pushed to the surface, her phone was buzzing. She got out of the tub, grabbed a towel and picked up the phone from the hamper lid. “Hello?”
“Harold McAlister, Tara. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Dr. McAlister. I appreciate that. You’ve taken care of all of us over the years.” Even her father, now that she thought about it.
He assured her that Faye was getting the best of care and that her neurologist was top-notch. Tara thanked him, then eased into her real questions. “Faye was taking medicine for anxiety and depression.” She named the pills. “Could they have had any effect on her driving?”
The doctor was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not the prescribing physician, Tara. I couldn’t—”
“Hypothetically. How about that?”
More silence. “If used as prescribed, they shouldn’t interfere with normal activities, but there could be other factors—”
“Like if she’d been drinking?” Tara threw in. “You’re not supposed to mix those meds with alcohol, I know. It’s important to be sure she hadn’t been drinking that night. Don’t you agree?”
The doctor didn’t speak, so she rushed on. “You could look at her hospital chart, right, and check that?”
When he finally spoke, the words seemed to be dragged from him. “Even if I could arrange to see her records, I couldn’t discuss it with you because of—”
“Patient privacy laws. I know. But there are rumors that she was drunk, Dr. McAlister. I can’t let that stand.”
He blew out a breath. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. The law is quite strict. However, a family as prominent as yours surely has endured gossip over the years. You know your sister. She is a smart, responsible woman. Trust what you know about her and ignore the rest. That’s my advice.”
Her heart sank. He’d say the same thing about her father’s chart, she knew, so she thanked him and hung up, no better off than before.
Tara dressed and made a few client calls. She’d asked her old boss to be her backup with current clients while she was in Wharton, so that would relieve some of the pressure, though she would have to scramble to make up for lost income when she returned. That was a worry for down the line.
Next, she needed to call the insurance agent. Her mother was napping so she couldn’t ask her for the name and number. Tara decided to look through her father’s files, since he handled all the bills anyway. Plus, his phone cord would likely be in his study.
Stepping into her father’s sanctuary, Tara caught her breath at the familiar scent—her father’s pungent aftershave and the hot-metal smell of the factory floor. It was like he’d just left the room.
She braced against the stomach punch of sadness, closing her eyes until it passed. When she opened them, she saw first the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of her father’s books on history, philosophy, science and technology.
She pictured the shelves in the sleek new condo she’d purchased five months ago. Her books were the one personal element. She had tons of nonfiction like her father, though she preferred biography, sociology and psychology to his hard science choices. Also, she liked fiction—especially stories of transformation and redemption.
Behind her father’s massive antique desk was an impressive shelf of ships in bottles. Faye had helped him build them, Tara remembered. As a little girl, Tara had memories of playing on the floor with LEGO while her father and Faye worked with tweezers and string and glue, talking softly, heads close.
Feeling left out, Tara had once tried to help, but she’d messed up the sails using too much glue and her father had snapped at her, sending her to her room.
Faye came later to console her. She promised their father would forgive Tara, though it would take time. When you love someone you forgive them, she’d said, as if it were as automatic as breathing. It was to Faye. Whatever capacity Tara did have for love had come from her sister.
Her father’s study was a man’s room, for sure, painted hunter green, dark wood everywhere, a wet bar, guns in a display case.
She went to sit in the leather chair, which squeaked in complaint. Like the desk, and the Tiffany lamp she clicked on, it had been passed down from his grandfather, who’d had it shipped from Ohio when he’d founded Wharton Electronics in 1950.
The new Mac computer looked incongruous, surrounded by so many antiques. Her grandfather’s fountain pen lay beside the sleek mouse.