Ready for Marriage

Rediscover and fall in love with a classic second chance romance from beloved New York Times bestselling author, Debbie Macomber. Three years ago, Mary Jo Summerhill fell completely and utterly in love with Evan Dryden. They were the perfect match, except they Read more

Thursdays at Eight

A time to think about lives lived, choices made. A time for friends… Every week, four women have an unmissable appointment in their calendars: they meet for breakfast. Clare has just been through a devastating divorce. She’s driven by anger Read more

Rainy Day Kisses

Susannah Simmons has a five-year plan to succeed in her career. And it doesn’t include falling in love with her next-door neighbor! Nate Townsend is undeniably attractive, but he seems to lack ambition. He stays home baking cookies and flying Read more

Just Married

You’re sure to love this wholesome, heartfelt, marriage of convenience romance from  #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. Former mercenary Zane Ackerman wants a family. In particular, he wants a child who’ll be his legacy—and his heir. That’s because his upcoming Read more

That Christmas Magic

Available in one volume for the first time, Christmas Masquerade and The Gift of Christmas, two of Debbie Macomber’s classic holiday novels about finding love and faith and rediscovering oneself Christmas Masquerade After Jo Marie first meets Andrew, her dream Read more

Tying the Knot

Available in one volume for the first Yesterday’s Hero and White Lace and Promises, two of Debbie Macomber’s classic novels about finding love in the most unexpected places. Yesterday’s Hero Nothing is going to keep marine biologist Leah Talmadge or Read more

Meant to Be Us

Rediscover this heartfelt, emotional classic romance from one of today’s most popular storytellers, #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. Molly Larabee left her husband, Jordan, after a tragedy destroyed her faith in their marriage. She began a new Read more

Under the Summer Sky

Love finds you when you least expect it… Marriage Wanted Weddings were Savannah Charles’s business and she was an expert on marital bliss, but she’d given little thought to her own day of joy. Until divorce attorney Nash Davenport offered Read more

A Christmas Duet

A solo holiday trip inspires one woman to rediscover her passion—and remember that, sometimes, duets are more fun—in this romantic Christmas novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. Hailey Morgan’s life has always revolved around music. She once had Read more

204 Rosewood Lane

Grace Sherman stared down at the legal form that would start the divorce proceedings. She sat in the attorney’s office with Maryellen, her oldest daughter, who’d come with her to offer support. Grace reminded herself that this should be straightforward, that her decision was made. She was ready to end her marriage, ready to piece together her shattered life. To begin again… But her hand shook as she picked up the pen.

The inescapable fact was that she didn’t want this— but Dan hadn’t left her with any other option.

Five months ago, in April, her husband of almost thirty-six years had disappeared. Vanished without a trace. One day everything was perfectly normal, and the next he was gone. Apparently by choice and without a word of explanation. Even now, Grace had difficulty believing that the man she’d lived with, the man she’d loved and with whom she’d had two daughters, could do anything as cruel as this.

If Dan had fallen out of love with her, she could accept that. She would’ve found enough pride, enough generosity, to release him without bitterness. If he was that miserable in their marriage, she would’ve gladly set him free to find happiness with someone else. What she couldn’t forgive was the misery he’d heaped on their family’s shoulders, what he’d done to their daughters. Especially Kelly.

Dan had disappeared shortly after Kelly and Paul had announced that after years of trying, they were finally excitedly, pregnant. Dan had been thrilled, and Grace, too. This baby was going to be their first grandchild. They’d waited so long.

Kelly had always been close to her father and his disappearance at this critical time in her life had devastated her. She’d pleaded with Grace to postpone the divorce proceedings, convinced that her father would return before Tyler was born. When Dan did return, he’d have a logical reason and would explain everything to their satisfaction.

He hadn’t come back, though, and there’d been no further information. Nothing but doubts, questions and a churning, deepening anger that intensified in the endless weeks that followed.

When Grace couldn’t stand not knowing any longer, she’d hired Roy McAfee, a private detective and former policeman she trusted. Roy had done an extensive search, certain that Dan had left a paper trail, and he’d been right. What Roy had uncovered was a complete shock to Grace. A year earlier, Dan had purchased a travel trailer, paying cash for it. Grace had no idea where he’d gotten that kind of money, nor did she know anything about the trailer. He’d never mentioned it, nor had she seen it. To this day she had no idea where he’d kept it all those months. Or where it was now.

Given the mounting evidence, she had her suspicions. Grace believed that Dan had used the travel trailer to sneak away with another woman. There’d been one sighting of him and it had come late in May. It almost felt as if her husband had orchestrated this brief reappearance, as if he was taunting her, challenging her to find him. That day had been a low point for Grace.

A co-worker of Dan’s had spotted him at the marina and Maryellen had hurried to the library to fetch her. But by the time Grace reached the marina, Dan was gone. A woman had pulled up to the curb and Dan had climbed into the vehicle and driven away never to be seen or heard from again.

In retrospect, she’d come to believe that Dan was providing her with the answers she so desperately needed. She could think of no other reason he would mysteriously arrive at the busiest place in town, where he was most likely to be seen—and recognized. The library where she worked was less than two blocks away. Clearly, her husband lacked the courage to tell her there was someone else. Instead he’d chosen another, crueler way to inform her; he’d humiliated her in front of the entire community. Grace knew without being told that everyone in Cedar Cove pitied her.

That sighting had settled the matter in Grace’s mind. Whatever love she still felt for Dan died that afternoon. Until then, she hadn’t wanted to believe there was someone else. Even when the VISA bill showed up with a hefty charge from a local jeweler, Grace had refused to accept that her husband was involved with another woman. Dan just wasn’t the kind of man who would be unfaithful to her. She’d trusted him. Not anymore.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Maryellen asked, touching her arm.

Grace’s hand tightened around the pen. “Fine,” she snapped, instantly regretting her tone. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.

Her daughter looked away. Grace focused on the divorce papers, hesitated a moment longer and then with haste signed her name.

“I’ll see that this is filed immediately,” Mark Spell-man said.

Grace relaxed, leaning back in her chair. This was all there was to it? You could end a thirty-five-year marriage simply by signing your name? “That’s it?”

“Yes. Since you haven’t heard from Daniel in five months, I don’t foresee any legal complications. The divorce should be final in a few weeks.”

Almost four decades tossed out the window like so much garbage. The good years, the bad years, the lean ones, the years they’d scrimped and saved. Like all couples, they’d had their share of problems, but despite everything they’d held their marriage together. Until now, until this—

“Mom?” Maryellen whispered.

Grace nodded abruptly, surprised at the emotion that choked her. She’d shed all the tears she intended to. In the months since Dan’s disappearance, Grace had deeply grieved the loss of her marriage and the man she thought she knew. The truth of it was, she no longer had a choice; divorce had become inevitable. It was essential that she protect her financial interests. According to the attorney, she couldn’t afford the luxury of doing nothing.

Her legal situation was one thing, and she’d dealt with that, but the emotional impact had left her badly shaken. Despite her resolve, the grief hadn’t diminished. And the humiliation of what Dan had done was with her constantly. Everyone in town was aware of her circumstances and the fact that her husband had walked out on her.

Slowly Grace set the pen aside.

“I’ll wait to hear from you, then,” she said to her attorney, rising out of the chair. Maryellen stood with her.

The attorney, a young man closer to Maryellen’s age than her own, escorted them to the office door. He began to say something, then merely looked down and murmured a brief goodbye.

Outside his small home office, the sky had turned a depressing leaden gray. Grace felt a burden of sadness settle over her; she’d known this appointment wasn’t going to be easy, but she hadn’t expected it to exact such a toll on her self-confidence.

Maryellen glanced at her watch. “I need to get back to the gallery.”

“I know,” Grace said. Her daughter had offered to go to this appointment with her for moral support. Although she was grateful, Grace had thought it unnecessary. But Maryellen was right.

Her daughter was divorced, too. Maryellen had married young and unwisely, and the marriage had ended in less than a year. The experience had so biased her against men, she’d steered away from relationships ever since. Grace had tried to assure her that she’d meet a wonderful man someday, a man waiting for someone exactly like her. Maryellen had considered that naive and refused to listen and now Grace understood why. Divorce hurt, and it was the kind of vicious pain that reached deep inside a person.

Grace felt off balance and guilty, as though she had somehow failed. As though it was all her fault. Maryellen knew what it was like because she’d experienced these emotions herself when she was much younger and without the wisdom or perspective maturity brings.

“Will you be all right?” Maryellen asked, obviously reluctant to leave.

“Of course,” Grace said, forcing a smile. She ought to be feeling a measure of relief, after all. She’d finally taken action. She’d given Dan every opportunity, even issued a series of mental ultimatums and deadlines. He would come back when Kelly’s baby was born. By the Fourth of July. By their wedding anniversary. First one, then another, until she faced the truth. He wasn’t coming back. If she hadn’t heard anything from him by now, she shouldn’t expect that she ever would. Dan had no intention of being found.

“Are you going back to work?” Maryellen asked.

“No,” she said, refusing to allow herself to succumb to self-pity. “I’m going to lunch.”

“Lunch? It’s after four. You didn’t eat earlier?”

“No.” Grace didn’t add that her appetite had been nonexistent for days as the appointment with the attorney grew closer. Then, because she knew her daughter was worried, she added emphatically, “I am going to be all right, Maryellen.”

Maryellen gazed down the steep hill toward the waterfront, where boats gently bobbed in the protected waters of the cove. Vehicles cruised down Harbor Street, so close together they looked like one continuous line. The Bremerton shipyard workers were out, and traffic filled the roads as husbands and fathers hurried home to their families. The same way Dan once had.

“I’m so furious with Dad I don’t know what I’d do if I ever saw him again,” Maryellen said between gritted teeth.

Grace knew, though. She was convinced that Maryellen would be grateful, that she wouldn’t care what he’d done as long as he came home. And Kelly, their youngest, would shout with joy and tell them all how wrong they’d been. She’d run to her father with open arms, eagerly awaiting the excuse that would explain everything.

“I’m fine,” Grace insisted. “Really.” Still Maryellen hesitated. “I hate to leave you.” “I’ll get over this.” Although that was hardly the way she felt. But if Grace had learned anything in life, it was the importance of balance. For each loss, there were compensations, and she reminded herself to keep the good things firmly in sight. “I have so much to be grateful for. You and Kelly, and now a grandson. I’m so sorry it had to end this way with your father and me, but I’m going to come back stronger than ever.” Even as she said the words, Grace knew they were true. The sense of loss was profound, but balance would return to her life and so would joy.

It was Justine Gunderson’s lunch break, and all she wanted to do was run home and check the mail. She hadn’t heard from Seth in nearly a week. All right, five days, but each one of those days felt like a year. Her husband of little more than a month was in Alaska, fishing the crab-rich waters of the Bering Sea. Seth had warned her when she drove him to the airport that he’d be working sixteen-hour days. He’d assured her that he was crazy in love with her and would be back before she had time to miss him.

Seth had been wrong. Justine was miserable. They’d married, as the old western hit said, “in a fever,” unable to delay the wedding even one minute once they’d made the decision. Without telling either set of parents, they’d raced to Reno, gotten the license, found a preacher and afterward headed straight for a hotel room.

They were young and healthy and very much in love. Justine had known Seth nearly her entire life. He’d been her twin brother’s best friend—until Jordan drowned at age thirteen. Justine and Seth had been in the same high-school graduating class. In the ten years that followed, he’d lived in Cedar Cove but they hadn’t been in contact until recently, when they’d both reluctantly joined the committee planning their class reunion.

At the time, Justine had been dating Warren Saget, a local developer. Warren was quite a few years older than Justine; in fact, he was just a little younger than her own father. Warren liked having a beautiful woman on his arm and Justine suited him perfectly. It helped that she was willing to keep his little secret-while he might be successful in the boardroom, his powers didn’t extend to the bedroom. When they were together, she often spent the night at his plush hillside house overlooking the cove, but that was more for show than anything. She had her own bedroom in Warren’s home. Justine knew very well what people thought, but she’d never much cared.

However, her mother did. Olivia Lockhart shared the general assumptions about her arrangement with Warren and had plenty of opinions on the matter. Justine didn’t enlighten her because it was none of Olivia’s business. This disagreement between them had put a strain on the mother-daughter relationship. Her grandmother hadn’t been particularly pleased, either, but Charlotte wasn’t nearly as open in her disapproval. No doubt hoping to distract her from Warren, her mother had encouraged Justine to date Seth—although even Olivia had been shocked when Justine phoned to tell her she’d impulsively married him.

The marriage was practically as big a surprise toJus-tine as it was to her family. After a spat having to do with Warren, Seth had walked away from her. Justine couldn’t let it end like that, not with Seth, and she’d gone to him, hoping to make amends. To say they’d settled their differences was something of an understatement.

After the wedding, they’d only had that one weekend before Seth had to return to Alaska. In the weeks since, she’d heard from him intermittently, but he couldn’t call—or receive calls—while he was at sea, so their communications were few and far between.

Justine glanced at the time and tried to decide whether she should drive home and check the mail or not. If there was no letter, she’d feel depressed for the rest of the afternoon. On the other hand, if Seth did happen to send her a message, she’d be walking on clouds for days afterward. She needed a letter, a phone call, anything that would remind her she’d made the right choice in marrying him. Getting married was the only impulsive thing she’d ever done in all her twenty-eight years. She liked her life orderly and precise. The need for control had always ruled her choices—until she fell in love with Seth.

This commitment to order was one reason she fit in so well at First National Bank, rising quickly to the position of manager. Numbers made sense; they added up neatly; they were unambiguous. To the best of her ability that was the way Justine lived her life— with strong convictions and with exactness, leaving little room for frivolity and impulse.

Out of habit, she looked up when the bank’s double glass doors swung open and watched as Warren Saget walked in, bold as could be. He moved directly toward her desk, his manner confident. Justine hadn’t seen him since her impromptu wedding. Unfortunately they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Warren had been angry when he learned she’d married Seth and had made some ugly, spiteful remarks. Frankly Justine wasn’t up for a second confrontation. Read more

Susannah’s Garden

VIVIAN LEARY STOOD motionless at the corner of the street, her eyes darting from side to side. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten lost. After all, she’d lived in Colville her entire life. She should know—did know—every square inch of this town. But the last thing she remembered was going out to collect the mail and that must have been hours ago.

The street didn’t look familiar and the houses weren’t any she recognized. The Henderson house at the corner of Chestnut and Elm had been her marker, but it was nowhere in sight. She remembered that the Hendersons had painted their place white with green shutters. Where was it? she wondered, starting to feel frantic. Where was it? George would be upset with her for taking so long. Oh, no, how could she have forgotten? George was dead.

The weight of grief settled over her, heavy and oppressive. George, her beloved husband, was gone—taken from her just two months short of their sixtieth anniversary. It had all happened so fast____

Last November, her husband had gone outside to warm up the car before church, and a few minutes later he lay dead in the carport. He’d had a massive heart attack. The nice young man who’d come with the ambulance had told her George was dead before he even hit the pavement. He sounded as if this was supposed to comfort her. But nothing could have eased the shock, the horror, of that dreadful morning.

Vivian blinked hard, and despite the May warmth of eastern Washington, a chill raced up her bare arms. She tried to extinguish her growing panic. How was she going to find her way home?

Susannah would know what to do—but then she remembered that her daughter didn’t live in Colville anymore. Of course Susannah wasn’t at home. She had her own house. In Seattle, wasn’t it? Yes, in Seattle. She was married with two precious children. Susannah and Joe’s children. Good grief, why couldn’t she think of their names? Her grandchildren were her joy and her pride. She could picture their faces as clearly as if she was looking at a photograph, but she couldn’t recall their names.

Chrissie. The relief was instantaneous. Her granddaughter’s name was Chrissie. She was born first and then Brian was born three years later. Or was it four years? It didn’t matter, Vivian decided. She had their names now.

What she needed to do was concentrate on where she was—and where she should go from here. It was already starting to get dark and she didn’t want to wander aimlessly from street to street. But she couldn’t figure out what to do next.

If there’d been any other pedestrians around, she could’ve stopped and asked for directions to Woods Road.

No…Woods Road had been her childhood address. She hadn’t lived there since she was a schoolgirl, and that was before the war. For heaven’s sake, she should be able to remember her own address! What was wrong with her?

The place she was looking for was the house she and George had bought almost forty-five years ago, when the children were still at home. She felt a mixture of fear…and shame. A woman of eighty should know where she lived. George would be so frustrated and impatient if he ever found out about this____Only he’d never know. That didn’t make her feel any better, though. She needed him, and he wasn’t there to help her, and that filled her with anxiety so intense, she wrung her hands.

Vivian started walking again, although she wasn’t sure where she was headed. Maybe if she kept moving, if she concentrated hard enough, the memory would eventually return to her.

Her legs tired quickly, and she sighed with relief when she saw a bench by the side of the road. Vivian couldn’t understand why the city would place a nice wooden bench there—not even near a bus stop. It was a waste of taxpayers’ money. If George knew about this, he’d be fuming. He’d been a public servant all those years, a superior court judge. A fine one, too, a man of principle and character. How proud Vivian was of him.

Still, she was so grateful for somewhere to sit, she wasn’t about to complain. George had freely voiced his opinions about matters of civic responsibility and what he called city hall’s squandering of resources. While she listened to her husband’s views, she didn’t always share them. She had her own thoughts when it came to politics and things like that, but she usually didn’t discuss them with George. That was something she’d learned early in her marriage. George always wanted to convince everyone of the superiority of his ideas and he’d argue until he wore people down. So when her views differed from his, she kept them to herself.

Sitting on the hard bench, she glanced about, hoping to find a landmark. Oh my, this was a busy street. Cars whizzed past, their lights blinding her until she felt dizzy. She wasn’t nearly as tired now that she was sitting. That was good, because she needed to think. Thinking was important. She hated forgetting basic facts, like her address, her phone number, people’s names. This happened more and more often now that George had died, and it frightened her.

Perhaps if she closed her eyes for a moment, that would help. She’d try to relax, clear her mind, since all this worry only made her memory less reliable.

It was chilly now that the sun had gone down. She should’ve brought a sweater but she’d been working in the garden earlier and it had been hot. Her irises were lovely this spring, even though her garden was in sad shape. For years, it had been a source of pride and she hated the way it looked these days. She did as much as she could, but so much else needed to be done. Weeding, pruning, planting annuals… After dinner she’d decided to do some watering and remembered that she hadn’t collected the mail. That was when she’d gone out, planning to walk to the neighborhood mailbox. And now here she was, lost and confused and afraid.

That was when Vivian sensed someone’s presence and opened her eyes. Joy coursed through her veins as she stared, wondering if her mind had betrayed her.

“George?”

Her husband of fifty-nine years stood beside her, shadowed under the nearby streetlight. His smile warmed her and she straightened, eyes wide open, terrified he’d disappear. George had come to help her, come to save her.

“That is you, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer but stood there plain as could be. He’d always been such a handsome man, she thought, admiring his broad shoulders and his confident posture.

They’d been high school sweethearts and known each other their entire lives. Vivian felt she was the luckiest girl in the world when George Leary asked her to marry him. They’d been apart for nearly three years while he was fighting in Europe. Then he’d gone to college to get his law degree on the G.I. Bill. That time of struggle had paid off, though, and after a few years of private practice, he’d been invited to join the bench. George had been the one and only love of her life and she missed him terribly. How like him to come to her now, in her hour of need.

Vivian reached out to him, but George backed away. She dropped her hand abruptly, biting her lower lip. No, of course—she should’ve realized she couldn’t touch him. One couldn’t touch the dead.

“I’m lost,” she whispered. “Don’t be angry with me, but I can’t find my way home.”

He smiled again and she was so relieved he wasn’t upset with her. She’d forgotten things before he died, too, and sometimes he got frustrated, although he tried to hide it. She’d even stopped cooking but that was because she’d forgotten so many of her recipes. The ones in cookbooks were too hard to read, too confusing. But George never complained and often heated soup for both of them.

Vivian felt she should explain what had happened. “I went to get the mail and I must’ve decided to go for a walk, because when I looked up I wasn’t anywhere close to the house.”

He stretched out his hand and she got to her feet.

“Can you take me home?” she asked, hating how plaintive and helpless she sounded.

He didn’t answer. Then she realized that dead men couldn’t talk, either. That was all right; she didn’t care as long as George stayed with her. Six months it had been since he’d died and every one of those months had seemed an eternity.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered, trying to hide the way her voice cracked with emotion. “Oh, George, I miss you.” She told him about the garden, even though she knew she was rambling. He’d never liked it when she talked too much, but she was afraid he’d have to leave soon, and there was so much to tell him. “George, I’m sure Martha is stealing. I just don’t know what to do. I watch her like a hawk when she comes to clean, but still I find things missing. I can’t let her rob me blind, and yet I hate to fire her after all these years. What should I do?” She hadn’t really expected him to answer, and he didn’t.

Then, suddenly, she saw the house. They were on Chestnut Avenue, where they’d lived since 1961. She walked laboriously to the front door, holding on to the railing and taking the steps one at a time. When she looked up to thank George for helping her, her beloved husband had vanished.

“Oh, George,” she sobbed. “Come back to me…please. Please come back.”

2

SUSANNAH NELSON DUMPED the leftover broccoli salad into a plastic container and shoved it inside the refrigerator, closing the door with unnecessary force. Brian, her seventeen-year-old, had mysteriously disappeared after dinner, leaving her with the dishes. She shouldn’t be surprised. He had a convenient excuse every night to get out of doing his assigned chores.

“Is something bothering you?” her husband asked from his perch in the family room. Joe lowered the newspaper and all Susannah could see were his dark brows and his eyes behind the steel-rimmed reading glasses.

She shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but this is the third night in a row that Brian hasn’t done the dishes,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended.

“I’ll do them,” he offered.

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Susannah told him. “Nor should I.”

Joe set the newspaper aside. “This isn’t about Brian, is it? You’re upset about something else.”

“Well, I am annoyed about the way he’s been skipping out on chores, but you’re right, that isn’t everything.” What concerned her most was her inability to identify a specific reason. She’d been on edge for weeks, feeling vaguely dejected.

It didn’t help that she’d dreamed of Jake again last night. Her high school boyfriend had been making nightly appearances, and that unsettled her as much as anything. Susannah was happily married and despite the abrupt ending to her teenage romance, there was no good reason for her to dwell on Jake. Her marriage had survived the crises that any successful marriage does. Her children were nearly grown; her daughter was in college, ready to start her own life. Brian had summer employment, working for a construction company, and would earn enough to pay his own car insurance. The school break would officially begin in a day’s time, and she’d be free for nearly seven weeks. Why, after more than three decades, was she dreaming of Jake? It made no sense whatsoever. There he was, big as life, filling her head with memories of a long-lost love.

“School’s almost out,” Joe reminded her. “That should cheer you up.”

He was right; it should. Today was the last day of classes and her fifth-grade students had been overjoyed at the prospect of summer vacation. Susannah was equally ready for a break. Maybe for more than a break—a change. What kind of change, she didn’t know. She supposed she could think about it over the summer—after tomorrow, anyway, when she’d be finishing her paperwork.

“You’ve been restless since your father died,” Joe commented in a mild voice. He glanced at her across the family room. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”

“You’re saying I should talk to a counselor?” She hated to think it had come to this. Yes, her father’s death had been a shock, but at the time her grief had seemed., .formal. Almost abstract. As though she’d mourned the idea of losing a father more than the man himself. She’d never gotten along with him. They’d tolerated each other, at best. As far as Susannah was concerned, her father was dictatorial, overbearing and arrogant. The moment she turned eighteen, she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

“He was your father, Susannah,” Joe reminded her gently. “I know the two of you weren’t close, but he was still your father.” He removed his glasses. “In fact, maybe that’s why you’re feeling like this. Now that he’s dead, there’s no opportunity to settle your differences—to work things out.”

Susannah shook her head, dismissing the suggestion. Her relationship with her father had been difficult. Complicated. But she’d accepted that reality years ago. “This has nothing to do with him.”

Joe looked as if he wanted to argue, but she didn’t let him. “Yes, his death was unexpected, but he was eighty-three and no one lives forever.” The truth of the matter was that while they weren’t completely estranged, they rarely spoke. That didn’t seem to bother him any. Over the years, Susannah had made occasional efforts to bridge the gap between them, but her father seemed incapable of deepening their relationship.

Whenever she’d phoned or visited, Susannah talked to her mother. George Leary was a decent grandfather; she’d say that for him. Both Chrissie and Brian thought the world of her father. As for her—well, it was better to not think about the way he’d interfered with her life, especially during her teenage years. Yes, she was sorry he’d died, especially so suddenly, but she discounted the possibility that his death was the cause of this discontent she felt. If she was going to blame anyone, it would be Jake. But it wasn’t as though she could mention this to Joe, her husband, her wonderful husband. Hey, honey,

I’ve been thinking about another man lately. That wouldn’t go over too well, no matter how understanding Joe was.

Her husband continued to study her. “Even though you don’t agree,” he said slowly, “I suspect your father’s death had a strong impact on you. Don’t you remember what it was like when my parents died?”

She did remember and was embarrassed to admit that she’d grieved for her father-in-law more than she had her own dad. When Joe’s mother died ten months later, they’d both been devastated. It had been a rough time for them as a family. Susannah had envied Joe’s close relationship with his parents when her own, particularly with her father, was so distant.

“Of course it was a shock to lose my dad,” Susannah went on, “but I don’t think this mood—”

“Depression,” Joe inserted. “Low-grade, garden variety depression.”

“I am not depressed.” Even while she denied it, she knew Joe was right.

Her husband raised his eyebrows. “If you aren’t depressed, then what is it?”

Joe was a solid, strong, self-assured man. Honorable. After twenty-four years together they’d grown accustomed to each other, so alike that they often ordered the same thing from a menu, read the same books, voted for the same candidates. She didn’t understand how she could lie beside him in the same bed night after night and dream about another man. This wasn’t like her. Not once in her entire marriage had she even considered looking at another man.

She’d be crazy to risk her marriage by searching for a high school fling. The episode with Jake was long over. She hadn’t seen or talked to him since she was seventeen, and that was…oh, more than thirty-three years ago now.

Joe replaced his glasses after polishing the lenses on his shirt. Read more

Back on Blossom Street

I love A Good Yarn, and I’m grateful for every minute I spend in my shop on Blossom Street. I love looking at the skeins of yarn in all their colors and feeling the different textures. I love my knitting classes and the friends I’ve made here. I love studying the pattern books. I love gazing out my front window onto the energy and activity of downtown Seattle. In fact, I love everything about this life I’ve found, this world I’ve built.

Knitting was my salvation. That’s something I’ve said often, I know, but it’s simply the truth. Even now, after nearly ten years of living cancer-free, knitting dominates my life. Because of my yarn store, I’ve become part of a community of knitters and friends.

I’m also married now, to Brad Goetz. A Good Yarn was my first real chance at life and Brad was my first chance at love. Together, Brad and I are raising our nine-year-old son. I say Cody’s our son, and he is, in all the ways that matter. I consider him as much my child as Brad’s; I couldn’t love Cody more if I’d given birth to him. It’s true he has a mother, and I know Janice does care about him. But Brad’s ex-wife is…well, I hesitate to say it, but selfish is the word that inevitably comes to mind. Janice appears intermittently in Cody’s life, whenever the mood strikes her or she happens to find it convenient—despite the parenting plan she signed when she and Brad divorced. Sadly, she only sees her son once or twice a year. I can tell that the lack of communication bothers Cody. And Janice’s cavalier attitude toward motherhood angers me, but like my son, I don’t mention the hurt. Cody doesn’t need me to defend or malign Janice; he’s capable of forming his own opinions. For a kid, he’s remarkably resilient and insightful.

On a February morning, my store with all its warmth and color was a cozy place to be. The timer on the microwave went off; I removed the boiling water and poured it into my teapot after dropping in a couple of tea bags. The rain was falling from brooding, gray skies as it often does in winter. I decided it was time to start another knitting class. I maintain several ongoing classes and charity knitting groups, and I usually begin a new session four or five times a year.

As I considered my new class, I was also thinking about my mother, who’s adjusted to life in the assisted-living complex reasonably well. In some ways, I suspect that moving her was even more difficult for my sister, Margaret, and me than it was for Mom. Although Mom hated giving up her independence, she seemed relieved not to have the worry about the house and yard anymore. I wept the day the house was sold, and while she never allowed me to see her tears, I believe Margaret did, too. Selling the house meant letting go of our childhood and all the reminders of growing up there. It was the end of an era for us both, just as it was for our mother.

While I drank my tea, I flipped through the new patterns that had arrived the day before. The first one to catch my eye was a prayer shawl. Lately, I’d seen several patterns for these shawls, some more complex than others. I could easily envision knitting this one for Mom.

Prayer shawls have become popular in the last few years—and not only for prayer. They offer comfort and warmth, emotional, as well as physical. I’d received several inquiries about them and thought perhaps one of these shawls would make for an interesting class. I decided to discuss it with my sister, Margaret, who has a keen business sense and a good feel for which class I should offer next. I didn’t appreciate that about her until after she’d come to join me at the shop. Margaret worked for me part-time, which has now turned into full-time. She’s not as good with people as I am, but she knows yarn and, surprisingly, has become an excellent employee. She’s also my friend. Not so long ago, I couldn’t have said that; we might be sisters, but the tension between us was unbearable at times. Our relationship changed for the better, and I thank A Good Yarn for that.

Margaret wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes, since the shop officially opened at ten. Any number of tasks awaited my attention, things I should be doing, like paying bills and ordering new yarn. Instead, I sat at my desk, with my teacup between my hands. I felt so incredibly blessed.

Needless to say, I didn’t always feel this tranquil. When I was in my early twenties, a second bout of cancer struck with a viciousness that had me reeling. I survived, but my father didn’t. You see, he fought so hard for me, and when it seemed I’d make it after all, he died, suddenly and unexpectedly, of a heart attack. It was almost as though my recovery meant he could leave me now.

Before I lost Dad, I tended to approach my life tentatively, afraid of happiness, fearing the future. It was a void that loomed hopelessly before me and filled me with dread. Dad was the one who gave me strength. With him gone, I knew I was responsible for my own life. I had a decision to make and I boldly chose…independence. I chose to become part of the world I’d retreated from years before.

The ceiling above me creaked and I knew Colette was up. Colette Blake rented the small apartment over the shop. For the first two years, that tiny apartment was my home, my very first home away from family.

After I married Brad, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the apartment. It stood empty for a while. Then I met Colette, and I’d known instantly that she’d be the perfect tenant. The apartment would console her, give her a place to regain her emotional balance. A bonus—for me—is that she looks after Whiskers on my days off. My cat is a much-loved feature in my store, which he considers his home. I’ve had customers stop by just to visit him. He often sleeps in the front window, curling up in the afternoon sun. Whiskers generates lots of comments—and smiles. Pets have a way of connecting people to life’s uncomplicated joys.

Colette reminds me of myself three years ago, when I first opened the store. I met her shortly before Christmas, when Susannah Nelson, who owns the flower shop next door, brought her over to meet me. It wasn’t cancer that shook her world, though. It was death. Colette is a thirty-one-year-old widow. Her husband, Derek, a Seattle policeman, died a little over a year ago. When I mention that, people usually assume Derek was killed in the line of duty. Not so. Following a Seattle downpour, he climbed on the roof to repair a leak. No one knows exactly how it happened but apparently Derek slipped and fell. He died two days later of massive head injuries.

In the weeks since she’d moved here, Colette had only referred to the accident once, as if even talking about her husband was difficult. I’ve learned that she’s an easygoing person who laughs readily and yet at times her grief seemed palpable. Overwhelming. I understood how she felt. I remembered all too well that sense of anguish, that terror of what might happen tomorrow or the next day. Colette approached life fearfully, just the way I once did. I longed to reassure her, and I hoped my friendship provided some pleasure and solace. Friends like Jacqueline and Alix had done the same for me.

The apartment has an outside entrance, as well as the one leading into the store. Susannah Nelson had hired Colette soon after Susannah purchased what used to be known as Fanny’s Floral. Colette’s mother once owned a flower shop, and Colette had worked there as a high-school student. Her house sold practically the day it was listed, and Colette needed to move quickly. My tiny apartment was vacant, so we struck a deal. I assumed she wouldn’t be there long. Most of her belongings were in storage and she was taking the next few months to decide where she’d live and what she’d do.

The stairs creaked as she ventured down. Since Colette became my tenant, we sometimes shared a pot of tea in the mornings. She was always respectful of my time and I enjoyed our leisurely chats.

“Tea’s ready.” I reached for a clean cup. Without asking, I filled it and held it out.

“Thanks.” Colette smiled as she took the tea.

She was thin—too thin, really. Her clothes were a bit loose, but with her aptitude for style she cleverly disguised it. I noticed, though, as someone who’s done the same thing. Part of what I liked about her was the fact that she was lovely without seeming consciously aware of it. Despite her occasional silences, Colette was warm and personable, and I could see she’d be a success at whatever she chose. She hadn’t said much about the job she’d left, but I gathered it was a far more demanding position than helping customers in a flower shop.

This job change obviously had something to do with her husband’s death. She told me he’d died a year ago January fourteenth. She’d waited for the year to pass before making major changes in her life—selling her home, moving, quitting her job. These changes seem drastic in some ways and completely understandable in others.

Colette wore her long, dark hair parted in the middle. It fell straight to her shoulders, where it curved under. She seemed to achieve this effect naturally—unlike some women, who spend hours taming their hair with gel and spray.

In the short time she’d been here, Colette had made a positive impression on everyone she met. Everyone except my sister. Margaret, being Margaret, shied away from Colette, instinctively distrusting her. My sister’s like that; she tends to be a naysayer. She insisted that renting out the apartment had been a huge mistake. In Margaret’s eyes, a tenant, any tenant, wasn’t to be trusted. She appeared to think Colette would sneak into the shop in the middle of the night and steal every skein of yarn I owned, then hock them on the streets and use the money for drugs. I smiled whenever I thought about that, since not only did I trust Colette, I have a fairly expensive alarm system.

Margaret is, to put it mildly, protective of me. She’s older and tends to assume more responsibility than is warranted. It’s taken me a long time to understand my sister and even longer to appreciate her, but that’s a different story.

Colette held the teacup close to her mouth and paused. “Derek would’ve turned thirty-three today,” she said quietly. She stared into the distance, then looked back at me.

I nodded, encouraging her to talk. She’d only told me about Derek that one other time. I believed, based on my own experience, that the more she shared her pain, the less it would hurt. “Derek wanted children…. We’d been trying, but I didn’t get pregnant and now…”

“I’m sure you’ll have children one day,” I told her. I was confident that she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her life, that she’d marry again and probably have children.

Her smiled was filled with sadness. “Derek and I talked about a baby that morning. The next thing I knew, I was choosing his casket. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I leaned over and gave her a hug.

She seemed a little embarrassed by my show of sympathy and focused her gaze on the floor. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to start your day on a sad note. Actually, it wasn’t until I glanced at the calendar on your desk that I realized the date.”

“It’s okay, Colette. I’m just so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said, shrugging lightly. “Life is like that sometimes, you know?”

“Yes.” And I did.

Colette set the empty cup in my sink.

The back door opened, then shut with a bang. Margaret, of course, muttering about the weather. After Colette moved in, Margaret had taken to parking in the alley, apparently to keep an eye on my tenant’s comings and goings. After dumping her huge felted purse on the table, she hesitated, stiffening at the sight of Colette.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, pleased to see her despite her bad mood. “It’s a fine morning, isn’t it?” I couldn’t resist a touch of sarcasm.

“It’s raining,” she replied, eyeing Colette almost as if she were an intruder.

“Rainy weather’s good for knitting,” I reminded her.

For me, there was nothing more satisfying on a rainy afternoon than working on my current knitting project with a cup of tea by my side. People looked for something productive to do when it rained and—fortunately for me—that sometimes included knitting.

Margaret removed her coat and hung it on the peg by the back door. “Julia dropped me off this morning,” she said in passing.

I caught the significance right away. “You let Julia drive the new car?” Only the day before, Margaret had said that her elder daughter, a high-school senior, had been asking to take the car out for a spin. If I recall, Margaret’s exact words were Not in this lifetime.

Margaret’s hot-from-the-showroom vehicle was a first for the family, since she and Matt had always purchased their cars secondhand. Margaret’s previous car was well past repairing, and she was excited about buying a brand-new vehicle. They’d looked for weeks before deciding on one that was in high demand and said to get incredibly good mileage. Once the decision was made, they’d waited two months for the vehicle to arrive. Which it finally had in all its metallic-blue glory.

“I know, I know,” Margaret grumbled. “I said I wasn’t going to let her take the car, but I couldn’t help myself. She has something going on after school and somehow managed to convince me that her entire scholastic future rested on driving my car.” Her mouth twitched as she admitted how easily Julia had finessed her way past her mother’s objections.

“I don’t even have a hundred miles on that car,” Margaret said. “That’s how fast she broke down my defenses. Sad, isn’t it?”

Colette laughed. “Kids can do that.”

Margaret responded to the comment with a dismissive nod, barely acknowledging Colette.

Colette’s eyes momentarily met mine. “I’ll catch up with you later, Lydia,” she said and headed back upstairs.

Margaret’s gaze followed Colette. “You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s great.” I wished my sister would give Colette a chance. Hoping the sympathy factor might work, I added, “Today’s her dead husband’s birthday. She’d started telling me about it when you arrived.”

Margaret had the grace to look ashamed. “That’s tough,” she said, her own eyes returning to the stairs. The door had been left open and Whiskers wandered down.

“I know the rental income’s a plus, but frankly I don’t trust her,” Margaret said.

I sighed; I’d heard this far too often and it still made no sense to me.

“Why not?” I asked defensively.

“Think about it,” Margaret said. “Colette’s obviously far more capable than she’s letting on. Why is she working in a flower shop? She could get a job anywhere.”

“She just lost her husband,” I muttered.

“A year ago. Okay, that’s tragic and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean she has to go into hiding, does it?”

“She isn’t hiding.” I didn’t know that for sure. But I argued with Margaret because I sincerely liked Colette; my sister was overreacting and it troubled me that she went through life seeing everyone as suspect. Read more

The Shop on Blossom Street

“The yarn forms the stitches, the knitting forges the friendships, the craft links the generations.”

—Karen Alfke, “Unpattern” designer and knitting instructor

LYDIA HOFFMAN

The first time I saw the empty store on Blossom Street I thought of my father. It reminded me so much of the bicycle shop he had when I was a kid. Even the large display windows, shaded by a colorful striped awning, were the same. Outside my dad’s shop, there were flower boxes full of red blossoms—impatiens—that spilled over beneath the large windows. That was Mom’s contribution: impatiens in the spring and summer, chrysanthemums in the fall and shiny green mistletoe at Christmas. I plan to have flowers, too.

Dad’s business grew steadily and he moved into increasingly larger premises, but I always loved his first store best.

I must have astounded the rental agent who was showing me the property. She’d barely unlocked the front door when I announced, “I’ll take it.”

She turned to face me, her expression blank as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard me correctly. “Wouldn’t you like to see the place? You do realize there’s a small apartment above the shop that comes with it, don’t you?”

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier.” The apartment worked perfectly for me. My cat, Whiskers, and I were in need of a home.

“You would like to see the place before you sign the papers, wouldn’t you?” she persisted.

I smiled and nodded. But it wasn’t really necessary; instinctively I knew this was the ideal location for my yarn shop. And for me.

The one drawback was that this Seattle neighborhood was undergoing extensive renovations and, because of the construction mess, Blossom Street was closed at one end, with only local traffic allowed. The brick building across the street, which had once been a three-story bank, was being transformed into high-end condos. Several other buildings, including an old warehouse, were also in the process of becoming condos. The architect had somehow managed to maintain the traditional feel of the original places, and that delighted me. Construction would continue for months, but it did mean that my rent was reasonable, at least for now.

I knew the first six months would be difficult. They are for any small business. The constant construction might create more obstacles than there otherwise would have been; nevertheless, I loved the space. It was everything I wanted.

Early Friday morning, a week after viewing the property, I signed my name, Lydia Hoffman, to the two-year lease. I was handed the keys and a copy of the rental agreement. I moved into my new home that very day as excited as I can remember being about anything. I felt as if I was just starting my life and in more ways than I care to count, I actually was.

I opened A Good Yarn on the last Tuesday in April. I felt a sense of pride and anticipation as I stood in the middle of my store, surveying the colors that surrounded me. I could only imagine what my sister would say when she learned I’d gone through with this. I hadn’t asked her advice because I already knew what Margaret’s response would be. She isn’t—to put it mildly—the encouraging type.

I’d found a carpenter who’d built some cubicles for me, three rows of them, painted a pristine white. Most of the yarn had arrived on Friday and I’d spent the weekend sorting it by weight and color and arranging it neatly in the cubicles. I’d bought a secondhand cash register, refinished the counter and set up racks of knitting supplies. I was ready for business.

This should have been a happy moment for me but instead, I found myself struggling to hold back tears. Dad would’ve been so pleased if he could have seen what I’d done. He’d been my support and my source of strength, my guiding light. I was so shocked when he died.

You see, I’d always assumed I would die before my father.

Most people find talk of death unsettling, but I’ve lived with the threat of it for so long, it doesn’t have that effect on me.The possibility of death has been my reality for the last fourteen years, and I’m as comfortable talking about it as I am the weather. Read more

A Good Yarn

LYDIA HOFFMAN

Knitting saved my life. It saw me through two lengthy bouts of cancer, a particularly terrifying kind that formed tumors inside my brain and tormented me with indescribable headaches. I experienced pain I could never have imagined before. Cancer destroyed my teen years and my twenties, but I was determined to survive.

I’d just turned sixteen the first time I was diagnosed, and I learned to knit while undergoing chemotherapy. A woman with breast cancer, who had the chemo chair next to mine, used to knit and she’s the one who taught me. The chemo was dreadful-not quite as bad as the headaches, but close. Because of knitting, I was able to endure those endless hours of weakness and severe nausea. With two needles and a skein of yarn, I felt I could face whatever I had to. My hair fell out in clumps, but I could weave yarn around a needle and create a stitch; I could follow a pattern and finish a project. I couldn’t hold down more than a few bites at a time, but I could knit. I clung to that small sense of accomplishment, treasured it.

Knitting was my salvation-knitting and my father. He lent me the emotional strength to make it through the last bout. I survived but, sadly, Dad didn’t. Ironic, isn’t it? I lived, but my cancer killed my father.

The death certificate states that he died of a massive heart attack, but I believe otherwise. When the cancer returned, it devastated him even more than me. Mom has never been able to deal with sickness, so the brunt of my care fell to my father. It was Dad who got me through chemotherapy, Dad who argued with the doctors and fought for the very best medical care-Dad who lent me the will to live. Consumed by my own desperate struggle for life, I didn’t realize how dear a price my father paid for my recovery. By the time I was officially in remission, Dad’s heart simply gave out on him.

After he died, I knew I had to make a choice about what I should do with the rest of my life. I wanted to honor my father in whatever I chose, and that meant I was prepared to take risks. I, Lydia Anne Hoffman, resolved to leave my mark on the world. In retrospect, that sounds rather melodramatic, but a year ago it was exactly how I felt. What, you might ask, did I do that was so life-changing and profound?

I opened a yarn store on Blossom Street in Seattle. That probably won’t seem earth-shattering to anyone else, but for me, it was a leap of faith equal to Noah’s building the ark without a rain cloud in sight. I had an inheritance from my grandparents and gambled every cent on starting my own business. Me, who’s never held down a job for more than a few weeks.

Me, who knew next to nothing about finances, profit-and-loss statements or business plans. I sank every dime I had into what I did know, and that was yarn and knitters.

Naturally, I ran into a few problems. At the time, Blossom Street was undergoing a major renovation-in fact, the architect’s wife, Jacqueline Donovan, was one of the women in my first knitting class. Jacqueline, Carol and Alix, my original students, remain three of my closest friends to this day. Last summer, when I opened A Good Yarn, the street was closed to traffic. Anyone who managed to find her way to my store then had to put up with constant dust and noise. I refused to let the mess and inconvenience hamper my enthusiasm, and fortunately that was how my clientele felt, too. I was convinced I could make this work.

I didn’t get the support you might expect from my family. Mom, bless her, tried to be encouraging, but she was in shock after losing Dad. She still is. Most days, she wanders hopelessly around in a fog of grief and loss. When I mentioned my plan, she didn’t discourage me, but she didn’t cheer me on, either. To the best of my memory, she said, “Sure, honey, go ahead, if you think you should.” From my mother, this was as rousing an endorsement as I could hope to receive.

My older sister, Margaret, on the other hand, had no qualms about drowning me in tales of doom and gloom. The day I opened my store, she marched in with a spate of dire forecasts. The economy was down, she told me; people were hanging on to their money. I’d be lucky to stay afloat for six weeks. Ten minutes of listening to her ominous predictions, and I was ready to rip up the lease and close my door-until I reminded myself that this was my first official day on the job and I had yet to sell a single skein of yarn.

As you might’ve guessed, Margaret and I have a complicated relationship. Don’t get me wrong; I love my sister. Until the cancer struck, we were like any other sisters with the normal ups and downs in our relationship. After I was initially diagnosed with brain cancer, she was wonderful. I remember she brought me a stuffed teddy bear to take to the hospital with me. I still have it somewhere if Whiskers hasn’t gotten hold of it. Whiskers is my cat and he tends to shred anything with a fuzzy surface.

It was when I went through the second bout of cancer that Margaret’s attitude changed noticeably. She acted as if I wanted to be sick, as if I was so hungry for attention that I’d brought this horror on myself. When I took my first struggling steps toward independence, I’d hoped she’d support my efforts. Instead, all I got was discouragement. But over time, that changed and eventually all my hard work won her over.

Margaret, to put it mildly, isn’t the warm, spontaneous type. I didn’t understand how much she cared about me until I had a third cancer scare just a few months after I opened A Good Yarn. Scare doesn’t come close to describing my feelings when Dr. Wilson ordered those frightening, familiar tests. It was as if my entire world had come to a sudden halt. The truth is, I don’t think I could’ve endured the struggle yet again. I’d already decided that if the cancer had returned, I would refuse treatment. I didn’t want to die, but once you’ve lived with the threat of death, it loses its potency.

My come-what-may attitude disturbed Margaret, who wouldn’t accept my fatalism. Talk of death unsettled her, the way it does most people, but when you’ve been around death and dying as much as I have, it seems as natural as turning off the lights. I don’t look forward to dying, but I’m not afraid of it either. Thankfully, the tests came back negative and I’m thriving, right along with my yarn store. I mention it now because it was during those weeks that I discovered how deeply my sister loves me. In the last seventeen years, I’ve only seen her cry twice-when Dad died and when Dr. Wilson gave me a clean bill of health.

Once I returned to work full-time, Margaret bullied and cajoled me into contacting Brad Goetz again. Brad, who drives the UPS truck that makes deliveries to A Good Yarn, is the man I’d started seeing last year. He’s divorced and has custody of his eight-year-old son, Cody. It would be an understatement to say Brad is good-looking; the fact is, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. The first day he came into the store, wheeling several cartons of yarn, it was all I could do to keep the drool from dripping down my chin. I got so flustered I could hardly sign for the delivery. He asked me out three times before I finally agreed to meet him for drinks. Given my experience with male-female relationships, I was sure I’d be completely out of my element dating Brad. I would never have found the courage to say yes if not for Margaret, who harassed me into it.

I always say that A Good Yarn is my affirmation of life, but according to my sister I was afraid of life. Afraid to really live, to venture outside the tiny comfortable world I’d created inside my yarn store. She was right and I knew it, but still I resisted. It’d been so many years since I’d spent any amount of time with a man other than my father or my physician that I had the social finesse of a dandelion. But Margaret wouldn’t listen to a single excuse, and soon Brad and I were having drinks together, followed by dinners, picnics with Cody and ball games. I’ve come to love Brad’s son as much as I do my two nieces, Julia and Hailey.

These days Brad and I see quite a bit of each other. During my cancer scare, I’d pushed him away, which was a mistake as Margaret frequently pointed out. Brad forgave me, though, and we resumed out relationship. We’re cautious-okay, I’m the one who’s taking things slow, but Brad’s fine with that. He was burned once when his ex-wife walked out, claiming she needed to “find herself.” There’s Cody to consider, too. The boy has a close relationship with Brad, and while Cody loves me too, I don’t want to disrupt that special bond between father and son. So far, everything is going well, and we’re talking more and more about a future together. Brad and Cody are so much a part of my life now that I couldn’t imagine being without them.

Although it took her a while, Margaret is finally in favor of my yarn store. After a shaky start, my sister is a believer. She’s actually working with me now. That’s right, the two of us side by side, and that’s nothing short of a miracle. Occasionally we regress, but we’re making strides. I’m so glad she’s with me, in every sense of the word.

Before I get too carried away, I want to tell you about my shop. The minute I laid eyes on this place I saw its potential. Despite the construction mess, the temporary drawbacks and shifting neighborhood, I realized it was perfect. I was ready to sign the lease before I’d even walked inside. I loved the large display windows, which look out onto the street. Whiskers sleeps there most days, curled up among the skeins and balls of yarn. The flower boxes immediately reminded me of my father’s first bicycle shop, and it was almost as if my dad was giving my venture his nod of approval. The colorful but dusty striped awning sealed the deal in my mind. I knew this old-fashioned little shop could become the welcoming place I’d envisioned-and it has.

The renovation on Blossom Street is almost complete. The bank building has been transformed into ultraexpensive condos and the video store next to it is now a French-style café, cleverly called The French Café. Alix Townsend, who took my very first beginners’ knitting class, worked at the old video store, and it’s somehow fitting that her first real job as a pastry chef is in exactly the same location. Unfortunately, Annie’s Café down the street is closed and vacant, but the space won’t be empty for long. This is a thriving neighborhood.

The bell above my door chimed as Margaret stepped inside. It was the first Tuesday morning in June, and a lovely day. Summer would be arriving any time now in the Pacific Northwest.

“Good morning,” I greeted her, turning from the small cof-feemaker I keep in the back room that’s officially my office.

She didn’t answer me right away and when she did it was more of a grumble than an actual response. Knowing my sister and her moods, I decided to bide my time. If she’d had an argument with one of her daughters or with her husband, she’d tell me eventually.

“I’ve got a pot of coffee on,” I announced as Margaret walked into the back room and locked up her purse.

Without commenting, my sister pulled a freshly washed cup from the tray and reached for the pot. The drip continued, sizzling against the hot plate, but she didn’t appear to notice.

Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and my resolve to give her a chance to get over her bad mood disappeared. “What’s wrong with you?” I demanded. I have to admit I felt impatient; lately, she’s brought her surly moods to work a little too often.

Facing me, Margaret managed a tentative smile. “Nothing…sorry. It’s just that this feels a whole lot like a Monday.”

Because the shop is closed on Mondays, Tuesday is our first workday of the week. I frowned at her, trying to figure out what the real problem was. But she’d assumed a perfectly blank expression, telling me nothing.

My sister is a striking woman with wide shoulders and thick, dark hair. She’s tall and lean, but solid. She still looks like the athlete she used to be. I wish she’d do something different with her hair, though. She wears the same style she did in high school, parted in the middle and stick-straight until it hits her shoulders, where it obediently turns under, as if she’s tortured it with a curling iron. That was certainly part of her teenage regimen-the curling iron, the hair spray, the vigorously wielded brush. The style’s classic and it suits her, I suppose, but I’d give anything to see her try something new.

“I’m going to post a new class,” I said, changing the subject abruptly, hoping to draw her out of her dour mood.

“In what?”

Ah, interest. That was a good sign. For the most part, all the classes I’d held had gone well. I’d taught a beginners’ class, an intermediate and a Fair Isle, but there was one I’d been thinking of offering for a while.

“It’s such a difficult question?”

My sister’s sarcasm shook me from my brief reverie. “Socks,” I told her. “I’m going to offer a class on knitting socks.”

With the inventive new sock yarns on the market, socks were the current knitting rage. I carried a number of the European brands and loved the variety. My customers did, too. Some of the new yarns were designed to create an intricate pattern when knitted. I found it amazing to view a finished pair of socks, knowing the design had been formed by the yarn itself and not the knitter.

“Fine.” Margaret’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “I suppose you’re going to suggest knitting them on circular needles versus the double-pointed method,” she said casually.

“Of course.” I preferred using two circular needles.

Margaret would rather crochet and while she can knit, she doesn’t often. “There seems to be a lot of interest in socks lately, doesn’t there?” Her tone was still casual, almost indifferent.

I regarded my sister closely. She always had a list of three or four reasons any idea of mine wouldn’t work. It had become practically a game with us. I’d make some suggestion and she’d instantly tell me why it was bound to fail. I missed having the opportunity to state my case.

“So you think a sock class would appeal to our customers?” I couldn’t help asking. Good grief, there had to be something drastically wrong with Margaret. Read more

Twenty Wishes

It was six o’clock on Valentine’s Day, an hour that should have marked the beginning of a celebration—the way it had when she and Robert were married. When Robert was alive. But tonight, on the most romantic day of the year, thirty-eight-year-old Anne Marie Roche was alone. Turning over the closed sign on the door of Blossom Street Books, she glanced at the Valentine’s display with its cutout hearts and pink balloons and the collection of romance novels she didn’t read anymore. Then she looked outside. Streetlights flickered on as evening settled over the Seattle neighborhood.

The truth was, Anne Marie hated her life. Well, okay, hate was putting it too strongly. After all, she was healthy, reasonably young and reasonably attractive, financially solvent, and she owned the most popular bookstore in the area. But she didn’t have anyone to love, anyone who loved her. She was no longer part of something larger than herself. Every morning when she woke, she found the other side of the bed empty and she didn’t think she’d ever get accustomed to that desolate feeling.

Her husband had died nine months ago. So, technically, she was a widow, although she and Robert had been separated. But they saw each other regularly and were working on a reconciliation.

Then, suddenly, it was all over, all hope gone. Just when they were on the verge of reuniting, her husband had a massive heart attack. He’d collapsed at the office and died even before the paramedics could arrive.

Anne Marie’s mother had warned her about the risks of marrying an older man, but fifteen years wasn’t that much older. Robert, charismatic and handsome, had been in his mid-forties when they met. They’d been happy together, well matched in every way but one.

Anne Marie wanted a baby.

Robert hadn’t.

He’d had a family—two children—with his first wife, Pamela, and wasn’t interested in starting a second one. When she’d married him, Anne Marie had agreed to his stipulation. At the time it hadn’t seemed important. She was madly in love with Robert—and then two years ago it hit her. This longing, this need for a baby, grew more and more intense, and Robert’s refusal became more adamant. His solution had been to buy her a dog she’d named Baxter. Much as she loved her Yorkie, her feelings hadn’t changed. She’d still wanted a baby.

The situation wasn’t helped by Melissa, Robert’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, who disliked Anne Marie and always had. Over the years Anne Marie had made many attempts to ease the tension between them, all of which failed. Fortunately she had a good relationship with Brandon, Robert’s son, who was five years older than his sister.

When problems arose in Anne Marie and Robert’s marriage, Melissa hadn’t been able to disguise her glee. Her stepdaughter seemed absolutely delighted when Robert moved out the autumn before last, seven months before his death.

Anne Marie didn’t know what she’d done to warrant such passionate loathing, other than to fall in love with Melissa’s father. She supposed the girl’s ardent hope that her parents would one day remarry was responsible for her bitterness. Every child wanted his or her family intact. And Melissa was a young teen when Anne Marie married Robert—a hard age made harder by the family’s circumstances. Anne Marie didn’t blame Robert’s daughter, but his marriage to Pamela had been dead long before she entered the picture. Still, try as she might, Anne Marie had never been able to find common ground with Melissa. In fact, she hadn’t heard from her since the funeral.

Anne Marie opened the shop door as Elise Beaumont approached. Elise’s husband, Maverick, had recently passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer. In her mid-sixties, she was a retired librarian who’d reconnected with her husband after nearly thirty years apart, only to lose him again after less than three. She was a slight, gray-haired woman who’d become almost gaunt, but the sternness of her features was softened by the sadness in her eyes. A frequent patron of the bookstore, she and Anne Marie had become friends during the months of Maverick’s decline. In many ways his death was a release, yet Anne Marie understood how difficult it was to let go of someone you loved.

“I was hoping you’d come,” Anne Marie told her with a quick hug. She’d closed the store two hours early, giving Steve Handley, her usual Thursday-night assistant, a free evening for his own Valentine celebration.

Elise slipped off her coat and draped it over the back of an overstuffed chair. “I didn’t think I would and then I decided that being with the other widows was exactly what I needed tonight.”

The widows.

They’d met in a book group Anne Marie had organized at the store. After Robert died, she’d suggested reading Lolly Winston’s Good Grief, a novel about a young woman adjusting to widowhood. It was through the group that Anne Marie had met Lillie Higgins and Barbie Foster. Colette Blake had joined, too. She’d been a widow who’d rented the apartment above A Good Yarn, Lydia Goetz’s yarn store. Colette had married again the previous year.

Although the larger group had read and discussed other books, the widows had gravitated together and begun to meet on their own. Their sessions were often informal gatherings over coffee at the nearby French Café or a glass of wine upstairs at Anne Marie’s.

Lillie and Barbie were a unique pair of widows, mother and daughter. They’d lost their husbands in a private plane crash three years earlier. Anne Marie remembered reading about the Learjet incident in the paper; both pilots and their two passengers had been killed in a freak accident on landing in Seattle. Lillie’s husband and son-in-law were executives at a perfume company and often took business trips together.

Lillie Higgins was close to Elise’s age, but that was all they shared. Actually, it was difficult to tell exactly how old Lillie was. She looked barely fifty, but with a forty-year-old daughter, she had to be in her mid-sixties. Petite and delicate, she was one of those rare women who never seemed to age. Her wardrobe consisted of ultra-expensive knits and gold jewelry. Anne Marie had the impression that if Lillie wanted, she could purchase this bookstore ten times over.

Her daughter, Barbie Foster, was a lot like her mother and aptly named, at least as far as appearances went. She had long blond hair that never seemed to get mussed, gorgeous crystal-blue eyes, a flawless figure. It was hard to believe she had eighteen-year-old twin sons who were college freshmen; Anne Marie would bet that most people assumed she was their sister rather than their mother. If Anne Marie didn’t like Barbie so much, it would be easy to resent her for being so… perfect.

“Thanks for closing early tonight. I’d much rather be here than spend another evening alone,” Elise said, breaking into Anne Marie’s thoughts.

There was that word again.

Alone.

Despite her own misgivings about Valentine’s Day, Anne Marie tried to smile. She gestured toward the rear of the store. “I’ve got the bubble wrap and everything set up in the back room.”

The previous month, as they discussed an Elizabeth Buchan novel, the subject of Valentine’s Day had come up. Anne Marie learned from her friends that this was perhaps the most painful holiday for widows. That was when their small group decided to plan their own celebration. Only instead of romantic love and marriage, they’d celebrate friendship. They’d defy the world’s pitying glances and toast each other’s past loves and future hopes.

Elise managed a quivering smile as she peered into the back of the store. “Bubble wrap?”

“I have tons,” Anne Marie informed her. “You can’t imagine how many shippers use it.”

“But why is it on the floor?”

“Well…” It seemed silly now that Anne Marie was trying to explain. “I always have this insatiable urge to pop it, so I thought we could do it together—by walking on it.”

“You want us to step on bubble wrap?” Elise asked, sounding confused.

“Think of it as our own Valentine’s dance and fireworks in one.”

“But fireworks are for Independence Day or maybe New Year’s.”

“That’s the point,” Anne Marie said bracingly. “New beginnings.”

“And we’ll drink champagne, too?”

“You bet. I’ve got a couple bottles of the real stuff, Veuve Clicquot.”

“Veuve means widow, you know. The widow Clicquot’s bubbly—what else could we possibly drink?”

The door opened, and Lillie and Barbie entered in a cloud of some elegant scent. As soon as they were inside, Anne Marie locked the shop.

“Party time,” Lillie said, handing Anne Marie a white box filled with pastries.

“I brought chocolate,” Barbie announced, holding up a box of dark Belgian chocolates. She wore a red pantsuit with a wide black belt that emphasized her petite waist. Was there no justice in this world? The woman had the figure of a goddess and she ate chocolate?

“I read that dark chocolate and red wine have all kinds of natural benefits,” Elise said.

Anne Marie had read that, too.

Lillie shook her head in mock astonishment. “First wine and now chocolate. Life is good.”

Leading the way to the back room, Anne Marie dimmed the lights in the front of the shop. Beside the champagne and flutes, she’d arranged a crystal vase of red roses; they’d been a gift from Susannah’s Garden, the flower shop next door. All the retailers on Blossom Street were friends. Hearing about the small party, Alix Turner from the French Café had dropped off a tray of cheese, crackers and seedless green grapes, which Anne Marie had placed on her work table, now covered with a lacy cloth. Lydia had insisted they use it for their celebration. It was so beautiful it reawakened Anne Marie’s desire to learn to knit.

She wished she could see her friends’ gifts as more than expressions of sympathy, but her state of mind made that impossible. Still, because of the other widows, for their sake as well as her own, she was determined to try.

“This is going to be fun,” Elise said, telling them why Anne Marie had spread out the bubble wrap.

“What a wonderful idea!” Barbie exclaimed.

“Shall I pour?” Anne Marie asked, ignoring the sense of oppression she couldn’t seem to escape. It had been present for months and she’d thought life would be better by now. Perhaps she needed counseling. One thing was certain; she needed something.

“By all means,” Lillie said, motioning toward the champagne.

Anne Marie opened the bottle and filled the four glasses and then they toasted one another, clicking the rims of the flutes.

“To love,” Elise said. “To Maverick.” Her voice broke.

“To chocolate!” Barbie made a silly face, perhaps to draw attention away from Elise’s tears.

“And the Widow’s champagne,” Lillie threw in.

Anne Marie remained silent.

Although it’d been nine months, her grief didn’t seem to diminish or become any easier to bear. She worked too much, ate too little and grieved for all the might-have-beens. It was more than the fact that the man she’d loved was dead. With his death, she was forced to give up the dream of all she’d hoped her marriage would be. A true companionship—and the foundation of a family. Even if she were to fall in love again, which seemed unlikely, a pregnancy past the age of forty was risky. The dream of having her own child had died with Robert.

The four sipped their champagne in silence, each caught up in her own memories. Anne Marie saw the sorrow on Elise’s face, the contemplative look on Lillie’s, Barbie’s half smile.

“Will we be removing our shoes in order to pop the bubble wrap?” Lillie asked a moment later.

“Mom has this thing about walking around in stocking feet,” Barbie said, glancing at her mother. “She doesn’t approve.”

“It just wasn’t done in our household,” Lillie murmured.

“There’s no reason to take our shoes off,” Anne Marie said. “The whole idea is to have fun. Make a bit of noise, celebrate our friendship and our memories.”

“Then I say, let ‘er rip,” Elise said. She raised her sensibly shod foot and stomped on a bubble. A popping sound exploded in the room.

Barbie went next, her step firm. Her high heels effectively demolished a series of bubbles.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop.

Lillie followed. Her movements were tentative, almost apologetic.

Pop.

Anne Marie went last. It felt… good. Really good, and the noise only added to the unexpected sense of fun and exhilaration. For the first time since the party had begun, she smiled.

By then they were all flushed with excitement and champagne. The others were laughing giddily; Anne Marie couldn’t quite manage that but she could almost laugh. The ability to express joy had left her when Robert died. That wasn’t all she’d lost. She used to sing, freely and without self-consciousness. But after Robert’s funeral Anne Marie discovered she couldn’t sing anymore. She just couldn’t. Her throat closed up whenever she tried. What came out were strangled sounds that barely resembled music, and after a while she gave up. It’d been months since she’d even attempted a song.

The popping continued as they paraded around on the bubble wrap, pausing now and then to sip champagne. They marched with all the pomp and ceremony of soldiers in procession, saluting one another with their champagne flutes.

Thanks to her friends, Anne Marie found that her mood had begun to lift.

Soon all the bubbles were popped. Bringing their champagne, they sat in the chairs where the reader groups met and toasted each other again in the dimly lit store.

Leaning back, Anne Marie tried to relax. Despite her earlier laughter, despite spending this evening with friends, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, but new tears came, and it wasn’t long before Barbie noticed. Her friend placed a reassuring hand on Anne Marie’s knee.

“Does it ever hurt any less?” Anne Marie asked.

Searching for a tissue in her hip pocket, she blotted her eyes. She hated breaking down like this. She wanted to explain that she’d never been a weepy or sentimental woman. All her emotions had become more intense since Robert’s death.

Lillie and Barbie exchanged knowing looks. They’d been widows the longest.

“It does,” Lillie promised her, growing serious, too. “But it takes time.”

“I feel so alone.”

“That’s to be expected,” Barbie said, passing her the box of chocolates. “Here, have another one. You’ll feel better.”

“That’s what my grandmother used to say,” Elise added. “Eat, and everything will seem better.”

“Mine always said I’d be good as new if I did something for someone else,” Lillie said. “Grams swore that showing kindness to others was the cure for any kind of unhappiness.”

“Exercise helps, too,” Barbie put in. “I spent many, many hours at the gym.”

“Can’t I just buy something?” Anne Marie asked plaintively, and hiccupped a laugh as she made the suggestion.

The others smiled.

“I wish it was that easy,” Elise said in a solemn voice. Read more

311 Pelican Court

From the moment Rosie Cox entered Cedar Cove’s divorce court, she’d felt a renewed sense of failure—not to mention betrayal. Who wouldn’t feel that way? After seventeen years of what she’d believed to be a reasonably good marriage, Zach’s infidelity was the last thing she’d expected.

He’d never openly admitted to the affair. She hadn’t found her husband in a compromising situation, hadn’t found any concrete evidence—no matchbooks from expensive restaurants, no jewelry receipts or motel bills— but in her heart she knew. A wife always does.

Rosie owned up to the truth—she was angry and she’d expressed that anger by making this divorce as complicated and difficult as she possibly could. Why should she go easy on Zach or walk away from their marriage without one hell of a fight? And fight she had, with both fists raised.

As she turned away from the judge, the final decree in her hand, she realized she’d made another mistake.

Rosie had assumed that once the divorce was granted, the anger and bitterness of these dreadful months would be lifted. Wrong again. An even heavier burden had been added. When the joint custody agreement she and Zach had so carefully worked out, point by point, was presented to Judge Olivia Lockhart, the judge had rejected it.

Instead, Judge Lockhart had stated that it was emotionally detrimental to kids to shuffle them between residences every few days. Allison and Eddie needed stable lives, according to Judge Lockhart, and they hadn’t asked for the divorce. Some people considered the judge innovative, Rosie thought, disgruntled. How about interfering? Or out of her mind? Because—of all the crazy settlements—she’d awarded the children their house. That meant Rosie and Zach would be the ones moving in and out.

Talk about ridiculous! Talk about impossible.

Now that the divorce was final, Rosie and Zach would have to figure out some kind of living arrangements. The ramifications of what they’d agreed to were starting to hit Rosie and she hadn’t even left the courtroom.

“Rosie,” Sharon Castor, her attorney, said as soon as they were in the silent hallway outside the courtroom. “We have to meet with your ex-husband.”

One look told Rosie that Sharon was as flustered as she was herself.

Otto Benson, Zach’s lawyer, joined them. Although he remained outwardly calm, his face was tense. She dared not glance in Zach’s direction. In fact, she’d avoided looking at her ex-husband from the moment she’d walked into the courtroom.

“Let’s get a conference room and discuss the details,” Zach’s attorney said.

Rosie peered at Zach, standing behind his lawyer. He didn’t seem any happier than she was with this decision, but she’d keel over in a dead faint before she let him know how she felt.

“Rosie and I should be able to work this out ourselves,” Zach said with an edge of irritation.

Given the way everything had gone so far, that suggestion wasn’t promising. “If you remember, it took us weeks of haggling to come up with this joint custody agreement,” she pointed out. She enjoyed reminding him what a jerk he’d been. Rosie supposed Zach was hoping to avoid more attorneys’ fees. Too bad. If he ended up with less money to spend on his girlfriend, that wasn’t her concern.

Fists clenched, Zach snarled something under his breath. Probably just as well she couldn’t hear it, Rosie decided, proud of her own display of self-control.

“What makes you think we’re capable of agreeing to anything without a mediator?” she asked sarcastically.

“Fine,” Zach muttered, with a pout reminiscent of their nine-year-old son. Staring at him now, Rosie had trouble believing she’d ever loved Zachary Cox. Not only was he smug and argumentative and self-righteous, he had no idea what it meant to be a husband and father. Granted, Zach was a handsome man; not only that, his appearance proclaimed his success as a businessman, a professional. Although, in her opinion, anyone with half a brain would instantly peg him for an accountant. He had that narrowed look about his dark eyes, as if he spent too many hours a day squinting at columns of tiny numbers. Despite that, he was appealing to the eye with his broad shoulders— which nicely set off his expensive suit—and thick, dark hair. At one time he’d been an athlete, and even now he routinely jogged and kept in shape.

Rosie had loved the firmness of his muscles as she stroked his back during lovemaking. Of course, it’d been months since they’d slept in the same bed, and much longer since they’d actually made love.

Rosie didn’t even remember the last time. Had she known, she might have appreciated it more, lingered a moment longer at her husband’s side, savored the feel of his arms around her. One thing was certain: Zach hadn’t been interested in her from the day he’d hired Janice Lamond as his personal assistant.

The thought of him entwined with Janice nearly suffocated Rosie and she forcefully shoved the image from her mind. Anger and revulsion at her husband’s—no, ex-husband’s—unfaithfulness rose like bile in the back of her throat.

Zach’s raised voice caught her attention; apparently he’d agreed to have their attorneys negotiate this added complication to their divorce decree. Otto was checking with the clerk for an empty conference room.

Once a private room in the law library was secured, Zach and his attorney sat at one side of the table, across from Rosie and hers.

Even the attorneys seemed perplexed by the situation. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a decree before,” Sharon said, starting the conversation.

“Me, neither.” Otto frowned. “This is one for the books.”

“Fine,” Zach said in a curt voice, “it’s unusual, but we’re both adults. We can figure this out. I know I was sincere about putting the children first.” He glared at Rosie, as if to suggest she hadn’t been.

“If you were sincere, you would’ve had second thoughts about sleeping with that slut.” Rosie hadn’t intended to be argumentative, but if her ex-husband was so concerned about their children’s welfare, he would never have broken his wedding vows.

“I refuse to dignify that remark by responding to it,” Zach said through gritted teeth. “Besides if you were home more, instead of volunteering for every cause known to mankind, every cause except your children, you’d—”

“Well, I refuse to allow you to blame me for what you’ve done.” Her volunteer efforts were Zach’s big complaint. He had his wish; she’d had to resign from every position she held and seek paid employment. She hoped he was happy. For the first time since their children were born, Rosie wasn’t a stay-at-home mom.

“I thought we were here to discuss this divorce decree?” Zach asked with a bored look, an expression that was obviously for her benefit. “If we’re going to trade insults I’d rather not pay our attorneys to listen.”

That’s right, Rosie mused, deriving a small sense of satisfaction out of knowing that Zach was responsible for both sets of attorneys’ fees. He was the one with the high-paying job. She was currently taking summer classes to update her teaching certificate. Classes Zach was paying for. That was another notch in her belt—another concession granted in their divorce settlement.

Her application was in with the South Kitsap School District and, considering all her connections, she shouldn’t have any difficulty getting hired as a substitute teacher in September.

“Let’s make a list of what we can agree on,” Sharon said briskly, ignoring the antagonism between Rosie and Zach. “Despite the breakdown of your marriage, you both claim you want to keep the needs of your children first and foremost.”

Rosie nodded and so did Zach.

Sharon smiled. She was a no-nonsense woman who wasn’t swayed by emotion. “Okay, that gives us a place to start.”

“I want to compliment you both on your attitudes,” Otto said, removing a legal pad from his briefcase as if to prove he was earning his pay. Zach had chosen the best and, for that matter, so had Rosie. Both attorneys came with high price tags.

“Yeah,” Zach said sarcastically. “If we got along any better, we might’ve stayed married.”

“You know who to blame for that,” Rosie snapped.

“Yes, I do,” he snapped right back. “How many nights were you actually home? How many dinners did you cook? If you don’t remember, I do. Damn few.”

Sharon sighed audibly. “Okay, the kids come first, and at this point, they have the house, which means Rosie will need to find somewhere else to live for the three days a week when Zach’s staying with them.”

Somewhere else to live? Rosie’s head jerked up as the shock ran up and down her spine. The reality—the repercussions of the judge’s edict—had just started to sink in.

“And pay half the mortgage on the house,” Zach added, smiling at her benignly.

“But I can’t—” Rosie hadn’t realized, hadn’t thought that far in advance. “I don’t have a job yet—how am I supposed to afford an apartment on top of everything else?” This was grossly unfair. Surely Zach could see that such a demand was unreasonable. She had a life, too, and no way of building it if every penny she earned went into paying for two separate residences.

Rosie stared at Zach. He returned her look, unblinking.

“I have a suggestion,” Sharon said.

“Let’s hear it.” Zach’s lawyer sounded eager, if not desperate, for ideas.

“If Zach spends three days a week at the house with the children, then his apartment will sit empty, is that right?” She turned to Zach for verification.

Rosie studied him, too. In essence, Sharon was asking if Zach intended to move Janice into the apartment, Janice and her son, who was the same age as Eddie.

“The apartment will be empty,” Zach said emphatically.

“What if—” Sharon glanced from one to the other “—Rosie moves into the apartment during the time you’re at the house? You did say it was a two-bedroom apartment, didn’t you?”

Objections shot up like weeds in Rosie’s fertile mind. She didn’t want anything to do with Zach. She certainly didn’t want to be put in a situation where she had to deal with being around him or his things—or what had been their things. Nor did she want to be privy to any information regarding his relationship with his girlfriend.

“No way am I letting Rosie in my apartment.” Apparently Zach shared her qualms. “We’re divorced. It took months to get that way. Rosie wanted out and she got her wish.”

“You were the one who moved out,” she reminded him scornfully.

“Correction. You kicked me out.”

“If you’ll recall, you insisted I see an attorney.” She couldn’t believe how convenient his memory was.

Zach snorted and looked at Sharon. “More fool me.”

Rosie’s attorney raised both hands in a pleading gesture. “Listen, it’s just a suggestion—a way of saving money for you both.” She turned to Rosie. “You’ll be fortunate to find a place, even a studio apartment, for less than five, six hundred dollars a month.”

“Zach will have to pay—”

“The hell I will!”

“The divorce is final,” Otto Benson stated. “Zach isn’t responsible for anything more than what’s already been agreed to.”

Rosie’s gaze flew to her attorney, and Sharon reluctantly nodded. All at once, this was more than Rosie could bear. Not only had she lost her husband, but now she was being forced out of her home, too. Moisture welled in her eyes, and she managed to blink it away. Hell would freeze over before she let Zach know what he was doing to her.

A long moment passed before Zach finally spoke. “Okay, I’ll agree to let Rosie stay in the apartment on the days I’m at the house, as long as she’s willing to split the rent.”

Rosie was well aware that she had no choice, but she did have her pride and she was determined to hold on to that. “On one condition,” she insisted, lifting her head.

“Now what?” Zach asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“I don’t want you bringing that woman into the family home. I want our house to be a safe place for the children. In other words, I don’t want Allison and Eddie exposed to your women.”

“What?” Zach glared at her as though she’d spoken a foreign language.

“You heard me,” she said vehemently, meeting his angry eyes. “This divorce has been hard enough on the kids without you parading Janice or any other woman you decide to date through my home. I want the house off-limits to your…your floozies.”

“Floozies?” Zach smirked. “Fine, no floozies. And the same goes for you. I don’t want you bringing any men to the house, either. No studs, no hotties, no boy toys, no—”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Rosie broke in, putting an end to his ridicule. In seventeen years she’d never so much as looked at another man. Not since the day she’d met Zach.

“Do you or don’t you agree?” her ex-husband challenged.

“Of course I agree!”

“Good.”

“Perfect.”

With their attorneys present, they made decisions about a number of other issues, and Sharon quickly wrote up an agreement. Zach’s attorney reviewed it, and then both Zach and Rosie signed it.

By the time she left the courthouse, Rosie felt as if she’d been pummeled by wave after wave in a stormy sea. Strange as it seemed, her heart actually ached. For weeks she’d dreaded this day and at the same time longed for it, just so the divorce would finally be over. Now she wasn’t sure what she felt, other than this deep pain that threatened to overpower her.

Nine-year-old Eddie was shooting baskets when Rosie pulled into the driveway at 311 Pelican Court. In a little more than a month, school would start again. Perhaps then their lives would return to some semblance of routine.

Eddie caught the basketball and held it against his side as he waited for her to park the car in the garage. His sad dark eyes watched Rosie as he stepped aside so she could drive past.

Fifteen-year-old Allison was in the kitchen, microwav-ing a hot dog for lunch. She turned and stared at Rosie, eyes glittering defiantly. She resembled Zach so much just then.

“How’d it go?” Eddie asked, following Rosie into the kitchen. He continued to hold the basketball.

“All right, I guess.”

The microwave beeped and Allison removed the steaming wiener, devoid of a bun. As if it had suddenly lost its appeal, she set the plate on the countertop and studied Rosie.

“There’s been a…minor complication,” Rosie announced. She didn’t believe in hiding the truth from her children, especially when it involved something that would affect them.

“What kind of complication?” Eddie asked, pulling out a kitchen chair. He balanced the basketball on the table, one hand supporting it. Allison crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, pretending to be bored; still, she didn’t leave the room as she so often did.

With effort Rosie managed to show a bit of enthusiasm for Judge Lockhart’s decree. “Well…you guys won’t be moving in and out of the house every few days, after all.”

Allison and Eddie shared a look of surprise. Trying to sound positive, Rosie explained Judge Lockhart’s decision and briefly outlined how the switch would work. Read more

50 Harbor Street

Corrie McAfee was worried. And she knew that her husband, Roy, was too.

Who wouldn’t be? Starting in July, Roy—a private investigator—had received a series of anonymous postcards, and while the messages weren’t overtly threatening, they were certainly distressing.

The first communication, which had been mailed to the office, spoke of regrets. During the intervening weeks, there’d been several others. Corrie had read each postcard so often she’d memorized them all. The first one stated: EVERYONE HAS REGRETS. IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’VE DONE YOU WISH YOU COULD DO OVER? THINK ABOUT IT. There hadn’t been a signature then, or on any of the other cards. They’d arrived at infrequent intervals and been mailed from different locations. The cryptic messages kept playing in her mind. The passing of time hadn’t helped; she was as much in the dark now, in October, as when she’d seen that first postcard.

There was a final gasping, gurgling sound as the coffee drained into the glass pot. The noise distracted Corrie from her worries for a moment—long enough to glance out the wide office window that overlooked downtown Cedar Cove, Washington. Serving as Roy’s secretary and assistant had its advantages, and in this instance, disadvantages. Sometimes ignorance truly was bliss; the current situation was definitely one of those cases. She’d sleep better if she’d never learned about the mysterious postcards.

And yet…even if Roy had managed to keep them hidden from her, she would still have known—because the last message had been hand-delivered, at night, to their front door. Not to the office like the others, but to their home. Late one evening, someone had walked up the sidewalk and onto the porch of their house. As it happened, Roy and Corrie were entertaining dinner guests that night—and had opened the door to discover that an unknown person had left a fruit basket and an accompanying note. Chills raced up Corrie’s spine at the thought that this person knew their home address.

“Is that coffee ready yet?” Roy called from inside his office. Apparently she hadn’t delivered it fast enough.

“Hold your horses—it’s coming.” Corrie didn’t mean to snap at her husband. Normally she wasn’t short-tempered. This uncharacteristic outburst revealed how upset she was by everything that was happening to them. Sighing, she filled a clean mug for Roy and carried it, steam rising, into his office.

“Okay, that does it,” she said, putting the coffee on the corner of his desk. “We have to talk.”

As if he didn’t have a care in the world, Roy leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. They’d been married nearly thirty years, and Corrie found him as attractive now as she had in college. Roy had played football for the University of Washington and been a “big man on campus,” as they used to say. He was tall and broad-shouldered, still muscular, his posture as straight as ever.

He stayed in good shape without apparent effort, and Corrie envied, just a bit, the fact that he’d never gained any weight. His dark hair had thinned and was streaked with gray, which only added a look of dignity to his appearance.

Of all the women he dated during college, he’d fallen in love with her. Theirs hadn’t been an easy courtship, though. They’d broken up for more than a year, and then reunited. Once they were back together, they realized how much they loved each other; there’d been no uncertainty about their feelings. They were married shortly after graduation and their love had endured through trials and tribulations, through good years and bad. They’d had plenty of both.

“Talk about what?” Roy asked casually.

His nonchalance didn’t fool Corrie. Her husband knew exactly what was on her mind. “Does THE PAST HAS A WAY OF CATCHING UP WITH THE PRESENT tell you anything?” she murmured, sitting down in the chair normally reserved for clients. She wanted Roy to understand that she wouldn’t be put off easily. She was afraid he knew more about these postcards than he’d let on. It would be just like him to try to protect her.

Roy frowned. “Those messages don’t have anything to do with you, so don’t worry about it.”

His answer infuriated her. “How can you say that? Everything that happens to you affects me.”

He seemed about to argue, but after all these years, he recognized that she wasn’t going to be satisfied with glib reassurances. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I’ve made enemies and, yes, I have regrets, but who doesn’t?”

Roy had reached the rank of detective for the Seattle Police Department and been forced into early retirement because of a back injury. In the beginning, Corrie had been excited to have her husband at home. She’d hoped they’d be able to travel and do some of the things they’d always planned, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Roy had the time now, but their finances had been adversely affected when he’d had to take early retirement. Their income was less than it had been by at least twenty percent. In a money-saving effort, they’d moved from Seattle and across Puget Sound to the community of Cedar Cove. The cost of property was much more reasonable in Kitsap County, which also offered a slower pace of life. When the real estate agent showed them the house at 50 Harbor Street, with its wide front porch and sweeping view of the cove and lighthouse, Corrie knew immediately that this house and this town would become their home.

They’d moved from the big city, and it hadn’t been as much of an adjustment as Corrie had feared. Folks in town were pleasant, and Roy and Corrie had made a few good friends—notably the Beldons—but kept mostly to themselves. They knew their neighbors’ names and exchanged greetings, but that was about it.

To Corrie’s disappointment, Roy had grown restless with retirement. His moods had reflected his boredom, and he was frequently cantankerous. Everything changed when he decided to rent office space and hang out his shingle as a private investigator. It was a decision Corrie had encouraged. Soon her husband was busy and looking forward to each day. He took on the cases that suited him and turned down those that didn’t. Corrie was proud of Roy’s skills, proud of his success and the way he cared about his clients. Never did it occur to her, or apparently to Roy, that one day he’d be solving his own mystery.

“You could be in danger,” Corrie murmured, letting her anxiety show. She refused to hide her feelings, refused to pretend all was well when it wasn’t.

Roy shrugged. “I doubt I’m in jeopardy. If anyone wanted to do me harm, they would’ve done so before now.”

“How can you say that?” she asked irritably. “Bob was followed, and we both know it wasn’t Bob they were interested in. He was driving your car. They thought they were following you.”

Bob Beldon, together with his wife, Peggy, was the owner of the local bed-and-breakfast, Thyme and Tide. Bob had borrowed Roy’s car and phoned in a near panic, sure he was being followed. Roy had advised him to drive immediately to the sheriff’s office. As soon as Bob had pulled in to the station, the tail had left him. Only later did Roy and Corrie figure it out. Whoever had shadowed Bob had assumed it was Roy driving.

“The letter said we’re in no danger,” her husband reminded her.

“Of course! That’s what they want us to think,” Corrie argued. “Whoever’s doing this wants us to lower our guard.”

“Now, Corrie—”

She cut him off, rejecting any further attempts to pacify her. “That basket was delivered to our front porch. This…stranger walked right up to our home and left it, and now you’re telling me we have nothing to worry about?” Her voice quavered, and she realized how close she was to losing control of her emotions. She was tired of being afraid, tired of waiting for the next message—or worse. Tired of waking up with her eyes burning from lack of sleep. Her first conscious thought every morning was fear of what might happen that day.

“The basket came over a week ago, and we’ve heard nothing since.” Roy said this as if this was supposed to comfort her. It didn’t.

“There was no postcard in the mail today, was there?” he asked, and she heard an unmistakable hint of tension in his voice.

“No.” Corrie had collected the mail, flipped through it and tossed the bundle of bills and circulars on her desk. Roy nodded, as if to say Well, then?

“Roy,” she said with deceptive calm, “I can’t remember the last time I slept a night straight through. You’re not sleeping well, either.”

He didn’t agree or disagree.

“We can’t go on pretending everything’s all right.” Roy’s handsome features tightened. “I’m doing everything I can,” he told her curtly.

“I know, but it isn’t enough.”

“It has to be.”

Corrie wasn’t an expert in the area of investigations, but she knew when it was time to seek help, and they were well past that point. “You need to talk to somebody.”

“Who?” he asked.

The only person she could suggest was the local sheriff. “Troy Davis.”

“Not a good idea,” Roy said. “Whatever this is about happened long before we moved to Cedar Cove.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Regrets. Every postcard mentions regrets. There isn’t a cop who doesn’t have regrets—about things we’ve done or haven’t done or should’ve done differently.”

She thought—but didn’t say—that every human being had regrets. It wasn’t restricted to cops.

“The last message said I JUST WANT YOU TO THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU DID. DON’T YOU HAVE A SINGLE REGRET? To me, that implies I did something—arrested someone, testified against someone—when I was a detective for Seattle.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “You were on the force a lot of years. Surely there’s a case or two that stands out in your mind.”

Roy shook his head. “Do you think I haven’t thought about that? You’ve seen me read through my files and notes, going all the way back to my first year on the force, and there’s nothing.”

“I don’t know. You haven’t talked to me. You block me out.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Don’t!” she cried with barely controlled anger. “I need to know—I have to know. Don’t you see what this is doing to me?”

Roy leaned forward then, bracing his elbows against the desk. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve racked my brain and I can’t think of anyone who’d come after me like this.”

“But there must be some case. One you might’ve forgotten.”

Obviously at a loss, Roy shook his head again. “Clearly I have. I’ve put murderers away and received my share of threats over the years, but I can’t think of anyone who’d do this. Yet who else could it be?” he said, almost to himself.

“What do you mean?” She was more in control now. Clutching a wadded tissue in her hand, she inhaled a calming breath.

“The type of people I dealt with weren’t subtle. If they wanted revenge, they wouldn’t bother with postcards.”

“A relative of some criminal you sent to jail? Or…a victim?” That was a possibility she’d entertained more than once.

He raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Could be.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” It was this constantly being on guard, not knowing what to expect, that had driven Corrie to such an emotional extreme.

“We do nothing.”

“Nothing?” This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “How can we?”

“We have to, for now, until they make a mistake. That’ll happen, sweetheart, I promise you, and once it does, this nightmare will be over.”

“You promise?” she repeated.

Roy’s expression softened and he nodded. Offering her further reassurance, he extended his arm across the desk. Corrie reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. Her husband gazed deep into her eyes. She felt his love, his comfort, and for now it was enough. For today, for this morning at least, she would be fine. Her problem, Corrie decided, was that she was just so tired. Everything would seem less frightening if she could get even one decent night’s sleep.

The front door to the office opened, and Roy abruptly released her and stood. From his years of police work he was always on the alert, never more so than now.

“Mom, Dad?” Their daughter’s voice rang from the outer office where Corrie’s desk was situated.

“Linnette,” Corrie cried eagerly, although her enthusiasm might have seemed a little strained. “We’re in here.”

Their daughter came into the room, then paused, an uncertain expression on her face. She was petite like Corrie, with dark hair and eyes. Also like Corrie, Linnette had excelled in school, and because she was the daughter of a policeman, she’d always been sheltered. Her studies had kept her from pursuing much of a social life, but Corrie hoped that would change now. Linnette had never had a serious boyfriend.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Linnette glanced suspiciously from Corrie to Roy and back again. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” Corrie assured her in a rush. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Their daughter was far too intuitive to be easily fooled, but thankfully she let it pass. “I’ve found an apartment,” Linnette announced and did a small jig around the office.

“Where?” Corrie asked, hoping it was in town. Linnette had been hired by the new Cedar Cove Medical Clinic as a physician assistant, and Corrie was thrilled to have her closer.

“It’s on the cove, just down from the Waterfront Park,” Linnette explained. “The complex next to the Holiday Inn Express.”

Corrie knew the apartment building, since she passed it nearly every day when she went for her afternoon walk. The building was close to the marina and a short distance from the library. The two-story complex had a fabulous water view of the cove and lighthouse, with the Bremerton shipyard in the distance. As far as Corrie was concerned, this was perfect.

“I hope they aren’t charging you an arm and a leg,” Roy cautioned, but Corrie could tell he was pleased.

“The rent, compared to what I was paying in Seattle, is a bargain.”

“Good.”

Roy was still protective of his little girl. Unfortunately, he had a difficult time expressing his feelings for his children—especially their son. Mack and his father were constantly at odds. In Corrie’s opinion, they were too much alike. Mack seemed to know exactly what to say to irritate Roy. And Roy wasn’t blameless, either; he seemed to go out of his way to find fault with their son. Because of the tension between them, they generally avoided each other. Corrie didn’t like it. Most of the time, she felt trapped in the middle. Thankfully that wasn’t the case with Linnette, who was two years older than her brother.

Linnette was talking about the apartment and the move-in date and her job at the clinic. Corrie nodded at the appropriate moments but only listened with half an ear. Roy returned to his work while Corrie walked back to her desk, Linnette following her. Read more

1105 Yakima Street

Sunshine splashed into the windows of the Bremerton waterfront café. Rachel Peyton sat in a booth, gazing out at the street and taking occasional sips of the apple juice she’d ordered. It was Friday, late afternoon, and she’d come here after work to meet a friend. She couldn’t stop thinking about her marriage to Bruce, wondering how it had disintegrated so fast. They’d gone from an impromptu wedding last December to separation less than ten months later. She turned her head to look in the direction of Cedar Cove. The town was situated on the other side of Sinclair Inlet but might as well have been across the Pacific.

Rachel felt she couldn’t go back home to Cedar Cove—to Yakima Street—and yet she had no other viable choice. She’d left after the latest argument with her stepdaughter, Jolene. Although Bruce was aware of the tension between her and Rachel, he’d never adequately addressed it, believing it would eventually resolve itself. Oh, sure, he’d made a halfhearted offer to go to counseling with, or more likely without, Jolene. But that was too little, too late. Nothing had changed, and, as a result, the stress in their home had become intolerable. Now that she was pregnant, Rachel had decided to leave…for the sake of her sanity and for her own health and that of her baby.

She’d lied to Bruce, saying she had a place to stay—with an unidentified friend. Instead, she’d checked into a Bremerton hotel.

The problem was, she needed her job if she was going to support herself, which meant she’d need to find an apartment in Cedar Cove or at least nearby. Everything was complicated by the fact that this hadn’t been an easy pregnancy. She had severe morning sickness and her blood pressure was dangerously high. That was understandable, considering the tension in the house. If not for the baby, Rachel might have found the strength to deal with Jolene. She might’ve been willing to devote all her energy to sorting out the complicated tangle of the girl’s emotions, giving her the constant reassurance she seemed to require.

Since Jolene had learned about the baby, the whole situation had become that much more difficult. Not only did her stepdaughter see her as competition for Bruce’s affections, but now Rachel had committed an even worse crime by bringing another child into the family, robbing the girl of his undivided attention.

What shocked Rachel was how close she and Jolene had been before she married Bruce. As a motherless child herself, Rachel had taken a special interest in Jolene, part maternal, part friendly. They’d bonded when the girl was just six, a year after Jolene’s mother was killed in a car accident. Bruce had brought Jolene into the salon for a haircut and Jolene had sadly told her how much she missed her mommy. Rachel had been drawn to the child because she’d identified with Jolene. She still recalled in vivid detail how she’d felt when her own mother had died and she’d gone to live with her mother’s sister, a woman she barely knew.

Through the years, the closeness between Rachel and Jolene had grown—until she’d made the mistake of marrying Jolene’s father. To be fair to the teenager, Jolene had wanted Rachel and Bruce to wait until she’d had time to get used to the idea. Bruce, however, wouldn’t hear of it. He’d wanted them married. Well, so did Rachel, although she’d asked Bruce to delay the wedding because of Jolene’s qualms. But by then…the momentum of their plans had taken over.

In the beginning, after first meeting Bruce, she hadn’t considered him anything more than a friend. He was Jolene’s dad. He relied on her help with his daughter. For years there hadn’t been the slightest indication of romantic interest on either part. Rachel was seeing Nate Olsen, a navy warrant officer she’d met after bidding on him at a fundraiser for the local humane society—the Dog and Bachelor Auction. Shortly after the wedding, Nate was deployed out of state, but now he was back. They’d been in contact recently and, in fact, he was the friend she’d arranged to meet here.

For a while she and Nate had seriously thought about marriage. However, by the time he’d asked her to make a decision, Rachel had come to realize she was in love with Bruce. Surprisingly, miraculously, Bruce loved her, too. From there everything had moved quickly. Too quickly…

She had to acknowledge the truth of that old cliche about marrying in haste. Rachel had been all too willing to accept Bruce’s assurances that Jolene would adjust. After all, he’d pointed out, it wasn’t as though Rachel was a stranger.

But Jolene hadn’t adjusted. Whatever affection she’d had for Rachel had changed into passive-aggressive behavior and then escalated to open antagonism. Not wanting to distress her husband, Rachel had done her best to deflect Jolene’s hostility. The pregnancy was unplanned, and she’d hoped to keep it a secret for a few months, but Bruce insisted it was only right to tell Jolene. That, too, had backfired. And it had led to this.

The café door opened but Rachel didn’t look up until Nate Olsen slid into the booth across from her.

“Rachel?”

She glanced up and offered him a weak smile.

Nate’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. “You okay?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“You don’t have to say it. I look terrible.”

“Not terrible,” he said. “Just…very pale.”

Nate had emailed her when he returned to Bremerton. He felt she should know so that if they inadvertently ran into each other, she’d be prepared. With everything else that was happening, Rachel hadn’t paid much attention to his email and hadn’t responded. Nate was someone she’d loved in the past. She was a married woman now.

With time on her hands at the hotel, she’d gone to the business center and logged on to her email account. She’d impulsively answered his message, telling him that her marriage was falling apart. After they’d exchanged a few short emails, Nate suggested they meet. She’d accepted his invitation.

“At my last doctor’s visit I learned I have an iron deficiency.” It didn’t help that she hadn’t been able to keep down a meal. Her morning sickness lingered for most of the day, making her feel too queasy and uncomfortable to eat. She’d lost weight when she should be gaining.

“I’m glad you got in touch.”

“I probably shouldn’t have.” Only Rachel didn’t know who else to contact. She couldn’t reach out to her friends; they were the first people Bruce would approach. This separation was difficult enough without dragging her friends into the middle of it.

“I meant what I said,” Nate continued. “If you ever need anything, call me. You know I’ll do whatever I can.”

When the waitress came over to the table with a coffeepot, Nate turned over his ceramic mug and she filled it.

At his words, tears of appreciation sprang to Rachel’s eyes. “I know.”

“What can I do?”

She wasn’t sure. “Like I said in my email, I…I’ve left Bruce and Jolene.” It went without saying that this fit right into her stepdaughter’s plans. Undoubtedly Jolene was ecstatic about having her father to herself again.

“So it’s come to that?”

Rachel’s dark hair fell forward as she looked down. “I…talked to Teri and she wants me to move in with her.”

“Are you going to?”

“I can’t. That’ll be the first place Bruce goes. I told him I was moving in with a friend…. At the time I thought I might take Teri up on her offer, but I can’t do that to her. She and Bobby have their hands full with the three babies.”

“Three?”

“Teri had triplets.”

Nate laughed. That seemed to be a common reaction when people heard about the triplets. “She always does everything in a big way, doesn’t she?” he murmured.

He knew Teri, so he also knew that if anyone could handle this, it was her friend. But capable though she was, Teri didn’t need a miserable friend to deal with, in addition to caring for three babies.

“So, if you don’t move in with Teri, where will you go?”

“I.I don’t know.” All that mattered was getting out of the house as fast as possible. She got a hotel room, but that was far too expensive to be a permanent solution. At this rate she’d drain her bank account in a week. Besides, it wouldn’t take Bruce long to discover where she was, and once he did, he’d do whatever he could to convince her to return home. Rachel couldn’t allow that to happen, not while the situation with Jolene was still unsettled.

Nate sipped his coffee in thoughtful silence. Eventually he said, “You could always move in with me.”

Rachel’s head shot up. That wasn’t even a consideration. If Bruce learned she was living with Nate he’d feel blindsided. Besides, it would give Jolene more ammunition to use against her. “I’m grateful for the offer, I really am, but I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“Nate, I couldn’t…. What would Bruce think?”

“Do you need to tell him?”

“I…” She opened her mouth to object, then merely said, “He’d want to know.”

“Of course he would, but you don’t have to tell him everything. The only important thing here is that you’re somewhere safe and that you’re taking care of yourself.”

Rachel stared at him. “Are you suggesting I lie to my husband?”

“Not lie, exactly. I’m saying don’t fill in all the blanks. As it happens, the house I’m sharing belongs to a friend of mine. I have a room, but there’s a third bedroom available. Unfortunately, Bob’s deployed right now, so it would just be the two of us. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I understand.”

She exhaled, feeling torn. His idea did seem like a good solution, but she could only imagine how Bruce would react if he discovered the truth. For obvious reasons, the two men weren’t on the best of terms.

“It might help you decide if I tell you I’m seeing someone.”

Actually, that did help. “Is it serious?” Rachel asked.

Nate shrugged. “Serious enough. I’m out with Emily three or four nights a week. You’d have the house to yourself most of the time.”

“What kind of rent does Bob charge?”

Nate mentioned an amount that was more than reasonable, then added, “You wouldn’t be expected to cook or clean or anything else if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh.” She nibbled her lower lip as she considered his suggestion. He’d given her an option she hadn’t expected.

“Before you answer, why don’t you come over and check out the place.”

Still, she hesitated.

“You want to get away for a while, don’t you?” She did, and Nate knew that. “Someplace where Bruce and his daughter would never think of looking?” She nodded slowly.

“Don’t worry about me,” Nate told her once again. “I loved you, Rachel, I really did, but I’ve moved on. However, I care about you, which is why I brought up this arrangement. If you’re concerned about what might result from the two of us being in the same house, then let me assure you right now, nothing’s going to happen.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go see the place.”

“Good.” He left money to pay for their drinks, then slid out of the booth.

Rachel stood and immediately felt dizzy. She would have stumbled if Nate hadn’t grabbed her elbow.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She closed her eyes and tried to remember. “A while ago. I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t. Listen, no arguments. Once you’ve toured the house, I’m fixing you something to eat.”

“You cook?”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember that I’m a man of many talents.”

His smile was just the salve she needed, his friendship the mainstay that would see her through this upheaval in her life.

She followed Nate to the Bremerton address he gave her. The house was in a nearby neighborhood, convenient to the navy base. The two-story structure, built after the Second World War, had a large front porch and shuttered windows. It was meant for a family.

Unexpected emotion swelled up inside Rachel as she looked at the house. Her mother had been a single parent and her aunt had never married. All her life Rachel had yearned to be part of a family. When she married Bruce, she’d felt as if she finally belonged. She had a husband and a stepdaughter and they were bonded together by love. It didn’t take long for that dream to shatter and now, once more, she was on the outside. . The baby stirred, and she pressed her palm against her stomach, hoping her child would one day know the love of a father, a mother and a big sister.

“Would you like to come in?” Nate asked, again clasping her elbow as though he feared she might crumple onto the pavement.

Without answering, she accompanied him up the walkway to the steps.

“I do my best to keep the place neat, but you have to remember I’m a guy and housekeeping is low on my priority list.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, managing a glimmer of a smile. Read more

44 Cranberry Point

Peggy Beldon walked into her newly planted garden, taking real pleasure in the sights and smells that surrounded her. This was her private place, her one true source of serenity. The fresh briny scent of the water off Puget Sound drifted toward her as she watched the Washington State ferry glide from Bremerton toward Seattle on its sixty-minute journey. This was a typical May afternoon in Cedar Cove—comfortably warm with just a hint of a breeze.

Peggy uncoiled the garden hose and moved carefully between the rows of leaf lettuce, sweet peas and pole beans. She had a strong practical streak, expressed in her vegetable and herb gardens; she satisfied her craving for beauty with the flower gardens in front. Looking back at the house that always had been her dream, Peggy smiled. She’d grown up in Cedar Cove, graduated from the local high school and married Bob Beldon on his return from Vietnam. The early years had been difficult because of Bob’s reliance on alcohol. But then, to her eternal gratitude, he’d discovered Alcoholics Anonymous; it had saved their marriage and quite possibly Bob’s life. Until AA, Bob had spent most nights drinking, by himself or with friends. When he drank, he became a different person, no longer the man she’d married. She didn’t like to think about that time. Thankfully, her husband had remained sober for twenty-one years.

Walking between the rows, Peggy gently watered the seedlings. Several years earlier, Bob had accepted early retirement and with the severance package, they’d purchased the house on Cranberry Point. Peggy had loved it for as long as she could remember. Situated on a point of land overlooking Sinclair Inlet, the two-story structure, built in the late 1930s, had seemed like a mansion to her. Over the years, it had changed owners a number of times and had started to deteriorate, since no one had cared enough to provide the maintenance it needed. By straining their finances, Bob and Peggy had managed to buy it for a price far below its current market value.

Her husband was a talented handyman and within a few months they were able to hang out a sign for their Bed and Breakfast. Peggy hadn’t known how much business to expect, how many guests would be attracted to the Thyme and Tide B and B, as they’d called it. She’d hoped, of course, that they’d make enough to supplement their retirement income— and they had. She was proud of the success they’d achieved. Their traditional home, warm hospitality and her cooking had brought them steady customers and a growing reputation. They’d even been reviewed in a national magazine, which had reserved its highest praise for the food, especially her baking. The reviewer had spent two whole sentences describing her blueberry muffins and homemade fruit cobbler. She had twenty blueberry bushes and eight raspberry canes, and she pampered them lovingly. Each summer she was rewarded with an ample supply for her guests and her family. Life had seemed about as perfect as it could get.

Then the unimaginable happened.

More than a year ago, a stranger had knocked on their door in the middle of a dark, stormy night. If it hadn’t been so clichéd she might’ve been amused, but this was no laughing matter. The man had rented a room and then promptly locked himself inside.

A hundred times since, Peggy had regretted not insisting he complete the usual paperwork. It was late, and he’d seemed so tired that they’d simply shown him to his room. They could deal with the necessities in the morning, over breakfast.

But by morning, the stranger was dead.

Ever since, Peggy had felt as if they were caught in some kind of whirlwind, tossed about by forces beyond their control. Bad enough that the man had died in their home, but then they’d learned that he’d carried false identification. Nothing was as it seemed. By the end of that day, after hours with the sheriff and the coroner, there’d been more questions than answers.

She saw Bob pull the riding lawn mower out of the garage. At the sound of the engine, Peggy paused in watering her seedlings, one hand shading her eyes. Even after all these years of marriage, she never grew tired of their life together. They’d survived the bad times with their love intact. And their attraction, too. Bob was tall and had kept his shape, his sandy brown hair neatly trimmed. His arms were already tanned from exposure to the sun. He loved his workshop and she was genuinely impressed by what he could do with a few pieces of oak or pine. She’d fallen in love with Bob Beldon as a teenager and she loved him still.

Now, however, she was worried. She didn’t want to think about the dead man, but it was unavoidable, especially after what they’d recently found out. Sheriff Davis had identified their mystery guest as Maxwell Russell. To say Bob was shocked would be putting it mildly. He’d been with Max in Vietnam. Dan Sherman, who was also dead, Bob, Max and another man named Stewart Samuels had belonged to that squadron. They’d gotten lost in a Southeast Asian jungle with tragic results.

Once the identity of the dead man was established, another shocking revelation had come to light. The sheriff, with the help of local private investigator Roy McAfee, had discovered that Max Russell’s death was no accident.

He’d been poisoned.

The water bottle he’d carried with him had been laced with odorless, tasteless Rohypnol, commonly known as the “date rape” drug. The dose had been large enough to stop his heart. Maxwell Russell had gone to bed, tired from a long day of travel, and he never woke up.

Bob rode past her on the lawn mower with a quick wave, and Peggy continued to water her garden, but a pang went through her. At this very moment Bob could be in danger, but he seemed content to ignore any risk rather than admit her concerns were legitimate.

As she set aside the hose, Peggy caught sight of Sheriff Davis’s patrol car coming down Cranberry Point. She immediately felt the tension between her shoulder blades. She hoped he planned to talk some sense into Bob.

Her husband must have seen the patrol car at the same time Peggy did because he cut the engine and climbed off the lawn mower. Sheriff Troy Davis turned into the driveway, then stepped out of his vehicle. In the beginning, when it looked like Bob might be a suspect in the murder case, Davis wasn’t nearly as welcome here as he was now.

The sheriff, who was probably a little heavier than he should be, took a moment to hike up his pants and adjust his gun before heading across the lawn to meet Bob. Unwilling to be left out of the conversation, Peggy shut off the water and hurried across the half-mown grass.

“Peggy.” Davis touched the brim of his hat and nodded in her direction. “I was just telling Bob it might be a good idea if the three of us sat down and talked.”

Peggy nodded in return, appreciating the fact that he wanted to include her.

Bob led the way to the patio, and Peggy was grateful she’d taken time that morning to sweep it off. The three of them sat at the round pine table Bob had built several years earlier. He’d painted it a deep gray-blue, a color that complemented the white siding. The striped umbrella was up and the patio was awash in sunshine.

“I thought I’d update you on my conversation with Hannah Russell.”

A couple of months earlier, after Max’s identity had been uncovered, his daughter had asked to meet with Bob and Peggy. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, but Peggy’s heart had ached for the young woman. She’d answered Hannah’s questions to the best of her ability.

For her part, there was little Hannah could tell them. All she knew was what her father had told her—he was taking a short trip, although he hadn’t divulged where. That was the last she’d heard. When he didn’t return to California, she’d filed a missing persons report with the police. A year had passed before she learned his fate.

“I feel so bad for her,” Peggy said. Hannah had lost her mother some time before and was now an orphan with no other family.

“She was pretty upset,” Troy admitted. “You can imagine how painful it was to learn her father was dead. But to discover he’d been murdered…” He shook his head.

“Did she have any idea who might’ve done this?”

“None,” Davis told them. “She asked me to thank you for your kindness. Talking with you helped her resolve in her own mind what happened to her father. Peggy, she mentioned the letter you wrote, and I could tell it meant a great deal to her.”

Peggy bit her lip. “How’s she getting on with her life?”

The sheriff hesitated. “I can’t really say. She said she no longer has any reason to stay in California and implied that she’s thinking of moving. I asked her to keep in touch and she promised she would.”

Peggy could understand the young woman’s feelings. With both of her parents gone, Hannah was rootless. Peggy sympathized with her desire to leave the area where she’d grown up, where she was surrounded by so many memories. Every place she turned, every place she looked, Hannah must be reminded of the parents she’d loved.

“What did you find out about Colonel Samuels?” Bob asked, eyes narrowed as he gazed at Troy Davis.

Stewart Samuels was the fourth man in Vietnam with Bob and Dan and Max. Peggy knew the sheriff had recently been in contact with him. The colonel had been cleared in Max’s murder, at least as far as Davis was concerned, but her husband obviously had doubts. While Bob and the other two were eager to be discharged, back in the early seventies, Samuels had stayed in the Army and risen through the ranks.

“At this point I don’t consider the colonel a suspect.”

“He’s some mucky-muck in Army Intelligence from what I hear,” Bob muttered, as if that should be motive enough.

“Who lives in the Washington, D.C., area,” Sheriff Davis stated calmly. “I’ve had him checked out by a number of people. He’s highly respected. He’s been cooperative and willing to help in any way he can. Perhaps you should talk to him yourself, Bob.”

Her husband declined with a sharp shake of his head. Bob wanted as little to do with the past as possible. Coping with what had happened to Dan, who’d committed suicide, and to Max, had been hard enough. The less he had to think about the past, or its effect on the present, the better.

“Is Bob in danger?” Peggy asked bluntly. Her husband might prefer not to acknowledge the likelihood of a threat, but Peggy wanted a realistic assessment of their situation.

“I think he might be at risk,” the sheriff said quietly.

It wasn’t what Peggy had hoped to hear, but she was grateful for his frankness. They had to face the truth, however unpleasant, and take appropriate precautions.

“Nonsense,” Bob insisted. “If anyone wanted me dead, I’d be six feet under by now.”

Maybe, but Peggy wasn’t willing to take chances with her husband’s life.

“Why don’t we arrange an extended vacation?” she suggested. It’d been years since they’d been away from the Bed and Breakfast, and they could use a break.

“For how long?” Bob asked.

“Until the case is solved,” Peggy told him, pleading with her eyes. This wasn’t the time to put on a brave front—not in her opinion, anyway.

“No way.” Bob’s quick refusal shouldn’t have come as any surprise. He’d been quite content to live in denial. Denial and featherbeds! Someone had to point out the very real possibility that he was in danger and because he was, so was she.

“I’m not leaving Cedar Cove.”

“Now, Bob…”

“I won’t let anyone or anything drive me out of my own home.”

A chill shot up Peggy’s spine. “But—”

“No, Peg,” he said, and his face hardened with resolve. “How long are we supposed to stay away? One month? Two?” He paused. “More than that?”

It wasn’t a question Troy could answer.

“Max was found dead over a year ago. I was supposedly in danger then, right?”

Sheriff Davis exchanged a concerned look with Peggy. “I understand what you’re saying, but we didn’t know then what we know now.”

“I’m not running! I spent half my life running, and I won’t do it again. If somebody wants me dead, then so be it.”

Peggy gasped.

“I’m sorry, honey,” her husband said, stretching his arm across the table to clasp her fingers with his. “I refuse to live like that, looking over my shoulder all the time.”

“Then perhaps you could compromise,” Davis said. “There’s no need to invite someone into your home who might want to harm you.”

“What do you mean?” Bob leaned closer, his stomach pressed against the rounded edge of the pinewood table. Peggy realized that despite his defiant words he was afraid. His body language revealed what he was unwilling to admit.

“I don’t know how many reservations you have for the B and B, but I’d advise you to not take any more.”

“We can easily cancel the ones we have,” Peggy murmured. Any number of businesses in town would welcome the additional bookings.

Bob directed his gaze at Peggy. “Would that make you more comfortable?”

She swallowed and nodded.

Bob continued to look unsure, as if even this one concession was more than he felt inclined to make.

“I’ve been worried ever since Jack and Olivia’s wedding,” she whispered.

A week earlier, Bob had stood up as Jack Griffin’s best man. That was just a day or two before they’d learned Max Russell had been murdered.

“All right.” Bob’s voice was heavy with reluctance. “We’ll cancel the reservations.”

“No guests,” Peggy said.

“No guests,” he confirmed, “until this matter is settled once and for all.”

This was going to hurt financially, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was having the reassurance that her husband was safe.

“I’ll do what I can to solve this quickly,” Troy promised them.

Peggy could only wonder how long that would take. Read more

6 Rainier Drive

Justine Gunderson woke suddenly from a deep sleep, with the vague sense that something was wrong. A moment later, she remembered, and an intense sadness pressed down upon her. Lying on her back, she stared up at the dark ceiling as the realization hit her yet again. The Lighthouse, the restaurant she and Seth had poured their lives into, was gone. Gone. It had burned to the ground a week ago, in a blazing fire that lit up the night sky for miles around Cedar Cove. A fire started by an unidentified arsonist.

Without bothering to look, Justine knew her husband wasn’t in bed with her. Only a week had passed since the fire, but it felt like a month, a year, a lifetime. She didn’t think Seth had slept more than three or four hours at a stretch since that shocking phone call.

Folding back the sheet, she climbed slowly out of bed. It was barely four, according to the digital readout on the clock radio. Moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains, creating patterns on the bedroom walls. Justine slipped her arms into the sleeves of her robe and went in search of her husband.

As she’d suspected, she found him in the living room, pacing. He moved ceaselessly, his angry strides taking him from the fireplace to the window and back. When he saw her, he continued to walk, looking away as though he couldn’t face her. She could tell he didn’t want her near him. She barely recognized this man her husband had become since news of the fire.

“Can’t you sleep?” she asked, whispering for fear of waking their four-year-old son. Leif was a light sleeper and although he was too young to understand what had happened, the child intuitively knew his parents were upset.

“I want to find out who did this and why.” Fists clenched, Seth turned on her as if she should be able to tell him.

Tucking her long, straight hair behind her ears, Justine sank into the rocker in which she’d once nursed their son. “I do, too,” she told him. She’d never seen Seth this restless. Her strikingly blond husband was of Swedish extraction, a big man, nearly six-six, with broad shoulders to match. He’d been a commercial fisherman until soon after their marriage. That was when they’d decided to open the restaurant. The Lighthouse had been Seth’s dream, and with financial assistance from his parents, he’d invested everything—his skill, his emotions, their finances—in this venture. Justine had been at his side every step of the way.

In the beginning, while Leif was an infant, she’d kept the books and handled the payroll. When their son grew old enough for preschool, she’d assumed a more active role, working as hostess and filling in where needed.

“Who would do this?” he demanded again.

The answer eluded her just as it did him. Why anyone would want to hurt them was beyond her comprehension. They had no enemies that she knew of and no serious rivals. It was hard to believe they’d been the target of a random firebug, but maybe that was the case. So far, there’d been little real progress in tracking down the arsonist.

“Seth,” she whispered gently, stretching her hand toward him. “You can’t go on like this.”

He didn’t respond, and Justine realized he hadn’t heard her. She longed to ease his mind, to reassure him. Her fear was that the fire had destroyed more than the restaurant. It had stolen Seth’s peace of mind, his purpose and, in some ways, his innocence.

He’d lost faith in the goodness of others and confidence in his own abilities.

Justine’s innocence had been devastated one bright summer afternoon in 1986, when her twin brother, Jordan, had drowned. Justine had held his lifeless body in her arms until the paramedics arrived. She’d been in shock, unable to grasp that her brother, her twin, was gone. He’d broken his neck after a careless dive off a floating dock.

Her entire world had forever changed that day. Her parents divorced shortly afterward and her father had quickly remarried. To all outward appearances, Justine had adjusted to the upheaval in her life. She’d graduated from high school, finished college and found employment at First National Bank, then risen to branch manager. Although she’d had no intention of ever marrying, she’d been dating Warren Saget, a local builder who was the same age as her mother. Then she’d met Seth Gunderson at their ten-year high-school reunion.

Seth had been her brother’s best friend. She’d always felt that if Seth had been with Jordan that day, her brother might still be alive, and her own life would’ve been different—although she wasn’t sure exactly how. It was ridiculous to entertain such thoughts; she recognized that on a conscious level. And yet… it was what she believed.

All through high school she’d barely spoken to Seth. He was the football hero, the class jock. She was the class brain. And never the twain had met until that night nearly six years ago, when she’d run into him at the reunion planning meeting. Seth had casually mentioned that he’d had a crush on her during their high-school days. The look in his eyes told her he’d found her beautiful then and even more so now.

They hadn’t experienced an easy courtship. Warren Saget hadn’t wanted to lose her and made a concerted effort to pressure her into marrying him. He’d instinctively understood that Seth was a major threat. Warren bought Justine the largest diamond she’d ever seen, promising a life of luxury and social prominence if she agreed to be his wife.

All Seth had to offer Justine was a twenty-year-old live-aboard sailboat—and his love. By that time, she was so head-over-heels crazy about him that she could scarcely breathe. Still, she struggled, unwilling to listen to her own heart. Then, one day, she couldn’t resist him anymore….

“I’m calling the fire marshal this morning,” Seth muttered, breaking into her thoughts. “I want answers.”

“Seth,” she tried again. “Honey, why—”

“Don’t honey me,” he snapped.

Justine flinched at the rage in his voice.

“It’s been a full week. They should have some information by now, only they’re not telling us. There’s something they don’t want me to know and I’m going to find out what. If I have to bring Roy McAfee in, I will!” He looked directly at her then, probably for the first time since she’d entered the room.

“Seth, I like and trust Roy,” she said, referring to the town’s only private investigator, “but the fire department’s already investigating. So is the insurance company. Let them do their jobs,” Justine said in a soft voice. “Let the sheriff do his.”

Splaying his fingers though his hair, he released a slow breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”

“I know.” Justine got up and walked into his arms, pressing her body against his, urging him to relax. “Come back to bed and try to sleep,” she said.

He shook his head. “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is The Lighthouse going up in smoke.”

Seth had arrived a few minutes after the fire trucks and stood by helplessly as the restaurant, engulfed in flames, had quickly become a lost cause.

“I can’t believe it was Anson Butler,” Justine said, thinking out loud. She’d liked the boy and had trusted him—which, according to her friends and neighbors, had been a mistake.

“You don’t want to believe it’s him,” her husband returned, the anger back in the clipped harshness of his words.

That was true. Seth had hired Anson several months earlier. The teenager was paying off court expenses because of a fire he’d set in the city park. He’d had no explanation for why he’d burned down the toolshed. All Justine really knew were the few details Seth had divulged at the time he’d taken the boy on.

To his credit, Anson had turned himself in to the authorities and accepted full responsibility for his actions. That had impressed her husband, and on the recommendation of their accountant and friend, Zachary Cox, who’d become something of a mentor to the boy, Seth had agreed to give Anson a job.

At first the teenager had made an effort to prove his worth. He’d shown up early for his shifts and put in extra hours, eager to please his employer. Then within a few weeks, everything had fallen apart. Tony, another dishwasher, had taken a dislike to Anson and the two had exchanged words. From what she understood, they’d also gotten into a shoving match once or twice. As a result of their animosity, the tension in the kitchen had increased. Seth had talked it over with Justine and she’d suggested they separate the two boys. Seth decided to make Anson a prep cook. Tony didn’t like the idea of Anson getting a promotion, while he’d been on staff longer and remained a dishwasher.

Then money had gone missing from the office and, although others had access to the money box, both Tony and Anson had been seen entering the room. When questioned, Anson claimed he’d been looking for Seth because a supplier had a problem. Tony insisted he needed to talk to Seth about his schedule. Both boys were suspects, so Seth felt he had no choice but to lay them both off. The money was never recovered. Seth blamed himself because he’d left the safe open, lockbox inside, while he was briefly out of the office.

A week later, The Lighthouse had burned to the ground.

“We don’t have any proof it was Anson,” Justine reminded her husband.

“We’ll get proof. Whether he’s the culprit or somebody else is. We’ll find whoever did this.” Seth’s hard mouth was set with determination and his body tensed.

“Try to sleep,” she urged again. Despite his reluctance, she led him back to their bedroom.

Together they slipped under the sheets and she moved her body close to his. Seth lay on his back, eyes open, as she slid her leg over his and draped her arm across his powerful chest. He held her tight, as if she were the only solid thing left in a world that had started to crumble. Kissing his neck, Justine purred in his ear, hoping that if they made love, the restlessness in him would ease and he’d be able to relax. But Seth shook his head, rejecting her subtle offer. She swallowed down the hurt and tried not to take it personally. All of this would be over soon, she told herself; soon everything would be back to normal. Justine had to believe it. Without that hope, despair would encroach, which was something she had to avoid at any cost. She fought to maintain a positive outlook, for her husband’s sake and for the sake of her marriage.

When Justine woke again, it was morning and Leif was climbing onto her bed, wanting breakfast. Penny, their cocker spaniel-poodle mix, followed him, eyeing the bed.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked, sitting upright, rubbing her hand tiredly over her face.

Her son dragged his teddy bear onto the bed, blue eyes soulful. “In his office.”

That wasn’t a good sign.

“It’s time we got you ready for school,” Justine said briskly, glancing at the clock. Quarter to eight already. Leif’s preschool class was held every morning, and even though their own schedules had fallen apart, Justine and Seth had done their best to keep Leif’s timetable consistent.

“Daddy’s mad again,” the four-year-old whispered.

Justine sighed. This was almost a daily occurrence, and she worried about the effect of so much tension on their son, who couldn’t possibly understand why Daddy was mad or Mommy sometimes cried.

“Did he growl at you?” Justine asked, then roared like a grizzly bear, shaping her hands into make-believe claws. With Penny barking cheerfully, she crawled across the mattress after her son, distracting him from worries about his father.

Leif shrieked and scrambled off the bed, racing for his bedroom. Justine followed and laughingly cornered the boy. Leif’s eyes flashed with delight as she set out his clothes. He insisted on getting dressed on his own these days, so she let him.

After saying a perfunctory goodbye to her husband, Justine delivered Leif to preschool. When she pulled back into the driveway, Seth came out the door to greet her. The April sky was overcast, and rain was imminent. The weather was a perfect reflection of their mood, Justine thought. A sunny day would’ve seemed incongruous when they both felt so fearful and angry.

“I talked to the fire marshal,” her husband announced as she got out of her car.

“Did he have any news?”

Seth’s frown darkened. “Nothing he was willing to tell me. The insurance adjuster’s taking his own sweet time, too.” Read more

74 Seaside Avenue

Late Thursday afternoon, Teri Polgar went to the grocery store. Roaming the air-conditioned aisles, she decided to make her specialty—a macaroni-and-cheese casserole—for dinner that night. Some might consider it more of a winter meal, not really suitable for the middle of July, but Teri liked it any time of year. And Bobby—well, Bobby was hardly aware of what season it was, or for that matter, what time of day.

When she got home, she found her husband in front of a chessboard, deep in concentration. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the board was set up on the kitchen table and her younger brother was sitting across from him. Two out-of-the-ordinary occurrences.

Johnny grinned sheepishly when she walked in with her bag of groceries. “I came by for a quick visit and Bobby insisted on teaching me,” he explained.

Bobby mumbled something, probably an acknowledgment of her presence. He often muttered to himself, lost in his own world of chess moves and strategies. To say her husband was a bit unconventional would be an understatement. Bobby Polgar was an international chess sensation, one of the top-ranked players in the world.

“How’s it going?” Teri asked as she set the groceries on the counter.

Johnny answered with a good-natured shrug.”Haven’t got a clue. Ask Bobby.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, moving to her husband’s side of the table. Slipping her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek.

Bobby’s hand squeezed hers and he looked across at Johnny. “Always protect your queen,” he advised her brother, who nodded patiently.

“Can you stay for dinner?” she asked Johnny. A visit from him, especially on a weekday, was a pleasant surprise. Teri was proud of Johnny, but she also felt protective of him. That was only natural, she supposed, because she’d practically raised him herself. Her family—like Bobby, was unconventional—but in a completely different way. At last count, her mother had been married six times. Or was it seven? Teri had lost count.

Her sister was more like her mother than Teri had ever been, but at least Christie was smart enough not to marry the losers who walked in and out of her life. Not that Teri was exempt from some of life’s painful lessons herself. Particularly those that fell into the category of men-whouse-and-abuse.

Teri still had a hard time believing Bobby Polgar could love her. She worked in a hair and nail salon and considered herself the farthest thing from an intellectual. Bobby always said she had a real-world intelligence, practical and intuitive rather than cerebral, like his. She loved him for saying that and was even starting to believe it. In fact, she loved everything about him. The happiness she felt was still new to her and it actually frightened her a little.

She had reasons to be concerned, real-world reasons, she thought wryly, although she made light of them. who looked like they belonged in an episode of The Sopranos. They had gangster written all over them. They hadn’t really done anything, though, other than scare her for a few minutes.

Teri wasn’t sure what that was all about. Apparently these goons had been sent as a warning to Bobby. The message seemed to be that their boss, whoever he was, could get to her at any time. Fat chance of that! Teri was street-smart and she’d learned how to take care of herself, although she had to admit those two had given her pause.

If Bobby knew who was responsible for the threat against her, he wasn’t saying. But she’d noticed that her husband hadn’t played in a single tournament since she’d been approached by those men.

“I gotta get back,” Johnny said in answer to her question about dinner.

“Just stay for another couple of hours,” she wheedled.

“I’m making my special macaroni-and-cheese casserole.” That would entice her brother like nothing else. It was his favorite dish.

“Checkmate,” Bobby said triumphantly, apparently unaware of the conversation around him.

“Is there a way out of this?” Johnny asked, returning his attention to the chessboard.

Bobby shook his head. “Nope. You’re in the Black Hole.”

“The what?” Teri and Johnny said simultaneously. “The Black Hole,” Bobby told them. “Once a player finds him or herself in this set of circumstances, it’s impossible to win.”

Johnny shrugged. “Then there’s nothing left to do but concede.” He laid down his king and sighed. “Really, there was never any doubt as to the outcome of this game.”

“You play well for a beginner,” Bobby told him.

Teri ruffled her younger brother’s hair, despite knowing how much he hated it. “Consider that a compliment.”

Johnny smiled. “I will.” He pushed back his chair and looked at Teri. “Ter, don’t you think it’s time you introduced Bobby to Mom and Christie?”

Bobby turned from Johnny to Teri and innocently said, “I would like to meet your family.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” She immediately busied herself unpacking the groceries. She set the cottage cheese—an essential ingredient in her macaroni recipe—on the counter, along with a box of Velveeta cheese.

“Mom asked me about you and Bobby,” her brother informed her.

“Is she still with Donald?” This was the latest husband. Teri had purposely avoided any discussion of her family with Bobby. They hadn’t been married long and she hated to disillusion him so soon. Once he met the family, he might well have serious doubts about her, and the truth was, she wouldn’t blame him.

“Things are shaky.” Johnny glanced over at Bobby.

“Donald has sort of a drinking problem.”

“Donald!” Teri cried. “What about Mom?”

“She’s cutting back.” Johnny had always been quick to defend their mother.

Donald had showed promise in the beginning. Apparently he and her mother had met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Unfortunately, they’d quickly gone from supporting each other in sobriety to becoming drinking buddies. Neither of them could hold a job for long. How they survived financially, Teri didn’t know. She had no intention of assisting them the way she did Johnny. It went without saying that any money she gave them would immediately go toward another bottle of booze or another night at their local bar.

Crossing her arms, Teri leaned against the kitchen counter. “Mom’s cutting back? Yeah, right.”

“Even so, you should have Christie over to meet Bobby.” He turned toward him. “Christie’s our sister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you have a sister?” Bobby asked. He seemed perplexed that Teri had never mentioned Christie. He knew about her, of course, because he’d had Teri’s background checked—a fact he’d revealed in his usual dispassionate way.

She had her reasons for not mentioning her younger sister and Johnny knew it. She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t talk to me about Christie, okay?”

“What is it with you and her?” Johnny grumbled.

“You’re too young to understand all the details,” she said, brushing aside his question. She and Christie were, for all intents and purposes, estranged, although Teri maintained a superficial civility on public occasions.

“Come on, Ter, you and Bobby are married. He should meet the family.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t want me to meet your family?” Bobby gazed up at her with a hurt expression. He didn’t realize that this conversation had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her mother and sister.

“Yes, I do…someday.” She gently patted Bobby’s arm.

“I thought we’d get settled in the house before I invited them.”

“We are settled.” Bobby gestured around him at the gleaming appliances and polished oak floors.

“Not that settled. We’ll have them over in a while.” She was thinking four or five years—longer if she could get away with it.

“Mom and Christie would really like to meet Bobby,” Johnny said again.

Now Teri understood why her younger brother had shown up at the house unannounced. He’d been sent as an emissary by their mother and Christie. His mission was to pave the way for an introduction to the rich and famous Bobby Polgar, who’d been foolish enough to marry her.

“They’ll have to meet him sooner or later,” Johnny said with perfect logic. “You can’t avoid it forever, you know.”

“I know.” Teri released a slow sigh.

“Might as well be now.”

Teri could see that she wasn’t going to escape the dreaded family gathering, so she’d simply take Johnny’s advice. “Okay, okay, I’ll have everyone over for dinner.”

“Great.” Johnny gave her a wide grin.

“I’ll regret it afterward,” she muttered under her breath.

“Why?” Bobby asked, obviously still perplexed by her reaction.

She hardly knew how to explain. “Are your mother and sister like you?” “No way!” Teri had done everything possible to make choices that didn’t resemble theirs—with only partial success. While it was true that she never drank to excess, she’d made more than one mistake in the relationship department. Until she met Bobby…

“I’ll like them, won’t I?” Bobby asked next, smiling at her with childlike faith.

She responded with a noncommital shrug. Her mother and sister were similar to each other in their behavior and their loser attitudes, although Teri didn’t think Christie had a drinking problem so much as a man problem. Put a man in front of her, any man, and she couldn’t resist.

“Is Christie still with…” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the last man her sister had been living with.

“Charlie,” Johnny supplied.

“I thought it was Toby.”

“He’s the one before Charlie,” her brother said. “And no, Charlie dumped her last month.”

Oh, great. That meant her sister was on the prowl. This scenario couldn’t get much worse.

“Christie will make a play for Bobby,” she said. Johnny shook his head firmly. “No, she won’t.You two are married.”

“Why would that stop her? It hasn’t before. Trust me, she’ll make a play—”

“Christie likes chess?” Bobby interrupted excitedly. Clearly he didn’t grasp the exchange going on between Teri and her brother. “No, Bobby. But my sister will think you’re the most brilliant, handsomest man in the world.”

Bobby grinned. “Like you do.”

Despite her agitation, Teri nodded. “Only more so,” she said grimly. “You’re jealous,” Johnny accused her.

“Not Teri,” Bobby said, getting up from the table. “She knows I love her.”

Teri wrapped her arms around Bobby and hugged him close. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For loving me.”

“That’s easy,” Bobby assured her.

“Listen, you two lovebirds, I wish I could stay but I’ve got to get back. I have a research paper that’s due tomorrow.” With Teri’s encouragement, Johnny was taking a summer course to get a head start on the next school year. He pushed back his chair and stood. “So you’ll get in touch with Mom?”

“I suppose.” Teri sighed, already resigned to the inevitable.

“Christie, too,” her brother insisted. “She is our sister.”

“Mark my words. Bobby won’t be safe with her around.” And neither will my marriage, she thought darkly.

Teri hated to disparage their sister. But experience told her exactly what to expect. Sure as anything, Christie would throw herself at Bobby. The fact that he was married wouldn’t matter. Not to Christie. Every boyfriend Teri’d ever had, her sister had attempted to seduce. Bobby wouldn’t be the exception, and because he was her husband, Christie would probably consider him an especially worthwhile challenge.

Poor Bobby. He had no idea. He’d certainly never encountered a family like hers.

“Next weekend?” Johnny asked hopefully.

“No,” Teri said. She needed time to prepare herself for this. “Give me a week to get organized. Two weeks from Saturday.”

If Johnny was disappointed by the delay, it didn’t show. “See you then,” he said and kissed her cheek on his way out the door.

Bobby slid his arm around her shoulders. Teri reminded herself yet again that she loved her husband and he loved her. Despite that, she couldn’t entirely quell her fears.

While Bobby Polgar was unlike any man she’d ever known, he was still a man. He’d be just as susceptible to Christie’s beauty and her undeniable charm as every other boyfriend she’d had.

“I’m happy to be meeting your family,” Bobby said after Johnny had left.

Smiling proved difficult. Poor Bobby, she thought again. He didn’t know what he was letting himself in for. Read more

The Inn at Rose Harbor

Last night I dreamed of Paul.

He’s never far from my thoughts—not a day passes when he isn’t with me—but he hasn’t been in my dreams until now. It’s ironic, I suppose, that he should leave me, because before I close my eyes I fantasize about what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around me. As I drift off to sleep I pretend that my head is resting on his shoulder. Unfortunately, I will never have the chance to be with my husband again, at least not in this lifetime.

Until last night, if I did happen to dream of Paul, those dreams were long forgotten by the time I woke. This dream, however, stayed with me, lingering in my mind, filling me with equal parts sadness and joy.

When I first learned that Paul had been killed, the grief had been all-consuming, and I didn’t think I would be able to go on. Yet life continues to move forward, and so have I, dragging from one day into the next until I found I could breathe normally.

I’m in my new home now, the bed-and-breakfast I bought less than a month ago on the Kitsap Peninsula in a cozy town on the water called Cedar Cove. I decided to name it Rose Harbor Inn. “Rose” for Paul Rose, my husband of less than a year; the man I will always love and for whom I will grieve for whatever remains of my own life. “Harbor” for the place I have set my anchor as the storms of loss batter me.

How melodramatic that sounds, and yet there’s no other way to say it. Although I am alive, functioning normally, at times I feel half dead. How Paul would hate hearing me say that, but it’s true. I died with Paul last April on some mountainside in a country half a world away as he fought for our nation’s security.

Life as I knew it was over in the space of a single heartbeat. My future as I dreamed it would be was stolen from me.

All the advice given to those who grieve said I should wait a year before making any major decisions. My friends told me I would regret quitting my job, leaving my Seattle home, and moving to a strange town.

What they didn’t understand was that I found no comfort in familiarity, no joy in routine. Because I valued their opinion, I gave it six months. In that time nothing helped, nothing changed. More and more I felt the urge to get away, to start life anew, certain that then and only then would I find peace, and this horrendous ache inside me ease.

I started my search for a new life on the Internet, looking in a number of areas, all across the United States. The surprise was finding exactly what I wanted in my own backyard.

The town of Cedar Cove sits on the other side of Puget Sound from Seattle. It’s a navy town, situated directly across from the Bremerton shipyard. The minute I found a property listing for this charming bed-and-breakfast that was up for sale, my heart started to beat at an accelerated rate. Me own a bed-and-breakfast? I hadn’t thought to take over a business, but instinctively I realized I would need something to fill my time. As a bonus, a confirmation, I’d always enjoyed having guests.

With its wraparound porch and incredible view of the cove, the house was breathtaking. In another life I could imagine Paul and me sitting on the porch after dinner, sipping hot coffee and discussing our day, our dreams. Surely the photograph posted on the Internet had been taken by a professional who’d cleverly masked its flaws. Nothing, it seemed, could be this perfect.

Not so. The moment I pulled into the driveway with the real estate agent, I was embraced by the inn’s appeal. Oh yes, with its bright natural light and large windows that overlooked the cove, this B&B felt like home already. It was the perfect place for starting my new life.

Although I dutifully let Jody McNeal, the agent, show me around, not a single question remained in my mind. I was meant to own this bed-and-breakfast; it was as if it’d sat on the market all these months waiting for me. It had eight guest rooms spread across the two upper floors, and on the bottom floor a large, modern kitchen was situated next to a spacious dining room. Originally built in the early 1900s, the house looked out on a stunning panorama of the water and marina. Cedar Cove was laid out below along Harbor Street, which wound through the town with small shops on both sides of the street. I felt the town’s appeal even before I had the opportunity to explore its neighborhoods.

What attracted me most about the inn was the sense of peace I experienced the moment I walked inside. The heartache that had been my constant companion seemed to lift. The grief that I’d carried with me all these months eased. In its place came serenity, a peace that’s difficult to describe.

Unfortunately, this contentment didn’t last long, my eyes suddenly flooding with tears and embarrassing me as we finished the tour. Paul would have loved this inn, too. But I would be managing the inn alone. Thankfully the real estate agent pretended not to notice the emotions I was struggling to disguise.

“Well, what do you think?” Jody asked expectantly as we walked out the front door.

I hadn’t said a word during the entire tour, nor had I asked a single question. “I’ll take it.”

Jody leaned closer as if she hadn’t heard me correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to make an offer.” I didn’t hesitate—by that time I had no doubts. The asking price was more than fair and I was ready to move forward.

Jody almost dropped a folder full of detailed information regarding the property. “You might want to think about it,” she suggested. “This is a major decision, Jo Marie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m eager to make the sale; it’s just that I’ve never had anyone make such an important decision so . . . quickly.”

“I’ll think about it overnight, if you want, but there’s no need. I knew right away that this is it.”

The instant my family heard that I intended to quit my job at Columbia Bank and buy the B&B, they all tried to talk me out of it, especially my brother, Todd, the engineer. I’d worked my way up to assistant manager of the Denny Way branch, and he feared I was throwing away a promising career. Todd knew that I would eventually be named manager. I had given almost fifteen years to the bank, had been a good employee, and my future in banking was bright.

What the people around me failed to understand was that my life as I’d known it, as I’d wanted it, as I’d dreamed it, was over. The only way I could achieve fulfillment was to find myself a new one.

I signed the offer for the inn the next day and not for an instant did my resolve waver. The Frelingers, who owned the B&B, gratefully accepted my offer, and within a matter of weeks—just before the holidays—we gathered together at the title company and signed all the tedious, necessary paperwork. I handed them the cashier’s check, and accepted the keys to the inn. The Frelingers had taken no reservations for the last couple of weeks in December as they intended to spend time with their children.

Leaving the title company, I took a short detour to the courthouse and applied for a name change for the inn, christening it with its new name, the Rose Harbor Inn.

I returned to Seattle and the next day I gave Columbia Bank my notice. I spent the Christmas holiday packing up my Seattle condo and preparing for the move across Puget Sound. While I was only moving a few miles away, I might as well have been going halfway across the country. Cedar Cove was a whole other world—a quaint town on the Kitsap Peninsula away from the hectic world of the big city.

I knew my parents were disappointed that I didn’t spend much of the holidays with them in Hawaii, a family tradition. But I had so much to do to get ready for the move, including sorting through my things and Paul’s, packing, and selling my furniture. I needed to keep occupied—busywork helped keep my mind off this first Christmas without Paul.

I officially moved into the house on the Monday following New Year’s Day. Thankfully the Frelingers had sold the inn as a turnkey business. So all I needed to bring with me were a couple of chairs, a lamp that had belonged to my grandmother, and my personal items. Unpacking took only a few hours. I chose as my room the main floor bedroom suite the Frelingers had set aside as their own area; it had a fireplace and a small alcove that included a window seat overlooking the cove. The room was large enough for a bedroom set, as well as a small sofa that sat close to the fireplace. I particularly enjoyed the wallpaper, which was covered in white and lavender hydrangeas.

By the time night descended on the inn, I was exhausted. At eight, as rain pelted against the windows and the wind whistled through the tall evergreens that covered one side of the property, I made my way into the master bedroom on the main floor. The wild weather made it feel even cozier with a fire flickering in the fireplace. I experienced none of the strangeness of settling into a new place. I’d felt welcomed by this home from the moment I’d set foot in the front door.

The sheets were crisp and clean as I climbed into bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but what so readily comes to mind is that dream of Paul, so vivid and real.

In grief counseling, I’d learned that dreams are important to the healing process. The counselor described two distinct types of dreams. The first and probably the most common are dreams about our loved ones—memories that come alive again.

The second type are called visitation dreams, when the loved one actually crosses the chasm between life and death to visit those he or she has left behind. We were told these are generally dreams of reassurance: the one who has passed reassures the living that he or she is happy and at peace.

It’d been eight months since I’d received word that Paul had been killed in a helicopter crash in the Hindu Kush, the mountain range that stretches between the center of Afghanistan and northern Pakistan. The army helicopter had been brought down by al-Qaeda or one of their Taliban allies; Paul and five of his fellow Airborne Rangers had been killed instantly. Because of the location of the crash it was impossible to recover their bodies. The news of his death was difficult enough, but to be deprived of burying his remains was even more cruel.

For days after I got the news, hope crowded my heart that Paul might have actually survived. I was convinced that somehow my husband would find a way back to me. That was not to be. Aerial photographs of the crash site soon confirmed that no one could have possibly survived. In the end, all that really mattered was that the man I loved and married was gone. He would never return to me, and as the weeks and months progressed I came to accept the news.

It’d taken me a long time to fall in love. Most of my friends had married in their twenties, and by the time they were in their mid- thirties, the majority had already started their families. I was a godmother six times over.

On the other hand, I had remained single well into my thirties. I had a busy, happy life and was involved in both my career and family. I’d never felt the need to rush into marriage or listen to my mother, who insisted I find a good man and quit being so picky. I dated plenty but there was never anyone I felt I could love for the rest of my life until I met Paul Rose.

Seeing that it’d taken me thirty-seven years to meet my match, I didn’t expect love to come to me twice. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to fall in love again. Paul Rose was everything I’d ever hoped to find in a husband . . . and so much more.

We’d met at a Seahawks football game. The bank had given me tickets and I had brought along one of our more prominent clients and his wife. As we took our seats, I’d noticed two men with military haircuts sitting next to me. As the game progressed, Paul introduced himself and his army buddy and struck up a conversation. Paul told me he was stationed at Fort Lewis. Like me, he enjoyed football. My parents were keen Seahawks fans, and I’d grown up in Spokane watching the games on television after church on Sundays with them and my younger brother, Todd.

Paul asked me to have a beer with him as we left the game that afternoon, and we saw each other nearly every day after. We learned we shared much more than a love of football: we shared the same political inclinations, read many of the same authors, and loved Italian food. We even had a Sudoku addiction in common. We could talk for hours and often did. Two months after we met, he shipped out to Germany, but being separated did little to slow our budding relationship. Not a day passed that we weren’t in contact in one way or another—we emailed, texted, Skyped, tweeted, and used every other available means we could to stay in touch. Yes, we even wrote actual letters with pen and paper. I’d heard about people claiming to have experienced “love at first sight” and I had scoffed. I can’t say it was like that for Paul and me, but it was darn close. I knew a week after we met that he was the man I would marry. Paul said he felt the same way about me, although he claimed all it took was one date.

I will admit this: love changed me. I was happier than I could ever remember being. And everyone noticed.

At Thanksgiving a year ago, Paul flew back to Seattle on leave and asked me to be his wife. He even talked to my parents first. We were crazy in love. I’d waited a long time and when I gave him my heart, it was for forever.

Right after our wedding in January, Paul got orders for Afghanistan. The helicopter went down on April 27, and my world imploded.

I’d never experienced this kind of grief and I fear I handled it poorly. My parents and brother worried for me. It was my mother who suggested grief counseling. Because I was desperate to find a means to ease my pain, I agreed. In the end I was glad I attended the sessions. Doing so helped me understand my dreams, especially the one I had that first night at the inn.

Contrary to what I’d been told about visitation dreams, Paul did nothing to reassure me he was at peace. Instead, he stood before me in full military gear. He was surrounded by a light that was so bright it was hard to look at him. Even so, I found it impossible to turn away.

I wanted to run to him but was afraid that if I moved, he would disappear. I couldn’t bear to lose him again even if this was only an apparition.

At first he didn’t speak. I didn’t either, unsure of what I could or should say. I remember that emotion filled my eyes with tears and I covered my mouth for fear I would cry out.

He joined me then and took me in his arms, holding me close and running his hand down the back of my head, comforting me. I clung to him, unwilling to let him go. Over and over he whispered gentle words of love.

When the lump in my throat eased, I looked up at him and our eyes met. It felt as though he was alive and we needed to catch up after a long absence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted him to explain. The fact that he’d had such a large life insurance policy had come as a shock. At first I’d felt guilty about accepting such a large amount of cash. Shouldn’t that money go to his family? But his mother was dead, and his father had remarried and lived in Australia. They had never been especially close. The lawyer told me Paul had been clear in his instructions.

In my dream I wanted to tell Paul that I’d used the money to buy this bed-and-breakfast and that I’d named it after him. One of the first improvements I wanted to make was to plant a rose garden with a bench and an arbor. But in the dream, I said none of that because it seemed like he already knew.

He brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me there ever so gently.

“You’ve chosen well,” he whispered, his eyes warm with love. “In time you’ll know joy again.”

Joy? I wanted to argue with him. It didn’t seem likely or even possible. One doesn’t heal from this kind of pain. I remembered how my family and friends had struggled to find the right words to comfort me. But there are no words . . . there simply are no words.

And yet I didn’t argue with him. I wanted the dream to last and I feared that if I questioned him he would leave, and I wanted him to stay with me. A peaceful feeling had come to me, and my heart, which had carried this heavy burden, felt just a little lighter.

“I don’t know that I can live without you,” I told him, and it was true.

“You can and you will. In fact, you’ll have a long, full life,” Paul insisted. He sounded like the officer he’d been, giving out orders that were not to be questioned.

“You will feel joy again,” he repeated, “and much of it will come from owning Rose Harbor Inn.”

I frowned. I knew I was dreaming, but the dream was so vivid I wanted to believe it was real.

“But . . . ” My mind filled with questions.

“This inn is my gift to you,” Paul continued. “Don’t doubt, my love. God will show you.” In the next instant he was gone.

I cried out, begging him to come back, and my own sharp cry woke me. My tears were real, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and pillowcase.

For a long time afterward I sat upright in the dark wanting to hold on to the feeling of my husband’s presence. Eventually it faded and almost against my will I fell back asleep.

The next morning, I climbed out of bed and traipsed barefoot down the polished hardwood floor of the hallway to the small office off the kitchen. Turning on the desk lamp, I flipped through the pages of the reservation book the Frelingers had given me. I reviewed the names of the two guests due to arrive that week.

Joshua Weaver had made his reservation just the week before I took ownership. The former owners had mentioned it at the time we signed the final papers. The second name on the list belonged to Abby Kincaid. Two guests.

Paul had said this inn was his gift to me. I would do my best to make both guests comfortable; perhaps, in giving of myself, I would find the joy Paul had promised. And maybe, given time, it would be possible for me to find my way back to life. Read more

8 Sandpiper Way

They say the wife is always the last to know.

Except that Emily Flemming did know and she’d known for more than a week. Dave, her husband, was involved with someone else. Only Dave wasn’t just Dave Flemming. He was Pastor Dave Flemming. The thought that her husband loved another woman was intolerable, unthinkable, unbearable. Dave’s betrayal was bad enough, but disregarding his moral obligations to his congregation and his God-she could hardly believe it. This shocking secret was completely inconsistent with everything she knew about her husband.

Ever since the night of their anniversary dinner, Emily had carefully guarded what she’d learned. She’d been in the church office, waiting for Dave, and had reached for his suit jacket, which hung on the back of his door. When she draped it over her arm, a diamond earring had fallen out of the pocket. Later she’d discovered the second one in the other pocket. Emily had certainly never owned anything as extravagant as this pair of large, diamond-studded pendant earrings.

In the beginning Emily had assumed the earrings were an anniversary present; however, she quickly realized they couldn’t be. For one thing, they weren’t in a jeweler’s box.

But even if they had been, it wasn’t possible. Dave could never have afforded diamond earrings on their tight family budget.

Emily should have asked immediately…and hadn’t. She’d been afraid of ruining their special evening with her suspicions. But almost at once, other details had begun to add up in her mind. She could no longer ignore the fact that Dave so often worked late, especially since the private hour they’d shared after dinner had gone by the wayside. It might’ve been her imagination but he seemed to take extra long with his grooming, too.

Her suspicions doubled and tripled. She held them close to her heart, examining them over and over, trying to make sense of her husband’s behavior. Whenever she asked where he’d been, Dave’s answers were vague. Another warning sign…

“Mommy, when’s Daddy coming home?” Mark, the younger of her two sons, asked as he looked up from his plate. He was eight and his dark brown eyes were identical to his father’s.

Emily had the same question. “Soon,” she said as reassuringly as she could. Two or three times a week, Dave didn’t get home until well after dinner. At first she’d made excuses for him to their boys. Now she didn’t know what to tell them.

“Dad hardly ever eats with us,” Matthew complained, sitting down next to his younger brother.

Dave’s lateness had started gradually. He used to make a point of being there for the evening meal. As she stared into space, Emily couldn’t help wondering if he was having dinner with some other woman…some other family. She chased away the thought with a determination that stiffened her spine.

For the sake of her children, Emily dragged out her standard excuse. “Your father’s been busy at the church.”

“Every night?”

Her sons echoed Emily’s own dissatisfaction. “It seems so,” she returned lightly, pretending all was well as she joined them at the dinner table. They automatically clasped hands and bowed their heads while Emily recited grace. Silently she added a prayer for herself, asking for courage to face whatever the future might hold for her marriage.

“Shouldn’t we wait for him at least one night?” Mark said as he reluctantly picked up his fork.

“You two have homework, don’t you?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“But Dad-”

“Your father will eat later.”

“Will he get home before we go to bed?” Matthew, her sensitive son, asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing hard.

She made a pretense of eating. Her appetite had disappeared the minute she’d found those diamond earrings. That was the start-the wake-up call she’d ignored for months. Naturally, she’d told herself, there could be any number of explanations for those earrings. She’d intended to ask him about it the very next day…and hadn’t.

Emily knew what held her back. She didn’t want to hear the truth; she simply wasn’t ready for it. She dreaded the consequences once she did finally confront him.

She’d questioned her husband, more than once, about his late nights. But Dave brushed aside her concern and offered ambiguous excuses, mentioning people she’d never met and meetings she didn’t know about. He almost seemed to resent her asking, so after a while she’d stopped.

She supposed she had her answer. Since the discovery of the diamond earrings, she had a perfectly clear picture of what was happening-what had already happened. Sadly, pastors were as susceptible to temptation as anyone else. Like all sinners, they, too, could be lured into affairs. They, too, could make irreparable mistakes.

If Emily had hoped this was just a misunderstanding, that she’d allowed it to grow out of all proportion in her mind, those hopes had been destroyed. Earlier in the week, she’d run into Bob and Peggy Beldon at the grocery store. They owned the local bed-and-breakfast, Thyme and Tide. As the three of them stood in the middle of the aisle exchanging pleasantries, Bob casually said that he missed playing golf with Dave.

As long as the weather permitted, the two of them had played weekly for the past three years. In a matter of minutes, she’d ferreted out the information she’d been afraid to learn. Dave had given up golfing more than a year ago. A year! Yet every week last summer, he’d loaded up his golf clubs on Monday afternoons and driven off, supposedly to meet Bob. Obviously he’d been meeting someone else.

Emily sighed. She couldn’t continue to let her mind wander down this well-traveled path of doubt and suspicion. Half the time she acted the role of the quiet, unassuming wife; the rest of the time it was all she could do to refrain from demanding an explanation. She wanted the truth no matter how painful it might be-and yet she didn’t. What wife ever did?

So far she’d remained silent. She was astonished by how good she’d become at pretending everything was fine. None of her friends suspected. What bothered her almost as much as her suspicions was the fact that Dave didn’t seem to have any idea that she’d caught on. She wondered if he’d broach the subject. Maybe if he knew she’d figured out what was going on… Perhaps that was what she’d been waiting for. She wanted him to ask her.

But Dave never asked. If she managed to put on a marvelous performance, then so did her husband. Last Sunday he’d actually spoken from the pulpit about the importance of marriage, of loving one’s spouse.

Emily felt like the most unloved woman in the world. She could barely stop herself from breaking into heart-wrenching sobs right there in front of the entire congregation. Naturally everyone must have assumed she’d been overcome with emotion, since Dave’s sermon, by implication, had honored her. She wanted to tell them that, beautiful though his words were, that was all they were. Words.

It was hard to believe this could be happening to them. Emily had always been so sure they had a solid marriage, and that Dave was her best friend. Apparently she was wrong.

The door leading to the garage opened and to her surprise he walked into the house.

“Dad!” Mark slid out of his chair, running toward his father as if he hadn’t seen him in a year.

“Hey there, little man, how’s it going?” Dave reached down and swung their son into his arms. Mark was too big to be picked up like a child, but he craved the attention from his father.

Dave kissed Emily on the cheek, then ruffled Matthew’s hair before he sat down. “I’m glad I made it home in time for dinner tonight.”

“Me, too,” Mark said, his eyes glowing.

Despite everything, her own happiness sprang to life again, and Emily got up and brought a fourth place setting to the table.

When she passed him the enchilada casserole she’d made, he took a heaping serving, then grinned over at her. “You fixed one of my favorites,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She met his look, letting him know with her eyes how much she loved him. Maybe, regardless of the evidence, all her unhappy suspicions were wrong.

“Can you help me with my homework after dinner, Dad?” Mark asked.

Their younger son was the top student in his class, far ahead of the other second-graders. He didn’t need any assistance. What he really wanted was time with his father.

“You promised to throw me the football, remember?” Matthew said. Never mind that it was late November and already dark outside, He, too, wanted time with Dave. The children weren’t the only ones; Emily needed all the reassurance he had to offer. Hard as she tried to cast aside these doubts, they refused to die. She didn’t want to lose her husband. She loved Dave no matter what and was determined to keep her marriage to-gether-or at least make every possible effort.

“Hold on, hold on.” Dave laughingly raised both hands. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, would you?”

Both boys stared expectantly at their father. Emily couldn’t bear to look at their eager faces. Seeing the love for him in their eyes made her feel like weeping.

“Let your dad eat his dinner,” she said.

“After that, I’ll help you both, but I’d like a few minutes alone with your mother first,” Dave said, glancing at Emily.

A chill raced down her spine, and she was afraid to meet his eyes.

“Aw, Dad,” Mark whined.

“It won’t take long,” he promised. “Eat your green beans.”

“Okay.”

Emily handed Dave the bowl of buttered beans with sliced almonds. He took a small portion. Green beans weren’t his favorite vegetable, either, and this was her way of suggesting he set a good example.

Following dinner, the boys cleared the table, then went to their room for study hour. This had been Dave’s idea. Whether they had homework or not, Matthew and Mark were to spend one hour every night reading, writing or reviewing their schoolwork. The television wasn’t allowed to be on, nor were video games permitted.

As the boys trudged to their room, Emily made a pot of coffee, keeping her back to Dave as she worked. Asking to speak to her like that was unusual for him. If there was something on his mind, he generally discussed it with her after the boys had gone to bed.

Even before she could finish pouring their coffee, Dave asked her, “Are you happy?” His voice was urgent. Intense. The need to know seemed to burn inside him.

Dozens of possible questions had occurred to her, but this was one she hadn’t expected.

“Happy?” she repeated, facing him. Still not meeting his gaze, she carried two steaming mugs of coffee to the table and set them down. “Am I happy?” She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her faded jeans as she contemplated her response.

“I didn’t think it would take you this long to answer,” Dave said. His dark eyes studied her and he seemed disappointed in her hesitation.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be happy?” she asked, turning the question back on him. “I live in a beautiful house and I’m able to stay home with the boys the way we both wanted. My husband is madly in love with me, right?” she added, remembering his sermon from the Sunday before-and hoping she didn’t sound even slightly sarcastic. Without giving him the opportunity to answer, perhaps because she feared what he might say, she asked, “What about you, Dave? Are you happy?”

“Of course I am.” His reply was immediate and impassioned.

“Then I am, too.” Rather than join him at the table she started to load the dishwasher. “Sit down,” he said. “Please.” Reluctantly she did. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

So he’d noticed. She fell asleep easily enough, but an hour or two later she’d be wide awake. Then for the rest of the night she’d toss and turn, sleeping fitfully if at all. The scenarios that played out in her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest. Her husband might be in love with someone else. He might even be cheating on her.

Emily considered herself an emotionally strong woman, one who remained calm in a crisis. A woman others counted on for guidance and support. Yet when it came to confronting her husband with her suspicions, she was a coward.

“If there’s something bothering you, maybe I can help,” he said. She recognized his tone, that caring, concerned voice he so often used with others. Only she wasn’t just one of his parishioners, she was his wife!

“What could possibly be bothering me?” she asked airily. She didn’t expect him to answer.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Are the ladies from the missionary society making too many demands?”

“No.” The cookbook committee had wanted her to organize the entire project and she’d told them she simply didn’t have the time, which was true. Apparently there’d been more than a few ruffled feathers. The church family seemed to think that because Emily didn’t work outside the home, she should be at their beck and call, just like Dave. Emily had no intention of becoming an unpaid employee of the church and had made that clear when they accepted the assignment in Cedar Cove. Her role was to support Dave and mother their young sons.

“You’d tell me if you were upset, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, hoping the act of sipping coffee would hide her lie.

Mark stuck his head inside the kitchen. “Are you finished talking to Mom yet?” he asked his father. “I need help with my math.”

Dave looked at her.

“I’m fine,” she said emphatically.

He seemed to doubt her. She wasn’t expert at lying and hated the fact that she was afraid to voice her concerns. Dave took a sip of his coffee and stood. “All right, Mark, show me what’s giving you trouble.”

Emily watched her husband and son walk out of the kitchen and swallowed painfully. She’d been waiting for him to ask her a question like that. Are you happy? It was the perfect opportunity to address her suspicions-but she’d been too frightened to say anything.

The problem, she told herself, was that she wasn’t prepared. For her own protection, she needed facts and details before she confronted him. He needed to realize she wasn’t as naive as he obviously thought.

By nine that evening both boys were in bed and asleep. When Dave was home, getting her sons ready for the night was invariably a smooth, easy process. But anytime she was alone with them-which was most nights lately-they came up with a multitude of excuses to delay going to bed. Read more

Sweet Tomorrows

The much-anticipated conclusion to Debbie Macomber’s beloved Rose Harbor series, set in the picturesque town of Cedar Cove, Sweet Tomorrows is a vibrant and poignant novel of letting go of fear, following your heart, and embracing the future—come what may. Read more

Rose Harbor in Bloom

Rose Harbor was in bloom. Purple rhododendrons and red azaleas dotted the property. I stood on the porch, leaning against the thick white post, and looked over the property for my bed-and-breakfast. The Inn at Rose Harbor was beautifully scripted on the wooden sign and was prominently displayed in the front of the yard along with my name, Jo Marie Rose, as proprietor.

I never planned on owning or operating a bed-and-breakfast. But then I never expected to be a widow in my thirties, either. If I’d learned anything in this road called life it’s that it often takes unexpected turns, rerouting us from the very path that had once seemed so right. My friends advised me against purchasing the inn. They felt the move was too drastic: it meant more than just moving and leaving my job; it would mean an entire life change. Many thought I should wait at least a year after losing Paul. But my friends were wrong. I’d found peace at the inn, and somewhat to my surprise, a certain contentment.

Until I purchased the inn, I’d lived in a condo in the heart of downtown Seattle. Because of my job and other responsibilities, I hadn’t had pets, well, other than as a youngster. But shortly after I moved to Cedar Cove I got Rover. In only a few short months, I’d grown especially fond of him; he’d become my shadow, my constant companion.

Rover was a rescue dog I’d gotten through Grace Harding, the Cedar Cove librarian. Grace volunteered at the local animal shelter, and she’d recommended I adopt a dog. I thought I wanted a German shepherd. Instead I’d come home with this indiscriminate mixed-breed short-haired mutt. The shelter had dubbed him Rover because it was clear he’d been on his own, roaming about for a good long time.

My musings were interrupted by mutterings from the area where I planned to plant a rose garden and eventually add a gazebo. The sound came from Mark Taylor, the handyman I’d hired to construct the sign that stood in the front yard.

Mark was an interesting character. I’d given him plenty of work, but I had yet to figure out if he considered me a friend. He acted like my friend most of the time, but then every so often he turned into a grumpy, unlikable, cantankerous, unreasonable . . . the list went on.

“What’s up?” I called out. “Nothing,” he barked back.

Apparently, the ill-tempered monster had returned.

Months ago I’d asked Mark to dig up a large portion of the yard for a rose garden. He’d told me this project would be low on his priority list. He seemed to work on it when the mood struck him, which unfortunately wasn’t often, but still I thought a month or two would be adequate in between the other projects he’d done for me. To be fair to Mark, though, it’d been a harsh winter. Still, my expectations hadn’t been met. I’d wanted the rosebushes planted by now. I’d so hoped to have the garden in full bloom in time for the open house I planned to host for the Cedar Cove Chamber of Commerce. The problem, or at least one of them, was the fact that Mark was a perfectionist. He must have taken a week simply to measure the yard. String and chalk markings crisscrossed from one end of the freshly mowed lawn to the other. Yes, Mark had insisted on mowing it first before he measured.

Normally, I’m not this impatient, but enough was enough. Mark was a skilled handyman. I had yet to find anything he couldn’t do. He was an all-purpose kind of guy, and most of the time I felt lucky to have him around. It seemed as time progressed I found more and more small jobs that required his attention.

New to this business and not so handy myself, I needed someone I could rely on to make minor repairs. As a result, the plans for the rose garden had basically been ignored until the very last minute. At the rate Mark worked, I’d resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t possible for it to be ready before Sunday afternoon.

I watched as he straightened and wiped his forearm across his brow. Looking up, he seemed to notice I was still watching him from the porch. “You going to complain again?” he demanded.

“I didn’t say a word.” Reading his mood, I forced myself to bite my tongue before I said something to set him off. All Mark needed was one derogatory word from me as an excuse to leave for the day.

“You didn’t need to say anything,” Mark grumbled. “I can read frowns, too.”

Rover raised his head at Mark’s less-than-happy tone and then looked back at me as though he expected me to return the verbal volley. I couldn’t help being disappointed, and it would have been easy to follow through with a few well-chosen words. Instead, I smiled ever so sweetly, determined to hold my tongue. All I could say was that it was a good thing Mark charged by the job and not by the hour.

“Just say what’s on your mind,” he insisted.

“I thought I’d told you I wanted the rose garden planted before I held the open house,” I said, doing my level best not to show my frustration.

“You might have mentioned this earlier, then,” he snapped. “I did.”

“Clearly it slipped my mind.”

“Well, don’t get your dander up.” It wasn’t worth fighting about at this late date. The invitations were mailed, and the event, ready or not, was scheduled for this very weekend. It would be nothing short of a miracle if Mark finished before then. No need to get upset about it now.

Actually, I was as much at fault for this delay as Mark. Often before he ever started work, I’d invite him in for coffee. I’d discovered that he was as interesting as he was prickly. Perhaps most surprising of all was that he’d become one of my closest friends in Cedar Cove, so naturally I wanted to find out what I could about him. The problem was he wasn’t much of a talker. I’d learned more about him while playing Scrabble than in conversation. He was smart and competitive, and he had a huge vocabulary.

Even now, after five months, he avoided questions and never talked about anything personal. I didn’t know if he’d ever been married or if he had family in the area. Despite all our conversa- tions, most of what I knew about him I’d deduced on my own. He lived alone. He didn’t like talking on the phone, and he had a sweet tooth. He tended to be a perfectionist, and he took his own sweet time on a project. That was the sum total of everything I’d learned about a man I saw on average four or five times a week. He seemed to enjoy our chats, but I wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t my wit and charm that interested him—it was the cookies that often accompanied our visits. If I hadn’t been so curious about him he probably would have gone straight to work. Well, from this point forward I would be too busy for what I called our coffee break.

Grumbling under his breath, Mark returned to digging up the grass and stacking squares of it around the edges of the cleared space. He cut away each section as if he was serving up precise portions of wedding cake.

Despite my frustration with the delay and his persnickety ways, I continued to lean against the porch column and watch him work. The day was bright and sunny. I wasn’t about to let all that sun- shine go to waste. Window washing, especially the outside ones, was one of my least favorite tasks, but it needed to be done. I figured there was no time like the present.

The hot water had turned lukewarm by the time I dipped the sponge into the plastic bucket. Glancing up at the taller windows, I exhaled and dragged the ladder closer to the side of the house. If Paul were alive, I realized, he’d be the one climbing the ladder. I shook my head to remind myself that if Paul were alive I wouldn’t own this inn or be living in Cedar Cove in the first place.

Sometimes I wondered if Paul would even recognize the woman I’d become in the last year. I wore my thick, dark hair much longer these days. Most of the time I tied it at the base of my neck with a scrunchie. My hair, which had always been professionally groomed for the office, had grown to the point that when I let it hang free, the tendrils bounced against the top of my shoulders.

Mark, who rarely commented on anything, made a point of letting me know I looked like I was still a teenager. I took it as a compliment, although I was fairly certain that wasn’t his intent. I doubt Mark has spent much time around women, because he could make the rudest comments and hardly seem aware of what he’d said.

My hairstyle wasn’t the only change in my appearance. Gone were the crisp business suits, pencil skirts, and fitted jackets that were the customary uniform for my position at the bank. These days it was mostly jeans and a sweater beneath a bib apron. One of the surprises of owning the inn was how much I enjoyed cooking and baking. I often spent the mornings in my kitchen whipping up a batch of this or that. Until I purchased the inn there hadn’t been much opportunity to create elaborate meals. These days I found I could read a recipe book with the same rapture as a New York Times bestseller. Baking distracts me and provides afternoon treats for my guests and wonderful muffins and breads I take such pride in serving for the breakfasts. I’d put on a few pounds, too, no thanks to all the baking I did, but I was working on losing weight. Thankfully, my favorite jeans still fit.

Some days I paused, wondering if Paul would know the new me—mainly because I didn’t recognize myself any longer. I’d changed, which I suppose was only natural. My entire world had been set upside down.

After dipping the sponge in the soapy water, I headed up the first three steps of the ladder, ready to wash off several months’ accumulation of dirt and grime. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent scent of vinegar, which my mother had recommended for cleaning windows. Unfortunately, I failed to write down the proportions. Seeing that it was a big bucket, I emptied half a bottle into the hot water. At this point, my bucket smelled more like a pickle barrel.

“What are you doing?” Mark shouted from across the yard. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I asked, refusing to let his bad mood rile me. Being Mark’s friend required more than a fair share of patience.

He stabbed the pitchfork into the grass and marched across the lawn toward me like a soldier heading into battle. A thick dark frown marred his face. “Get down from there.”

I remained frozen on the third step. “Excuse me?” This had to be some kind of joke.

“You heard me.”

I stared at him in disbelief. No way was I going to let Mark dictate what I could and couldn’t do on my own property.

“Ladders are dangerous,” he said, his fists digging into his hip bones.

I simply ignored him, climbed up one additional step, and started to wash the window.

“Don’t you know sixty percent of all home accidents involve someone falling off a ladder?”

“I hadn’t heard that, but I do know sixty percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.” I thought my retort would amuse him. It didn’t. If anything, his frown grew deeper and darker.

“You shouldn’t be on that ladder. For the love of heaven, Jo Marie, be sensible.”

“Me?” If anyone was being unreasonable, it was Mark. “It’s dangerous up there.”

“Do you suggest a safety net?” He made it sound as if I was walking along a window ledge on the fifty-ninth floor of a sixty- story building instead of on a stepladder.

Mark didn’t answer my question. He pinched his lips into a taut line. “I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Good, let’s not. I’m washing windows, so you can go back to planting my rose garden.”

“No,” he insisted. “No?”

“I’m staying right here until you give up this foolishness and come down from there.”

I heaved an expressive sigh. Mark was treating me like I was in kindergarten instead of like a woman who was fully able of taking care of herself. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re concerned.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “For all I care you could break your fool neck, but I just don’t want to be around to see it happen.”

“How kind of you,” I muttered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. His attitude as much as his words irritated me, so I ignored him and continued washing the windows. When I was satisfied the top two were clean, I carefully backed down the rungs just to prove I was capable of being cautious. Mark had his hands braced on the ladder, holding it steady.

“Are you still here?” I asked. I knew darn good and well he was.

Again he ignored the question.

“I’m not paying you to stand around and watch me work,” I reminded him.

He narrowed his eyes into slits. “Fine, then. I quit.” I didn’t believe him. “No, you don’t.”

Within seconds he was off the porch and stalking across the yard, every step punctuated with irritation.

I jumped down the last two rungs and followed him. I don’t usually lose my temper, but he was pushing all the wrong buttons with me. I’m far too independent to have anyone, especially a man, dictate what I could and couldn’t do.

“You can’t quit,” I told him. “And you certainly can’t leave my yard torn up like this.”

Mark acted as though he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Instead he gathered his pitchfork and other tools, most of which he’d left in the grass.

“We have a contract,” I reminded him. “So sue me.”

“Fine, I will . . . I’ll have my attorney contact you first thing in the morning.” I didn’t have an attorney, but I hoped the threat of one would shake Mark up enough to realize how foolish he was behaving. I should have known better; Mark didn’t so much as blink.

Rover followed me across the lawn and remained at my side. I couldn’t believe Mark. After all these months he was ready to walk away over something completely asinine. It made no sense.

With his pitchfork and shovel in one hand and his toolbox in the other he started to leave, then seemed to change his mind, because he abruptly turned back.

I moved one step forward, grateful he’d come to his senses. “Give your lawyer my cell phone number.”

“Yeah, right. You forget to carry it half the time, and if you do, the battery is low.”

“Whatever. Give your attorney the number to my business line, seeing that you’re so hot to sue me.”

“I’ll do that.” My back went rigid as Mark stalked off the property. I looked down at Rover, who’d cocked his head to one side as if he, too, found it difficult to understand what had just happened and why. He wasn’t the only one.

“He isn’t worth the angst,” I advised my dog, and then, because I was half afraid Rover might be tempted to run after Mark, I squatted down and patted his head. “Everything takes ten times longer than he estimates, anyway.” Raising my voice in the hopes that Mark would hear me, I added, “Good riddance.”

I stood back up and remained in the middle of my yard until Mark was completely out of view. Then and only then did I allow my shoulders to sag with defeat.

This was nuts. Barely an hour earlier we’d been sipping coffee and tea on the porch, and now I was threatening Mark with a lawsuit. And the way I felt right then, he deserved it.

Returning to my window washing, I was so agitated that I scrubbed and washed the glass until the shine nearly blinded me. I finished in record time, the muscles in my upper arms aching from the vigorous scrubbing I’d done. For half a second I was tempted to contact Mark and let him know I’d survived this dangerous feat but then thought better of it. He would have to apologize to me because he’d been way off base, treating me like I was a child.

My apologizing to him simply wasn’t going to happen. But I knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. If he said he wasn’t coming back, then I had to believe he meant it.

My anger carried me all the way into the evening. I didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was I would miss Mark. I’d sort of grown accustomed to having him stop by every so often, if for no other reason than coffee. He offered great feedback on the cookies and other items I baked. We’d grown comfortable with each other. He was a friend, nothing more, and I appreciated that we could be simply that: friends.

In an effort to distract myself, I emptied the dirty wash water from the bucket in the laundry-room sink, rinsed out the sponge, and set it out to dry, and then went into my small office.

I had guests arriving this weekend, which was the good news and the bad news. The first name I saw on the list was for the mys- terious Mary Smith. I took the reservation shortly after taking over the inn, and it had stayed in my mind. Mary had sounded unsure, hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing booking this room.

A party had booked the inn as well. The original call had come in from Kent Shivers, who hadn’t sounded the least bit excited about all this hoopla his family had planned for him. Kent and his wife, Julie, were about to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniver- sary by renewing their vows. Other room reservations had been added at later dates, all from family members. Seven of my eight rooms were booked for Saturday.

Only one of the guests would be here through Sunday evening, though, and that was Mary Smith. Remembering her hesitation, I’d half wondered if she’d cancel at the last minute, but to this point I hadn’t heard otherwise. Her room was made up and ready.

I didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner and ate chips and salsa, which wasn’t anything I’d normally choose. Because I was restless and at loose ends I decided to bake peanut-butter cookies, one of my favorites. It wasn’t until they were cooling on the coun- tertop that I remembered they were Mark’s favorite, too.

Rover curled up on the rug in front of the refrigerator, one of his favorite spots. He seemed content, but I was restless, pacing the kitchen, and then a short while later moving from one room to another. Once in my private quarters, I tried to knit, but I ended up making one mistake after another and finally stuffed the project back into the basket. Television didn’t hold my interest, either. A book I’d found fascinating just the night before bored me now.

I might as well admit it. All this fidgeting was due to my argu- ment with Mark. In retrospect I wished I’d handled the situation differently. But really, what could I have done? Mark seemed bound and determined to argue with me. He was the one who’d gone completely off his rocker. Oh, great, now I was thinking in clichés, but it was true—our clash of wills was all due to his being high-handed and completely unreasonable.

Really, who else would go ballistic over something so ridiculous as washing windows because I chose to stand on a stepladder? He’d been rude, demanding, and utterly irrational. I wasn’t putting up with that. Not from him; not from anyone.

Still, it saddened me that it had come to this.

Rover lifted his head from his spot in front of the fireplace and then rested his chin on his paws.

“Just think of all the money I’ll save in flour and sugar,” I said in a weak attempt at making a joke.

It felt flat even to my own ears.

Okay, I’d admit it. I was going to miss Mark. Read more