Page 88 of Clara Knows Best

“I do,” he admitted, torn between disproportionate gratitude and wishing she would leave before the Colonel stormed in and gave him a real concussion.

“I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed. My mom brought you a clean shirt, and I figured you’d want your lidocaine patches out of the car. And the ice pack for your ribs, maybe.”

She really did think of everything. Why did he expect her to say next that she’d sprayed perfume on his Dr. Pepper to “give it a little something extra”?

“Legally Blonde,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That’s what your dress reminds me of. That sorority lawyer.”

“Oh,” she said in surprise, and looked down at herself. “Okay.”

“Hey, thanks for the Dr. Pepper, but you gotta go.”

She took a step towards the door, but hesitated. “I’m sorry I cried. Earlier. I want you to know I didn’t do it on purpose.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he worked on getting out of his long-sleeved shirt. “I don’t need help,” he reiterated, seeing a look on her face that reminded him of a cat watching a mouse—an alarming level of attentiveness.

“I’m leaving,” she assured him. “I just wanted to say that I know you only did it because I was crying, and I don’t want you to think I was trying to manipulate you.”

“That’s not why I did it,” he said automatically.

“Yeah, it is,” she said, smiling a little.

Now would be a good time to tell her that the dog’s chances still weren’t good, but he said, “I know you weren’t faking it.”

“What’s crazy is I don’t even like dogs.”

“Me, neither,” he said.

She laughed at him. “I likethatdog, though.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

She smiled at him one last time and slipped out of the room.

32

On Friday morning, Jesse entered the kitchen and paused when he caught sight of Clara on the floor, the rhinestones on her cream-colored sweatsuit twinkling in the morning sun. She was partially wrapped in a little throw blanket, her head on a couch pillow that had been placed over the open threshold of the dog crate near the back door. Greer, as she had named the border collie, lay within, with her snout resting snugly in the crook of Clara’s neck.

Greer was still on heavy meds and his presence hadn’t disturbed either of them, but he knew it was going to, because he was going to turn the coffeemaker on and run some water to fill up the reservoir. Clara needed to get up, anyway.

While he was making coffee, she rose and stretched, spoke softly to the dog, and then stepped into a pair of her father’s boots and led Greer outside into the frosty morning to do her business. The border collie shuffled awkwardly, dragging her bandaged leg a little, but with a determination that was—well, dogged. All things considered, it was remarkable that she couldwalk at all. But Jesse had the impression that Greer would follow Clara just about anywhere.

“Greer,” he’d repeated doubtfully when she announced the name.

“You know, Greer Garson. Clara Bow. We go together. I read Greer Garson’s biography—they called her the Duchess because she was so elegant and gracious.”

“At least you outrank her,” he’d said. “Who’s Clara Bow?”

“The original It Girl. You need to brush up on your old-timey actresses. Those women were true fashion icons—they’ll never go out of style.”

“You read biographies of old-timey actresses?”

“I went through a phase. Lauren Bacall, Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth. I can lend you one to read on the plane.”

The airplane. He’d forgotten about that. He was leaving.

Dr. Wilder had remained at work all morning to help him catch up, as good as demonstrating that she was ready to return. Time for him to go home.

Clara came in the back door with her new shadow, and helped Greer settle back into her crate, slipping an Elizabethan collar over the dog’s head and latching the door securely before she turned to talk to him.

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