The Secret Between Us

“I don’t think so. I didn’t smell anything.”

“Vodka doesn’t smell.”

“I couldn’t exactly ask him, Jill. He wasn’t talking.”

“The history teacher, huh? Is he badly hurt?”

“He was operated on last night, likely to put a pin in his hip.”

“Marty Stevens says the guy is odd—a loner, not real friendly.”

“Serious is the word, I think. He doesn’t smile much. Did Marty say anything else?”

“No, but Shelley Wyeth did. She lives near the McKennas. She said his wife is weird, too. They don’t mix much with the neighbors.” There was a brief pause. “Wow. You actually ran someone down. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Deborah was a minute reacting. Then she said, “Excuse me?”

“Have you ever been in an accident before?”

“No.”

“The rest of us have.”

“Jill.”

“It’s okay, Deborah. This makes you human. I love you all the more for it.”

“Jill,” Deborah protested, but Dylan was awake and reaching for his glasses. “My boy, here, needs an explanation. I’ll see you as soon as I drop off the kids.”

“You’re not driving the BMW, are you?” Jill asked. She shared Deborah’s disdain for the car, albeit more for its cost than for memories of a marriage gone bad.

“I have no choice.”

“You do. I’ll be there at seven-thirty. Once you get to Dad’s, you can use his car. I don’t envy you having to tell him about the accident. He won’t be happy. He likes perfect records.”

Deborah didn’t need the reminder. The thought of telling her father made her ill. “I like perfect records, too, but we don’t always get what we want. Trust me, I didn’t plan on this. My car was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gotta go, Jill. Seven-thirty. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and looked down at Dylan. At ten, he was more of an introvert than his sister had been at that age. He was also more sensitive, a character trait exacerbated by both the divorce and his vision.

“You hit someone?” he asked now, brown eyes abnormally wide behind his lenses.

“It was on the rim road, very dark, very wet.”

“Was he splattered all over the road?” the boy asked with a hard blink.

“Jerk,” Grace mumbled from behind Deborah.

“He was not splattered anywhere,” Deborah scolded. “We weren’t going fast enough to do serious harm.”

Dylan rubbed one of his eyes. “Have you ever hit anyone before?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Has Dad?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’m going to call him and tell him.”

“Not now, please,” Deborah said, because Greg would insist that Dylan put her on the phone and would then hassle her with questions. Glancing past Dylan at the clock, she said, “He’ll be sleeping and, anyway, you need to get dressed. Aunt Jill is coming for us.”

There was another hard blink. “Why?”

“Because the police have my car.”

“Why?”

“They have to make sure it’s in good working order.”

“Is there blood on the front?”

“No. Get up, Dylan,” Deborah said and gave him a gentle push.

He got out of bed, started for the door, then turned back. “Who’d you hit?”

“No one you know,” Deborah said and pointed toward the door.

He had barely left when Grace was hovering at her shoulder. “But he’s someone I know,” she whispered, “and someone all my friends know. And you can bet Dylan’s gonna call Dad, who’s then gonna think we can’t take care of ourselves. Like there’s someone else who’ll take care of us if we don’t, not that Dad cares. Mom, what if Mr. McKenna died on the operating table?”

“The hospital would have called.”

“What if you get a call today? I need to stay home.”

Deborah faced her. “If you stay home, you’ll have to retake the test—and miss track practice, which isn’t a great idea with a meet on Saturday.”

Grace looked horrified. “I can’t run after what happened.”

Deborah knew how she felt. When Greg left, she had wanted nothing more than to stay in bed nursing her wounds. She had a similar urge now, but it would only make things worse. “I have to work, Grace, and you need to run. We were involved in an accident. We can’t let it paralyze us.”

“What if it paralyzes Mr. McKenna?”

“They said it didn’t.”

“You can really work today?”

“I have to. People depend on me. Same with you. You’re the team’s best hope for winning the meet. Besides, if you’re afraid of people talking, the best thing is to behave as you always do.”

“And say what?”

Deborah swallowed. “What I just told Aunt Jill. That it was a horrible storm, and that the car was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”