Remember Me by Mary Higgins Clark

whispered as she thought, Your daddy can take good care of you and I promise you this: if the day ever comes when I think I can’t, I’ll be history.

August 7th
24
    H enry and Phoebe Sprague sat at a table outside the Wayside Inn. For the first time this season Henry had brought Phoebe out for Sunday brunch, and a pleased smile was playing on her lips. She had always been a people watcher, and the main street of Chatham was lively today. Tourists and residents were window-shopping, drifting in and out of the specialty shops or heading for one of the many restaurants.
    Henry glanced down at the menu the hostess had given him. We’ll order eggs Benedict, he thought. Phoebe always enjoys them here.
    â€œGood morning. Are you ready to order, sir?”
    Henry looked up and then stared at the boldly pretty waitress. It was Tina, the young woman whom he’d seen in the pub across the street from the hairdresser in early July, the one whom Scott Covey had explained was an actress appearing at the Cape Playhouse.
    There was no hint of recognition on her face, but then she’d barely glanced at him before she rushed out of the pub that day. “Yes, we can order,” he said.
    Throughout breakfast, Henry Sprague kept up a running commentary on the passersby. “Look,Phoebe, there are Jim Snow’s grandchildren. Remember how we used to go to the theater with the Snows?”
    â€œStop asking me if I remember,” Phoebe snapped. “Of course I do.” She went back to sipping coffee. A moment later she hunched forward and looked around, her eyes darting from table to table. “So many people,” she murmured. “I don’t want to be here.”
    Henry sighed. He’d hoped that the outburst had been a good sign. For some people, tacrine was a remarkably helpful drug, temporarily stopping, even reversing, deterioration in Alzheimer’s patients. Since it had been prescribed for Phoebe, he thought he had seen occasional flashes of clarity. Or was he grasping at straws?
    Their waitress came with the bill. When Henry laid the money down, he glanced up at her. The young woman’s expression was worried and subdued, the exuberant smile singularly absent. She’s recognized me, Henry thought, and wonders if I’ve put her together with Scott Covey.
    He enjoyed the realization and was not about to tip his hand. With an impersonal smile he got up and pulled back Phoebe’s chair. “Ready, dear?”
    Phoebe got up and looked at the waitress. “How are you, Tina?” she asked.

25
    N at Coogan and his wife, Debbie, owned a twenty-foot outboard. They’d bought it secondhand when the boys were little, but because of the care Nat had lavished on it, it was still in excellent condition. Since the boys were spending the afternoon with friends in Fenway Park at the Red Sox game, Nat had suggested to Debbie that they go for a picnic on the boat.
    She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like picnics.”
    â€œI don’t like sitting in fields with ants crawling all over everything.”
    â€œI thought you were going to check the lobster pots and then come back and watch the game.” She shrugged. “There’s something else going on here that I’m not getting, but okay. I’ll make some sandwiches.”
    Nat looked at his wife affectionately. Can’t put anything over on Deb, he thought. “No, you just relax for a few minutes. I’ll take care of everything.”
    He went to the delicatessen where he bought salmon, pâté, crackers and grapes. Might as well do everything they did, he thought.
    â€œPretty fancy,” Deb observed as she put the food in a hamper. “Were they out of liverwurst?”
    â€œNo. This is what I wanted.” From the refrigerator he plucked the chilled bottle of wine.
    Debbie read the label. “Are you guilt-complexed for some reason? That’s expensive stuff.”
    â€œI know it