Read Never Too Late for Free Online Page B

when I cried out to him and tried to reach for him, he said, ‘You have to go back. You have things to do. I’ll see you next time.’”
    To his credit, his eyes didn’t take on that bug-eyed, shocked expression that said he thought she was nuts. Instead, he smiled. “I heard that sort of thing can happen.”
    â€œMaybe I dreamed it,” she offered.
    â€œOr maybe it happened,” he said. “I never rule anything out.”
    â€œThanks,” she said, smiling back at him. “That’s nice of you to say.”
    â€œOh, I wasn’t trying to be nice. Seriously, I’ve heard those stories. You never know, huh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    They were quiet a moment, looking at each other. Then he cleared his throat. “Mmm. This is kind of awkward, but maybe after you get a little better, maybe we could meet for coffee.”
    Dumbfounded, she stared at him, gape mouthed, until she realized she must look as if she’d just been hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. “Coffee?”
    â€œWhatever.” He shrugged. “How about you give me a phone number where I can reach you. At the very least, I’d like to check up on you, see how your recovery is going.”
    Oh, that was it, she thought. Her features recovered. It wasn’t as if he was asking her out on a date. He was bonded to her by that accident, which probably shook him up. “God, forgive me,” she said. “It must be the drugs. I thought you were asking me out on a date. ”
    There was that smile again. Dazzling. “Just coffee. Something like a date could take as many as two coffees.” Then he laughed. And she laughed.
    â€œIf you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
    â€œTwenty-nine,” he said. “And you’re thirty-nine.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œI’ve gotten really good at that driver’s license thing,” he said. “So, when you’re up to coffee?” She nodded. “How about that phone number?”
    That was kind of cool, she thought. That fantasy, though brief, that this drop-dead gorgeous young guy was asking her out, even though she was feeling reallyold, not to mention greasy haired and makeupless. But, he didn’t really look all that young. He could even pass for thirty-two.
    Thirty-two, Clare? she thought. Get over yourself. The guy wants to have coffee to assure himself that the banged-up heap they pulled out of a wreck was going to be fine. Just fine.
    â€œSure,” she said. “Got a pencil?”
    The nurse stuck her head in. “Visiting hours are ending, sir,” she said.
    â€œOkay,” he said. Then to Clare he said, “I thought about badging her so she’d let me stay longer, but I’m really not here on official business. And you probably need the rest.” He reached over to the bedside commode where the clipboard and pen sat. Then like a kid, felt-tip poised over the palm of his hand, he said, “Shoot.”
    She gave him a number and added, “That’s a cell phone.”
    â€œGood then. So, take it easy and I’ll be in touch.”
    Clare nurtured that little fantasy about the younger man for a good twenty-four hours. Then when Maggie dropped by the next day it got wiped away by a bigger matter. “Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you—Pete Rayburn called me. He heard about the accident and wanted to know if you were all right.”
    Clare instantly turned her head away, almost a reflex now. That discomfort, that shame. She wouldn’t want anyone to see it in her eyes.
    Maggie touched her hair. “Does Mike’s death still hurt so much? Even after all these years?”
    Clare looked back at her sister. “Sometimes at the strangest moment it will come back—a suggestion, aname, like Pete’s—and I remember how much it hurt then. You know?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat did you tell