Jonathan called the police station repeatedly for updates. The answers he got frustrated him completely.

"No, there isn't any reason for you to come to the station."

"No sir, there isn't a way for you to identify the body."

"Mr. Hart, when we have more news, we'll let you know."

"Yes, at this time, we believe that it was your car and your wife, but we are continuing to collect evidence."

By 10:00 pm, Jennifer still wasn't home, and the accident was all over the news. Apparently, a witness saw the car lose control and plummet over the edge of the cliff around 4:00 pm. The witness confirmed it was a yellow Mercedes convertible. The report went on to say that another car crossed the center line, and both drivers swerved to avoid the collision. Due to the rain over the past few days, the shoulder was soft and the Mercedes lost control. The news reporter reminded viewers of the recent landslides on Route 2 and urged them to be careful while driving. Jonathan watched the coverage, hoping he could find some clue as to his wife's whereabouts but angrily clicked off the TV. He refused to believe Jennifer was in the county morgue. Unfortunately, he couldn't get the reporter's voice and the lead in out of his head.

"Jennifer Hart, wife of wealthy industrialist Jonathan Hart, is dead after a fiery car crash this afternoon."

No "presumed dead", no mention that it might be someone else in the car, nothing to help him hold on to that little shred of hope that his wife wasn't driving. He heard Max in the kitchen and decided that talking to his old friend was healthier than shattering all the glass in the bar against the wall.

"Max, why are you cleaning the kitchen at this hour?" Since he was in there, he got himself a glass of milk. He didn't want it, but it gave him something to hold so he would stop clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I don't know what else to do, Mr. H.. I thought it might keep my mind off Mrs. H. not being home." Jonathan nodded.

"Is it helping?"

"No, it ain't."

"I don't get it, Max. The news mentioned a car that crossed the center line. Why didn't that driver stop?" Max stopped cleaning and poured himself a glass of milk.

"Maybe they didn't realize what happened." Jonathan shook his head.

"It doesn't feel right, Max." He paused for a minute. "Jennifer is a good driver. She wouldn't have been careless."

"Maybe it's like the news said, Mr. H.. She just lost control in the mud." Jonathan's voice cracked.

"She can't be gone, Max. She can't be."

...

Jonathan couldn't sleep. He and Max talked well past midnight, but Max finally fell asleep on the couch. Jonathan's mind was too wired. He kept thinking of all the "what ifs" and of all the "last times", even though his heart wouldn't let him believe what the news told him. "There has to be a different explanation." He prowled the living room, and his eyes lighted on the photos on the piano. Their favorite photos of each other and them together. Jonathan remembered vividly the kiss captured in the photo he held, and he refused to accept that yesterday morning was the last time he would ever kiss Jennifer again. He sat at the piano bench, which he'd shared with her so many times, as memories engulfed him.

Suddenly, it was two Valentine's Days ago, and he'd just presented her with a Chemistry Set. She was playing a classical piece that he loved, even though he couldn't remember the name. "If Jennifer was here, she would tell me; she's always better with those details than I am." Their conversation flashed through his mind like a movie.

"You really are my valentine." He remembered her little laugh, which made him smile sadly. "I'm not being funny."

"Really?"

"Yes. I mean, you make me everything that I am." She kept playing but looked at him.

"I do?"

"Umm-hmm."

"What are you?" She looked at him again as he smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

"I'm yours."

He could feel his tears falling but was powerless to stop them, and just like that, his memory shifted to their last Christmas.

Like all Christmases, they'd put the tree up together, but they'd also gotten a Christmas miracle when Lisa came out of her coma. Calling the young woman who had become family to tell her about Jennifer had been one of the most difficult things Jonathan had ever done. Calling Steven Edwards was worse. He put that call in the back of his mind. His heart was too raw to go through it again. Jonathan's tears continued to fall as he thought about the trip to Europe he was planning as a Christmas surprise this year. Now it wouldn't happen.

He heard the clacking of keys as her fingers flew across the electric typewriter and he stared through the dim light at the empty desk she used for writing. A world renowned journalist on the trail of her next story. "I'm not sure I ever told you how brilliant I think you are; even when I didn't like that you were a reporter." He shivered involuntarily as the cold breeze of the Thames surrounded him, and as he closed his eyes, he felt Jennifer's lips on his for the first time, which warmed him immediately. When he opened his eyes, however, he was sitting at the piano, his arms empty, and his heart hollow.

Jonathan placed his elbows on the keys, which let out a discordant clang, and put his head in his hands. "I can't do this without you, Jennifer. I just can't." Suddenly, all the little things overwhelmed him because in his wife's absence, they became the most important things.

Max kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep, but he felt the tears trickle down his cheeks as he heard Jonathan's voice. He'd never heard Jonathan Hart sound so despondent.

Finally, Jonathan wandered up to the bedroom, a room he avoided all night. Her scent surrounded him the moment he opened the door, and he couldn't even look at the bed. Jonathan changed out of his business suit into casual clothes, left Max a note, and headed toward the scene of the accident.

Almost 12 hours after his car careened over the ledge with Jennifer presumably in it, Jonathan wandered that stretch of Route 2 with a flashlight. He saw the skid marks on the road and the depressions in the mud where the guardrail was torn and jagged. Every once in a while he had to remind himself to breathe. There was no way for him to climb down the rocks, even if it had been broad daylight, and his flashlight wasn't powerful enough to see much more than a couple feet down. Dejectedly, he walked to the Rolls and wept helplessly at the wheel before slowly making his way back home.