Never Too Late

“Jennifer is a beautifully drawn character whose interior journey is wonderful to behold.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Runaway Mistress

“This is one author who proves a Carr can fly.”

—Book Reviewer on Blue Skies

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful, thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

“A warm, wonderful book about women’s friendships, love and family. I adored it!”

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips on

The House on Olive Street

“A delightfully funny novel.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Wedding Party

This book is dedicated to Denise and Jeff Nicholl,

with deep affection and heartfelt thanks.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Clare drove through the March rain to the house that had been hers, the house she left when she separated from her husband, and she felt a little guilty. Her trip was another of those nighttime forages for things she missed, something she only did when she knew Roger was going to be away. At least this time she’d brought a birthday card to leave behind.

Maybe she was too easy on Roger, as their son, Jason, maintained. Her leniency also dismayed her sisters. Maybe she should try to be tougher, less tractable. Maybe everyone was right—he didn’t deserve it and she was a fool.

Today was Roger’s fortieth birthday, and she felt a little sorry for him. He was clearly having a problem with aging, as someone like Roger would. He’d said as much. So Clare, being the accommodating almost-ex-wife that she was, had offered to make him dinner for his birthday. It would give Roger a chance to spend a little time with Jason, which Roger very much wanted even if Jason did not. But Roger said he had to be out of town on business, holed up in a hotel alone after some boring meeting.

It was probably for the best that the dinner hadn’t worked—Jason was still so angry. She had forced Jason to sign the card, and would leave it on the breakfast bar for Roger to find when he got back to town. She had wanted Jason to come along tonight, but it turned out that signing the card was as far as he could go.

Right before dropping Jason off at his friend Stan’s house for the night, he had said, “You’re going to get back with him, aren’t you?” There had been such vitriol in his tone, she didn’t even dare to respond. Which only led him to accuse, “You are!”

“No!” she had insisted. She had said it as strongly and firmly as she could, adding, “But I think it would be good for all of us, especially you, if we just get along.”

“I don’t want to get along with him! I hate him!”

Oh, how that caused her gut to clench.

Roger had brought it upon himself. In his naiveté he’d imagined that his adultery would be a secret from his son forever; that Clare would be the only one hurt by his actions. He’d really screwed up with Jason and it was a pity. For both of them.

Jason was fourteen. Just budding into manhood, struggling with puberty, freckles giving way to pimples, his overly tall, big-footed form gangly and awkward. And he was, to say the least, pretty touchy. Take one irritable teen, one self-centered and adulterous father, mix, watch explosion in a matter of seconds.

A plethora of responses had sprung to her mind, but she squelched them. She had some experience with these comebacks, and knew they didn’t work anyway. You might not always hate him. No matter what you might think, he doesn’t hate you. He screwed up, he knows it, and he’s sorry, Jason.

Clare didn’t care that Jason was mad at Roger—Roger deserved it. But this hate. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want her son to be in pain. So when Jason had refused to even go by the house with her to drop off the birthday card, she had said, fine. I’ll do it. No big deal. I’ll drop you at Stan’s on the way. Call later, before you fall asleep. If you think of it.

Clare admired her old house as she pulled into the drive—it was a fine-looking, two-story brick, carriage lights shining at the three-port garage and around the walk to the front door. She sat in the car, gazing at it, thinking. Thinking how much she missed it.

This was her fourth separation from Roger. She thought it would get easier, since the reason never changed. Roger was habitually unfaithful. This time when Clare caught him with someone else, she had decided to be the one to leave. She thought she’d finally had enough. She was pushed so far that she didn’t even want to stay in the house she had shared with him, though she loved the spacious four-bedroom home. She thought a fresh start would do her good, but this had been harder than she expected. She had labored over every detail of the interior, having done all the decorating herself, and it was like parting with an old and dear friend.

Right on cue, Roger had immediately started making noises about wanting his family back and a chance, one last chance, to start his life over and make amends with Clare and Jason and all the peripheral people wounded by his behavior.