan deCourcy
“. . . When all the birds have flown to some real haven,
We who find shelter in the warmth within,
Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
As the lost, human voices speak through us and blend
Our complex love . . .”
—May Sarton
Chapter 1
CarolSue
Charlie was already dead when I finally hung up with my sister and came in from the porch. The twilight had settled around me like a sticky damp quilt, but the sky had held the glowing embers of the day and was lovely, so I’d stayed out. “Charlie, honey,” I said as I glanced at him, irritated as any wife would be, “you’ve dropped a hunk of pie into your lap. I can’t get blueberry out of khaki. Don’t touch it while I go get napkins.”
Even when I came back from the kitchen, stopping to turn down the roar of our Atlanta Braves against Milwaukee from the television—Charlie never would put in his hearing aids—I didn’t catch on. “Pay attention, will you?” I said. That man could find a way to spill hard candy on himself. I was the one who should have been paying attention instead of being pleasantly surprised that for once he hadn’t made a mess worse after I told him not to touch it. I was the one who dropped the rest of the pie on his khaki pants when I picked up the plate, realized, and screamed. “No! No! No!”
I’m usually the calm one, but I must have been still screaming when I called 911 because the dispatcher kept asking me to repeat myself. It took them almost fifteen minutes to show up. I could hear the sirens rising, falling, rising, falling, well after I’d made a total mess of things, after I realized that no, CarolSue, you really can’t even attempt CPR on a body that’s sitting in a recliner, you have to get him prone. Here’s a hint I hope you never find useful: If a 225-pound man has his legs up in a recliner, you can’t just shove them down. You have to use the lever. Well, I couldn’t get to the lever without sitting on his lap. As my sister would say, please don’t picture how that covered Charlie’s fly and the rear of me in blueberry pie, or the whispering it doubtless prompted among the ambulance and hospital personnel.
Charlie was way bigger than I am. I had to drag him from the recliner by his ankles to get him onto the floor. I banged his head so hard I thought if he wasn’t already dead, maybe I’d just killed him and I’d end up in jail. It was then I remembered that I don’t know the first thing about CPR. It was my sister, Louisa, who had to get certified in it because of some law in Indiana where she used to be a teacher that they all had to know CPR, even though not a single elementary school student in the state had ever had a heart attack at school. So, naturally, I called the expert.
“Louisa! How do you do CPR?” I shouted. Possibly I could have been more clear about the nature of the problem.
“What do you mean?”
“HOW DO YOU DO CPR?”
“I don’t know. I’m retired, remember? Take the class. Why?”
My sister can be like that, bless her heart.
“It’s Charlie, he’s dead. How do you do CPR?”
“You call 911!”
“Tell me what to do!”
“Listen, honey. I used to think Harold was dead if he wasn’t snoring, before he did die, I mean, but . . .”
I was going to jail even if I hadn’t already killed Charlie with that blow to the head and by failing to know CPR because I had a strong homicidal impulse toward my sister.
“I DID call 911. Help me, what do I do?”
It was as if Louisa suddenly took hold and we switched places then. I’ve always been the one to take care of her. I’m the older sister, after all, even if it’s only two years.
“Listen to me,” my sister said. “Find where the bony center of his rib cage ends. The center. Go up