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Clay knelt on one knee and studied his long-time rival. ‘Can you hear me?’ There was a soft moan, then, ‘Yeah.’ ‘Let me tell you something, Sims. Abby Marshall wasn’t just my girl, she was my best friend, my fiancée. I’d loved her all my life but was too dumb to know that, then too afraid of losing her to admit it, besides, there was Bebe. When I finally manage to figure things out, you killed her. ‘We were heading home to tell everyone Abby and I were engaged. Ike was with us. Our realizing we were in love, that was his doing. Then we saw the fire, and thought Ike’s folks were inside. Rev. Carter’s got a bum leg. I was driving. They were out of the car and at the church door before I could get stopped.’ Clay looked over to where Renee stood motionless, watching. Someone else had the cowboy hat. Maybe it clashed with her designer jeans and that fitted western shirt with all its unused snaps. There was a look of surprise on her perfect oval face, but also a familiar, subtle. He wasn't anywhere near back to normal, yet, but it was Tuesday at the Record-Herald, and Tuesday was a day you didn't miss unless you were the subject of a funeral, so he worked all day, at no more than half power, then took Wednesday off to recover.He slept late, then got up, got a cup of coffee he really didn't want, then plopped down in his chair in the living room. He felt like reading, but didn't really think of anything that interested him. Daytime TV was trash, of course. He took the remote and turned on the VCR; maybe someone had left a tape in it that was worth watching, although the odds were that it was more of Henry's cartoons.It wasn't cartoons; it was the tape that Kirsten had made on the finish line at Sunday. He had already seen it seventeen times at least, but he watched the climactic moments once again: the teams racing across the ice, pounding along side by side, Tiffany so tiny behind the drive bow of the sled, but so intense and dedicated. Once again, he heard.
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