Duma Key by Stephen King Page B

much.”
    â€œThat’s great, honey,” I said, but I could feel dread climbing my legs. Just don’t love him too much, I was thinking. Not too much. Because —
    She was looking at me closely, her smile fading. “What? What’s wrong?”
    I’d forgotten how quick she was, and how well she read me. Love conveys its own psychic powers, doesn’t it?
    â€œNothing, hon. Well . . . my hip’s hurting a little.”
    â€œHave you had your pain pills?”
    â€œActually . . . I’m stepping down on those a little more. Plan on getting off them entirely in January. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”
    â€œDaddy, that’s wonderful!”
    â€œAlthough New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken.”
    â€œNot you. You do what you say you’re going to do.” Ilse frowned. “That’s one of the things Mom never liked about you. I think it makes her jealous.”
    â€œHon, the divorce is just something that happened. Don’t go picking sides, okay?”
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you something else that’s happening,” Ilse said. Her lips had thinned down. “Since she’s been out in Palm Desert, she’s seeing an awfullot of this guy down the street. She says it’s just coffee and sympathy—because Max lost his father last year, and Max really likes Grampy, and blah-blah-blah—but I see the way she looks at him and I . . . don’t . . . care for it!” Now her lips were almost gone, and I thought she looked eerily like her mother. The thought that came with this was oddly comforting: I think she’ll be all right. I think if this holy Jones boy jilts her, she’ll still be okay .
    I could see my rental car, but Jack would be awhile yet. The pickup traffic was stop-and-go. I leaned my crutch against my midsection and hugged my daughter, who had come all the way from California to see me. “Go easy on your mother, okay?”
    â€œDon’t you even care that—”
    â€œWhat I mostly care about these days is that you and Melinda are happy.”
    There were circles under her eyes and I could see that, young or not, all the traveling had tired her out. I thought she’d sleep late tomorrow, and that was fine. If my feeling about her boyfriend was right—I hoped it wasn’t but thought it was—she had some sleepless nights ahead of her in the year to come.
    Jack had made it as far as the Air Florida terminal, which still gave us some time. “Do you have a picture of your guy? Enquiring Dads want to know.”
    Ilse brightened. “You bet.” The picture she brought out of her red leather wallet was in one of those see-through plastic envelopes. She teased it out and handed it to me. I guess this time my reaction didn’t show, because her fond (really sort of goofy) smile didn’t change. And me? I felt as though I’d swallowed something that had no business going down a human throat. A piece of lead shot, maybe.
    It wasn’t that Carson Jones resembled the man I’d drawn on Christmas Eve. I was prepared for that, had been since I saw the little ring twinkling prettily on Ilse’s finger. What shocked me was that the photo was almost exactly the same. It was as if, instead of clipping a photo of sophora, sea lavender, or inkberry to the side of my easel, I had clipped this very photograph. He was wearing the jeans and the scuffed yellow workboots that I hadn’t been able to get quite right; his darkish blond hair spilled over his ears and his forehead; he was carrying a book I knew was a Bible in one hand. Most telling of all was the Minnesota Twins tee-shirt, with the number 48 on the left breast.
    â€œWho’s number 48, and how did you happen to meet a Twins fan at Brown? I thought that was Red Sox country.”
    â€œNumber 48’s Torii Hunter, ” she said, looking at me as