A Turn in the Road

I think Dad wants to get back together.” Bethanne’s daughter, Annie, spoke with studied nonchalance. “He still loves you, Mom.”

Bethanne’s spoon hovered over her bowl of soup as they sat at a window table in their favorite cafe. This wasn’t actually news and shouldn’t have come as any surprise. Didn’t come as any surprise. She’d seen the signs, as recently as this morning. These days Grant was inventing excuses to call her.

Six years ago her world had imploded when her husband confessed that he’d fallen in love with another woman. With barely a backward glance, Grant had walked out—out of their home, their marriage, their lives. And now he wanted back in.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” Annie asked, toying with her fork. She watched her mother intently.

“Not really.” She swallowed the soup and lowered her spoon for another taste.

Annie, it seemed, had forgotten. But not Bethanne.

The morning Grant told her he wanted a divorce would stay in her mind forever. He couldn’t seem to get away from her fast enough. He’d retained a lawyer and advised her to do the same, then coldly informed her that all future communication would be through their lawyers. The less contact with her and their children, the better, he’d said. A clean break was best.

Grant’s decision had struck Bethanne with the force and unpredictability of a hurricane. She’d stumbled blindly through the next few months, trying to hold her family together, clinging to the semblance of normality while her world disintegrated around her. “You really don’t have anything to say?” Annie prodded.

“No,” Bethanne said shortly. She swallowed another spoonful of soup and reached for the herb scone. “What disturbs me is that your father would let you do his talking for him.”

Annie had the grace to look chastened, but she pushed her food away as if she’d suddenly lost her appetite.

At one time Bethanne had dreamed Grant would regret what he’d done, that he’d seek her forgiveness and come crawling back to her. She’d wanted him to suffer for the way he’d treated her, for the hurt he’d inflicted when he’d turned his back on their children.

But in the years since the divorce, Bethanne had gradually found her footing and, in the process, discovered a self she didn’t know existed—a stronger, independent Bethanne, a woman forged in the fire of despair. Now her two children were on their own; her oldest, Andrew, was engaged to be married in a few weeks, following his graduation from law school. As for her daughter, Annie was a year from obtaining her MBA. She worked part-time with Bethanne on the creative end of the party business Bethanne had established in the wake of her divorce.

During her twenty years of marriage, Bethanne had become known for her lavish and inventive parties. She’d taken pride in making Grant look good by hosting unforgettable events for clients and potential clients—an invitation to Grant’s home became a sought-after privilege in certain circles. Her birthday parties for Andrew and Annie were legendary. But never once had she

dreamed that her party-giving skills would eventually be parlayed into such a success.

She’d started the business, which she called simply Parties, as a way of making enough money to continue living in their family home, although she’d had to take out a substantial second mortgage to get Parties off the ground. Grant had paid the required support, but depending on that would’ve meant moving to a smaller house in a different neighborhood. If ever her children needed stability, she knew, it was in the period after the divorce. She’d since paid off both mortgages.

To Bethanne’s astonishment, the business had taken off immediately. She’d started small, with themed birthday parties for children. The Alice in Wonderland Tea Party had been the most popular of the dozens of concepts she’d created. With busy schedules, parents were looking for an easy, economical way to make birthday parties special. Bethanne’s company had filled that need.

Currently, there were five Parties stores in the Seattle area, including the original location, and she was considering a deal that offered national franchising opportunities. The key was to keep the ideas fresh and the prices reasonable. This past winter she’d added a “birthday party in a box”—more scaled-down, do-it-yourself versions of her trademarked theme parties.

A year earlier Bethanne had hired Julia Hayden as her corporate operations manager. Julia was efficient, dedicated and gifted. She loved the job and had begun overseeing the company’s day–to–day activities, freeing Bethanne to focus on creative development. Annie worked with her, and the two of them had recently developed birthday party ideas for cats and dogs, which was now a popular trend, especially among childless, affluent professionals. They’d expanded into other types of parties, too—anniversary and retirement celebrations, Christmas and even Halloween events.

Bethanne signaled for the check, and they went their separate ways with a quick hug and a wave. Annie was walking back to the office, while Bethanne headed for Blossom Street and A Good Yarn. Knitting had become one of her favourite activities. When

she needed to think, nothing helped more than sitting down with a knitting project. She felt a sense of happy anticipation as she parked in front of the yarn store, which was owned by her dear friend Lydia Goetz.

With the wedding only six weeks away, she’d wanted to knit something for Courtney, her almost-daughter-in-law, to wear during the wedding.

The wedding. It was why Grant had called her two weeks ago— their son’s marriage had given him a legitimate excuse—and he’d called twice since then, including this morning.

Other than the occasional joint decisions they’d made regarding their children, they’d had little personal contact since the divorce. Then Grant had phoned her with a question about a wedding gift for Andrew and Courtney. He’d been friendly and relaxed. And this week, he’d asked her to dinner.

Dinner. She and Grant. After six years?

She’d heard from Annie that his marriage to Tiffany had ended in divorce the previous year—after a brief separation—and felt genuinely sorry for him. This was a second divorce for Tiffany, as well. In fact, Bethanne had briefly dated Paul, Tiffany’s first husband, shortly after the divorce, although date wasn’t exactly the right word. They’d been more of a two-person support group, helping each other grapple with their betrayal by the people they loved. Unfortunately, Andrew’s relationship with his father remained cool. Her son had met his father’s desertion with a bitter resolve that only seemed to harden as he grew older. Andrew was polite but kept an emotional distance from Grant.

For Annie, sixteen at the time, the divorce had been nothing short of devastating. Always a “daddy’s girl,” she’d acted out her shock and pain as only a willful teenager can. Annie blamed Tiffany for stealing her father away and had done everything she could to sabotage the marriage. But Bethanne was also a target for her rage during those early months. Annie had railed at her for being too “boring” and “clueless” to keep her father happy. Bethanne had never responded to Annie’s accusations about her failures as a wife, afraid to reveal how close to home her words had hit. Eventually, Annie had adjusted to the new reality, although she still referred to Grant’s second wife in sarcastic tones as “the lovely Tiffany.”

Bethanne thought about her conversation with him that morning. His excuse for calling this time was so flimsy Bethanne couldn’t even remember what it was. He’d kept her on the line, relating office gossip as if she was still intimately familiar with the goings-on at his workplace. After several minutes of chatter, he reminded her that she hadn’t given him a definite answer regarding his dinner invitation.

“Grant,” she’d said bluntly. “Why are you doing this?”

For a moment there was silence on the other end. When he spoke, any hints of lightheartedness were gone. “I made a mistake, Bethanne.” His voice caught, and for once he seemed at a loss for words. “A major one.” He left the rest unsaid, but she knew what he meant. He wanted things back the way they used to be.

Well, good luck with that. Bethanne wasn’t the same naive woman he’d divorced, and she wasn’t interested in retracing her steps.

After six years on her own, she’d discovered she didn’t want or need a man complicating her life. Years ago she’d read somewhere that “it takes a hell of a man to replace no man.” At first, that remark had seemed merely humorous; she hadn’t completely understood what it meant. She did now.

While she was flattered that Grant wanted to reconcile, the situation wasn’t that simple. He’d had his chance. He was the one who’d deserted her, who’d left her floundering and shaken. Without ever thinking about the consequences of his actions, he’d ripped apart their family, betrayed her and their children, robbed them all of their security.

Now he was sorry. Fine. He’d seen the error of his ways and realized what a terrible mistake he’d made.

So of course he wanted her back. She was a successful businesswoman with a growing company that received lots of media and corporate interest. In six short years she’d made a name for herself. She’d been interviewed by Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. A piece had been written about her in USA Today. Her ex had his nerve.

Contrition was all well and good. Bethanne felt a certain vindication in hearing Grant admit how wrong he’d been, a certain sense of righteousness. She’d forgiven him to the best of her ability, refusing to let herself be trapped in the mire of resentment. He had a new life and so did she. But forgiveness, she’d learned, was tricky. Just when she felt sure she was beyond rancor, she’d find herself wallowing in indignation. Like the night three years ago when the pipe burst in the basement and she couldn’t figure out where to turn off the water. If Grant had been there he would’ve known what to do. By the time she found the tap she’d been shaking with anger, and as unreasonable as it seemed, she’d blamed Grant. This was all his fault. He should’ve been there. How dared he do this to her and, worse, to their children!

She should reject his invitation, she told herself now. Laugh in his face. Tell him to take a hike.

To her astonishment she couldn’t.

It had taken courage for Grant to approach her, courage and, yes, nerve. She’d give him that. Crazy though it might be, Bethanne realized she still had feelings for Grant, feelings she’d pushed aside for the past few years. She didn’t love him, not in the all-consuming way she had when they were married. Back then, she’d been blind to his flaws and his weaknesses, blind to what should’ve been obvious, especially after he’d started the affair. His betrayal had revealed that the man she’d married was selfish and shallow. And yet he hadn’t always been like that. She couldn’t forget the companionship—and the passion—of their early years together….

She loved him.

She hated him.

Both emotions warred within her.

“Dinner for old times’ sake,” he’d almost pleaded. “Besides, we need to talk about Andrew’s wedding.”

Six years ago Bethanne had been desperate for him to come home. Her pride was gone. What she’d craved was exactly what Grant wanted now—for everything to go back to the way it had been. At the time she’d believed she could fix whatever was wrong. They’d been happy, and could be again.

When it became apparent that his affair with Tiffany wasn’t a fling and Grant fully intended to go through with the divorce, an all-consuming rage had taken root. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. At night she lay awake plotting revenge. One day Grant would be sorry. He’d beg her to take him back and she’d laugh in his face. He would pay for what he’d done.

Then, several months after the divorce was finalized, she woke with that familiar ugly feeling in the pit of her stomach and realized this corrosive, soul-destroying bitterness couldn’t continue. As the saying had it, the best revenge was living well—living a successful, independent life. So Bethanne had dedicated herself to her business.

Gradually, she’d stopped thinking about Grant. She embraced her new life, her new identity. Indirectly, she had Grant to thank for her flourishing business, her circle of loyal new friends, for the strength and confidence she’d never known she had. It felt odd to her now that she’d once been content to be simply Grant’s wife, looking after his social affairs and staying in the background.

Dinner for old times’ sake? Just the two of them?

In the years since the divorce, Bethanne had dated a number of men. Besides Tiffany’s ex, a couple of them stood out in her mind. But she’d been so focused on building her business that neither relationship had lasted more than six months. She wasn’t ready or willing to make a serious commitment to anyone. Those relationships, albeit short, had boosted her depleted ego. She’d enjoyed them but she wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment.

Bethanne had concluded their phone call without giving Grant an answer. She needed to ponder her ex-husband’s newfound contrition, and there was no more effective way of doing that than knitting. It was both productive and contemplative; you created something while you meditated on your problems. That was why she’d stopped at Lydia’s—to pick up yarn for the elegant fingerless gloves she’d make for Courtney’s wedding.

Lydia glanced up from the display she was working on and smiled when Bethanne entered the store. “You got my message! The cashmere yarn’s in.”

Bethanne smiled back. “I can hardly wait to get started.” Knitting had seen her through the darkest days of her life. Annie was the one who’d signed her up for classes, because even dialing the phone number for the yarn store was more than she could manage back then; the smallest tasks had seemed insurmountable. In retrospect, Bethanne knew she’d fallen into a dangerous depression.

Annie had enrolled Bethanne in a beginners’ sock-knitting class. Meeting the other women had been a turning point for her. Her new friends gave her courage and the determination to emerge from her ordeal a stronger woman. Not only that, it was through the knitting class that she’d met Elise, and through Elise, Maverick. He’d ended up being the “angel” who’d helped her launch Parties. Her classmates had reminded Bethanne that she wasn’t alone, rebuilding her confidence one stitch at a time.

That class was the beginning of Bethanne’s new life. And Part Two turned out to be better than Part One had ever been. Was it possible to knit the two halves together again? Did she want to?

“The pattern isn’t difficult,” Lydia told her as she brought the yarn to the cash register. “Once you do a couple of repeats, I’m sure you won’t have a problem, but if you do, just stop by and I’ll help you figure it out.”

Bethanne paid for the purchase, grateful that Lydia had wound the yarn, saving her the effort. At first, she’d considered knitting Courtney’s veil, but there wasn’t time. Although a bit disappointed, she knew fingerless gloves were a far more manageable project. Her hope was that the gloves would be beautiful enough to become a family heirloom, passed down from one generation to the next.

“Alix was in this week and brought Tommy with her,” Lydia said as she handed Bethanne the yarn. “You wouldn’t believe how much he’s grown. It’s hard to believe he’s nearly a year old.”

Alix, a friend of theirs, was employed as a baker at the French Cafe across the street. “She’s gone back to work?”

Lydia nodded. “Just part-time. Now with Winter pregnant… there must be something in the water over there.” Lydia grinned. “Or the coffee.”

So many changes on Blossom Street, and all of them good.

“How’s Casey?” Bethanne asked about Lydia’s adopted daughter. A couple of months before, when Casey turned thirteen, Bethanne had planned her birthday party.

“Casey’s fine,” Lydia assured her. “She had a few academic challenges and will be attending summer school again. It’s not the end of the world but Casey tends to get down on herself. We’re working on that.” Lydia leaned against the counter. “The poor kid came to us with a lot of baggage.”

“No doubt about that.” Bethanne had to admire Brad and Lydia for opening their hearts and their home to the troubled girl.

“It helps that she’s so close to my mother…. My biggest fear is what’ll happen once Mom is gone,” Lydia said, her voice subdued.

“Is your mother doing okay?”

Lydia rubbed her eyes. “Not really.” She gave a small, hopeless shrug. “She’s declining, and that’s so hard to watch. You know, she sometimes forgets who I am but she always remembers Casey. I think it’s one of those small miracles. It makes Casey feel important and loved, which she is. Everyone at the assisted-living complex adores Casey. I wouldn’t be surprised if they hired her once she’s old enough to have a job. Her patience with Mom and Mom’s friends is amazing. She loves hearing their stories.”

Bethanne nodded sympathetically.

“No one seems to have enough time for the elderly anymore….” Lydia shook her head. “I’m guilty of rushing visits myself, but not Casey. She sits and listens for hours and never seems to get impatient, even when Mom repeats the same story over and over again.”

“And Margaret?” Bethanne noticed that Lydia’s older sister, who often worked with her, wasn’t in the store.

“She took the day off. Wednesdays are slow, and she had a dentist’s appointment at eleven. I told her to enjoy the afternoon.”

Margaret was a store fixture and so different from Lydia that new customers often didn’t realize they were sisters. Margaret was good-hearted but tended to be gruff and opinionated, and took a bit of getting used to. “How’s business going?” she ventured, aware that she was the only person in the store at the moment.

“Surprisingly well.” Lydia cheered visibly. “People turn to domestic pursuits during recessions, and lots of people want to knit these days.”

“Have you talked to Anne Marie and Ellen since they moved?”

Lydia returned to arranging the yarn display. “Practically every day. Ellen didn’t want to leave Blossom Street but I see her as much as ever. She has plenty of friends in her new neighborhood and has definitely made the adjustment.”

“I’m so happy for her.” A young widow, Anne Marie had adopted the girl after volunteering at a local grade school. Although Lydia had never said so, Bethanne knew that Ellen’s adoption had influenced her and Brad to make Casey part of their family.

“Do you have a few minutes for tea?” Lydia asked.

Bethanne checked her watch. “Sorry, no, I’m on my way to the office. I’m supposed to meet with Julia.”

“Soon, then.” Lydia waved as Bethanne opened the door.

“Soon,” Bethanne promised.

“Stop by if you have any trouble with that pattern,” she called over her shoulder. “I will.” As she unlocked her car, Bethanne looked over at the French Cafe and was startled to see her ex-mother-in-law, Ruth Hamlin, sitting at an outside table eating her lunch.

Despite the divorce, Bethanne had a warm relationship with Ruth. For her children’s sake she’d kept in touch with Grant’s mother and his younger sister, Robin. But as Lydia had so recently reminded her, no one had enough time for older people anymore. Bethanne felt guilty as charged. She rarely saw Ruth these days, and it had been several weeks since they’d talked.

Ruth had been horrified by Grant’s decision to walk away from his family. She hadn’t been shy about letting her son know her feelings, either. She’d always been generous and supportive to Bethanne, making her feel like a beloved daughter in every way. Ruth had stood at Bethanne’s side through the divorce proceedings, convinced that Grant would one day realize his mistake.

Bethanne rushed impulsively across the street. She really didn’t have time and the ever-punctual Julia would be waiting. As it was, Bethanne had spent far longer with Lydia than she’d intended. In addition, she had a tight afternoon schedule that included a meeting with her managers. But Bethanne was determined to make time for the woman who’d once been such an enormous encouragement to her.

“Ruth?”

Her mother-in-law looked up from her soup and sandwich plate and instantly broke into a smile. “Bethanne, my goodness, I never expected to see you here.”

The two women hugged. “I was picking up some yarn I ordered. What are you doing in this neighborhood?” Bethanne pulled out the chair opposite Ruth’s and sat down.

Her mother-in-law placed both hands in her lap. “Robin suggested we meet here for lunch. It’s not that far from the courthouse, but you know Robin.”

“Has she left already?” Bethanne looked around, then down at Ruth’s barely touched plate.

“She didn’t show up,” Ruth said, coloring slightly. “I’m sure she got stuck in court….” Robin was with the Prosecuting Attorney’s office in Seattle, and frequently dealt with violent crime.

Bethanne frowned. “Did you call her?”

Ruth shook her head. “I refuse to carry a cell phone. They’re an intrusion on people’s privacy and—well, never mind. Although I will admit that at times like this a cell would come in handy.” “Would you like me to phone?”

“Oh, would you, dear?” Ruth squeezed her hand gratefully. “I’d appreciate it.”

Digging in her purse, Bethanne found her cell. She had Robin’s number in her contacts and, holding the phone to her ear, waited for the call to connect. Robin’s phone went directly to voice mail, which meant she was probably still in court.

“I think you must be right,” Bethanne told Ruth.

The older woman exhaled. “I was afraid of that. I don’t know when we’ll have a chance to meet again before I leave.” Ruth straightened and picked up her sandwich. “But it doesn’t really matter, because my daughter is not going to change my mind.”

“Change your mind about what?”

Ruth lifted her chin. “Robin wants to talk me out of attending my fifty-year class reunion.” She took a determined bite of her turkey-and-bacon sandwich.

Why would her sister-in-law do such a thing? “I hope you go,” Bethanne said.

“I am, and nothing she says will convince me otherwise.” Bethanne had never seen Ruth so fired up.

“Good for you.” She watched in amusement as her ex-mother-in-law chewed with righteous resolve.

Swallowing, Ruth relaxed and sent Bethanne a grateful smile. “And I intend to drive to Florida by myself. That’s all there is to it.” Read more

Starting Now

Chapter 1

This was it. Surely it must be.

The instant Libby Morgan heard her paralegal tell her “Hershel would like to see you in his office,” she knew. Oh, there’d been rumblings around the office about layoffs and early retirements. Such gossip simply verified what she felt in her heart Hershel was sure to tell her. She’d waited for this moment for six very long years.

Libby had always wondered how she’d feel when she finally got the news. She longed to hold on to this sense of happy expectation for as long as possible. In retrospect, she must have intuitively known something was up because she’d worn her best pin-­striped suit today, choosing the pencil skirt over her normal tailored slacks. And thankfully she’d had a salon appointment just the day before. Getting her hair cut was long overdue, but seeing how good it looked now, she felt it was worth every penny of the hundred dollars Jacques had charged her. A good cut did wonders for her appearance. She wore her dark brown hair parted in the middle in an inverted bob so that it framed her face, curling around her jawline. Jacques had mentioned more than once how fortunate she was to have such thick hair. She hadn’t felt that way when he’d insisted she have her eyebrows plucked. But he’d been right; she looked good. Polished. Professional. She promised herself not to go so long between appointments again.

Libby didn’t see herself as any great beauty. She was far too realistic and sensible, was well aware of her physical shortcomings. At best she was pretty, or at least Joe, her ex-­husband, had told her she was. She knew she was probably no better than average. Average height, average weight; brown hair, brown eyes, with no outstanding features, but on the inside she was a dynamo. Dedicated, hard­working, goal-­oriented. Perfect partner material.

Reaching for her yellow legal pad, Libby headed toward the managing partner’s opulent office. Outwardly she remained calm and composed, but inwardly her heart raced and her head spun.

Finally. Finally, she was about to be rewarded for the hard choices and sacrifices she’d made.

Libby was in her sixth year of an eight-­year partnership track. Hopefully she was about to achieve the goal that she had set her heart on the minute she’d been accepted as an associate in the Trusts and Estates Department at Burkhart, Smith & Crandall, a high-­end Seattle-­based law firm. She was about to be made partner even earlier than anticipated.

While she didn’t want to appear overly confident, it went without saying that no one deserved it more than she did. Libby had worked harder, longer, and more effectively than any other attorney employed by the firm. Her legal expertise on the complex estate-­planning project for Martha Reed hadn’t gone unnoticed either. Libby had provided a large number of billable hours and the older woman had taken a liking to her. Over the past month two partners had stopped by her office to compliment her work.

Libby could almost feel her mother looking down on her from heaven, smiling and proud. Molly Jo Morgan had died of breast cancer when Libby was thirteen. Before dying, Libby’s mother had taken her daughter’s hand and told her to work hard, and to never be afraid to go after her goals. She’d advised Libby to dream big and warned her there would be hard choices and sacrifices along the way.

That last summer her mother was alive had set Libby’s life course for her. Although her mother wouldn’t be around to see her achievements, Libby longed to make her mother proud. Today was sure to be one of those Hey, Mom, look at me moments.

Early on in high school Libby had set her sights on becoming an attorney. She was the president of the Debate Club and was well known for her way of taking either side of an issue and making a good argument. Reaching her goal hadn’t been easy. Academic scholarships helped, but there were still plenty of expenses along the way. Funds were always tight. In order to support herself through college she’d worked as a waitress and made some good friends. Later on in law school she’d found employment as a paralegal in the Seattle area.

Her career path had taken a short detour when she married Joe Wilson. Joe worked as a short-­order cook. They’d met at the diner where she waited tables while in college. When she moved from Spokane he willingly followed her to the Seattle area and quickly found another job, cooking in a diner. He was the nicest guy in the world, but their marriage was doomed from the beginning. Joe was content to stay exactly where he was for the rest of his life while Libby was filled with ambition to be so much more. The crux came when he wanted her to take time out of her career so they could start a family. Joe wanted children and so did Libby, but she couldn’t risk being shunted off to the “Mommy Track” at the firm. She’d asked him to be patient for a couple more years. Really, that wasn’t so long. Once she was established at the firm it wouldn’t matter so much. But Joe was impatient. He feared that once those two years were up she’d want another year and then another. Nothing she said would convince him otherwise.

Hershel glanced up when she entered his office. He wasn’t smiling, but that wasn’t unusual.

“Sit down, Libby,” he said, gesturing toward the chair on the other side of his desk.

One day her office would look like this, Libby mused, with old-­ world charm, comfortable leather chairs, polished wood bookcases, and a freestanding globe. Pictures of Hershel’s wife and children stared back at her from the credenza behind his desk. The one of him sailing never failed to stir her. Hershel had his face to the camera, his hair wind-­tossed as the sailboat sliced through the Pacific Ocean on a crystal-­clear day, with a sky as blue as Caribbean waters. The sailboat keeled over so close to the water’s edge she wanted to hold her breath for fear the vessel would completely overturn.

The photograph inspired Libby because it proved to her that one day, as partner, she, too, would have time to vacation and enjoy life away from the office. But in order to do that her work, her commitment to the law firm and her clients, had to be her sole focus.

Libby sat in the chair Hershel indicated and relaxed, crossing her legs. She knew the managing partner’s agenda. What she hadn’t expected was the deeply etched look of concern on his face. Oh, it would be just like Hershel to lead into this announcement circuitously.

“I’ve taken a personal interest in you from the day the firm decided to hire you,” he said, setting his pen down on his desk. He took a moment to be certain it was perfectly straight.

“I know and I’m grateful.” Libby rested her back against the comfortable padding. “It’s been a wonderful six years. I’ve worked hard and feel that I’m an asset to the firm.”

“You have done an excellent job.”

Libby resisted the impulse to remind him of all the billable hours she’d piled up on a number of accounts.

“You’re a hard worker and an excellent attorney.”

Libby took a moment to savor his words. Hershel wasn’t known to hand out praise freely. “Thank you.” She sat up straighter now, anticipating what would come next. First he would smile, and then he would announce that after discussing the matter with the other partners they would like to . . .

Her projection was interrupted when Hershel went on to say, “I’m sure you’re aware that the last six months have been a challenge for the firm.” He met her gaze head-­on, and in his eyes she read regret and concern as his thick brows came together. “We’ve experienced a significant decline in profitability due to the recession.”

A tingling sensation started at the base of Libby’s neck. This conversation wasn’t taking the route she’d anticipated.

“I’ve certainly carried my load,” she felt obliged to remind him. More than any other attorney on staff, especially Ben Holmes, she thought but didn’t say. At six o’clock, like a precision timepiece, Ben was out the door.

Hershel picked up the same pen he’d so carefully positioned only a few moments before and held it between his palms. “You’ve carried a substantial load, which is one reason why this decision has been especially difficult.”

“Decision?” she repeated as a sense of dread quickly overtook any elation she’d experienced earlier.

“The problem is your lack of ‘making rain,’ ” he said. “You haven’t brought any major clients into the firm.”

Meeting potential clients was next to impossible with the hours she worked. Libby had tried attending social functions but she wasn’t good at “power schmoozing” the way others were. She felt awkward inserting herself into conversations or initiating them herself. With little to talk about besides work, she often felt inept and awkward. She hadn’t always been this shy, this hesitant.

“Hershel,” she said, voicing her suspicion, her greatest fear, “what are you trying to say? You aren’t laying me off, are you?” She finished with a short disbelieving laugh.

The senior partner exhaled slowly and then nodded. “I can’t tell you how much I regret having to do this. You aren’t the only one. We’re letting five go in all. As you can imagine this hasn’t been an easy decision.”

Libby’s first concern was for her paralegal. “Sarah?”

“She’s fine. She’ll be reassigned.”

Libby’s heart slowed to a dull thud.

“We’re offering you a generous severance package.” Hershel outlined the details but Libby sat frozen, stunned, unable to believe this was actually happening. People she worked with, people she knew, were losing their jobs. She was losing her job. Why hadn’t she sensed that? She didn’t like to think she was so out of touch with reality that she hadn’t picked up on it.

“I’d also like to offer you a bit of advice, Libby, if I may?”

The shock had yet to dissipate, and because her throat had gone dry she didn’t respond. All she could manage was to stare at him aghast, disbelieving, shaken to the very core of her being.

“I don’t want you to think of this as the end. This is a new beginning for you. One of the reasons I’ve taken a personal interest in you is because you’re very much the way I was years ago. I felt the need to prove myself, too. I set my sights on making partner to the exclusion of everything else, the same way I’ve seen you do. I completely missed my children’s childhoods. By the time they were in high school they were strangers to me. Thankfully, I’ve been able to make up for lost time. The point is I sacrificed far too much, and I see you making the same mistakes I did.”

Libby tried to focus but couldn’t get past the fact that she was suddenly unemployed. She blinked a couple of times in an effort to absorb what was happening. It didn’t help. The sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified.

“I hope,” Hershel continued, “that you will take this time to find some balance in life. Starting now.”

“Pardon?” she asked, looking up and blinking. Some of the numbness had begun to wear off. All Libby could think about was the fact that she had given her life, her marriage, her everything to this firm, and they were about to shove her out the door.

“I want you to enjoy life,” Hershel repeated. “A real life, with friends and interests outside of the office. There’s a whole world out there ready for you to explore.”

Libby continued to stare at him. Didn’t Hershel understand? She had a life, and that life was right here in this office. She was passionate about her work and now it was being ripped away from her.

“Who will take over working with Martha Reed?” she asked. Surely this was all a big mistake. Martha Reed was one of their most important clients and she enjoyed working with Libby. Read more

A Walk Along the Beach

Two sisters facing challenging odds must rely on each other more than ever before in a gorgeous new novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. Inseparable since the sudden loss of their mother as teenagers, Willa and Read more

Last One Home

CHAPTER 1

The impossibly thin woman sitting next to Cassie Carter in the King County Courthouse in Seattle trembled like an oak leaf in a storm. When the judge entered the courtroom and they were asked to rise, Maureen could barely manage to get to her feet. Cassie wrapped her arm around the other woman’s waist and helped her to stand upright. Maureen was skin and bone, so thin Cassie could feel her ribs. She’d been that thin once herself. Like Maureen, she had been beaten down, battered, and emotionally broken.

“You’re doing great,” Cassie whispered. She understood all too well what courage it took for

Maureen to testify against her husband. Cassie had sat in a similar courtroom in Florida, only she’d sat alone. Duke, her husband, had glared at her as she’d slowly walked toward the witness stand, his dark eyes filled with hatred. Eyes that said he would kill her if he got the chance. He nearly had.

They’d been married only a few months when Duke hit her the first time. He’d had a few beers with friends and come home and found Cassie didn’t yet have dinner ready. To show her how displeased he was, he’d slapped her. Cassie had been stunned. Her father had never laid a hand on her mother or her, nor her two sisters. Horrified, she’d pressed her hand to her cheek, hardly knowing what to think.

That was the first of many such slaps. Afterward he was sorry. He felt horrible that he could do anything to hurt the woman he loved beyond life itself. He’d cover his face and weep, begging her forgiveness. The irony of it was that she, the one who’d been hurt, would rationalize his anger and comfort him. Shocking, really, when she thought about it. Duke hit her and she was the one who apologized.

As the years progressed, the slaps turned to slugs and the slugs into beatings. During the last beating she’d seen that very look in his eyes, the same one he gave her the day she stood in a Florida courtroom.

The look that said her days were numbered. She would pay for what she’d done.

That final time, as Duke’s fists pounded down on her, Cassie had been terrified by the cold hate in her husband’s eyes. Duke would not stop until he killed her. It was as clear as the writing on a highway billboard. In that breathless moment, Cassie knew beyond a doubt that she was about to die. She lost consciousness briefly, and when she came to again she heard him rifling through the kitchen drawers. She knew he was searching for a knife.

Carried by adrenaline, numb with fear, she managed to escape into her daughter’s bedroom and blocked the door by tilting a chair beneath the knob. She grabbed seven–year–old Amiee and fled out the window.

She didn’t take her purse or her identification or any money. And she had no friends, no resources. Just her daughter and the clothes on her back.

Cassie hadn’t needed anything else. The one precious thing that had come out of her marriage had been her daughter. Fleeing to a women’s shelter, Cassie was given housing and assistance.

Duke was arrested and sentenced to a six–month jail term.

Cassie had taken those months to put her life together. And to try to make her way back to the good life she’d left behind. The hardest part hadn’t even been leaving Duke after all—-it was that she didn’t have her family’s support. She was on her own, without her parents, without her sisters. She had to do it alone, and so she had.

“What if the judge doesn’t believe me?” Maureen whispered, her voice trembling to the point that her words were barely discernible.

“He has the police report,” Cassie assured her.

“I … I don’t know that I can do this.” Maureen started to shake again, even worse than before.

“Lonny doesn’t mean to hurt me … he can’t help himself. He has a temper, you see, and it gets away from him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t help himself.”

“Maureen, we’ve been through this. It isn’t your fault that your husband hits you. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Cassie recognized the thought process: If only she’d been a better wife, a better housekeeper, a better mother, then Duke wouldn’t be upset. It was her failings that brought on the abuse. Only later, with counseling and patience, did she accept that the blame wasn’t hers. She had done nothing to deserve the beatings Duke gave her.

“But …”

“I was married to a man who beat me,” Cassie reminded her. “I thought it was my fault, too. If only I hadn’t put mustard instead of mayo on his ham sandwich he wouldn’t have hit me. I should have remembered. How could I have been so stupid? Maureen, think about it. Would you pound your fist into your daughter’s face for something like that?”

“No, never … I’d never hit one of my children.”

“I didn’t deserve it, either, and neither did you.”

Maureen stared up at her with wide, blank eyes. At one time Cassie’s eyes had had that same hollowed, hopeless look.

“I’ll be right here,” she promised the other woman. “I’m not going to leave you. Once we’re finished I’ll take you back to the shelter.”

Maureen gripped her hands together in a hold so tight her fingers went white. “I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Cassie assured her and gave her thin body a gentle squeeze. “Think of your children.”

Maureen briefly closed her eyes and nodded.

“Lonny is going to jail, if there is any justice,” Cassie assured her.

“But what will I do then?”

“The shelter will help you get a job and find housing.” Cassie had already been through this with Maureen a number of times, but the fragile soul needed to hear it again.

“The paperwork …”

“I’ll help you fill out the forms, Maureen.”

Cassie understood the other woman’s fears. As easy as it might sound to others, little things like obtaining a driver’s license or completing a job application seemed overwhelming. Duke had refused to allow Cassie to drive. It became a control issue with him. If she had access to a car she might leave him. When they’d married she’d had a license, but it had long since expired and was from a different state. Moving her away from family and friends had been one of the first things he’d done, taking her from Spokane all the way to Florida, where there were supposed to be good jobs. The job had never materialized, but he’d succeeded in getting her far from family, friends, and all that was familiar.

To anyone who hadn’t been the victim of domestic violence, the hesitation to testify, to put the aggressor behind bars, was incomprehensible. Only those who’d walked through this madness understood what courage it took, what fortitude and pure nerve were required to stand up in court and admit what they had endured.

When Maureen was called to the witness stand, Cassie held her breath. She slid to the very edge of the hard wooden seat as the young mother reluctantly stood.

“Don’t look at Lonny,” Cassie advised, giving the other woman’s hand a gentle squeeze as she scooted past. “If you need to, focus on me instead.”

Maureen was deathly pale and her nod was barely noticeable. Her walk from the back of the courtroom all the way to the witness stand seemed to take thirty minutes. Thankfully, she followed Cassie’s advice and kept her gaze lowered, refusing to look in the vicinity of her husband.

Twice the judge had to ask Maureen to speak up in order for her to be heard.

Cassie wanted to cheer when Maureen squared her shoulders as resolve came to her. She looked directly at the judge and said clearly, “Please don’t let him hurt me again.” With that, she stood and started to leave the witness stand.

Lonny roared to his feet and started toward her. Maureen screamed and two deputies rushed forward, restraining Maureen’s husband while he blurted out profanities and threats.

The judge’s gavel pounded like shotgun blasts through the courtroom, the sounds sharp and discordant. “Order,” he demanded. “Order in the court.”

Maureen fled to where Cassie waited. Cassie immediately wrapped her arms around the other woman and led her out of the courtroom. She’d testified and nothing more was required of her. Cassie was certain Lonny’s outburst hadn’t done him any favors in the judge’s eyes. The prosecuting attorney would touch base with Cassie later in the day after he’d spoken to Maureen. The case was rock–solid and there was no reason to believe Lonny would escape jail time.

Part of Cassie’s work as a victim advocate was to provide transportation for Maureen to the courthouse and back to the women’s shelter where Maureen and her two children were currently housed. She helped the shaking Maureen across the parking lot.

At this point all Cassie’s work was on a volunteer basis. She’d taken the formal training, and one day, God willing, she’d have the chance to go to college for a degree in social work with a minor in criminal law. That, for now, was a pipe dream.

Maureen didn’t speak until they were in Cassie’s car. Once her seat belt was in place, she released a stuttering sigh as if only now was she able to breathe.

“You did it,” Cassie said, praising her.

“Yes. The worst is over.”

Cassie didn’t have the heart to tell her that this was only the beginning. When someone had been beaten down for years, making even the simplest decision seemed paralyzing. Maureen and her children would need counseling and hand–holding. Fortunately, Maureen was already in a support group. In an effort to lend encouragement and guidance, Cassie had sat with her for a couple sessions. Maureen had listened without speaking, although she’d nodded a couple times.

Lacey Wilson, who facilitated the group, did an excellent job of steering the conversation. The women who attended were at different stages of the healing process.

They drove to the shelter, and Cassie walked Maureen inside. She glanced at her watch and saw that she was already late for work. Maureen seemed reluctant to let her go. “Will I see you this evening?” she asked, following Cassie back to the door.

Cassie knew Maureen needed her, but she would be doing the other woman a disservice if she allowed her to become too dependent. Maureen blocked the entrance to the shelter, her look imploring Cassie to stay with her.

“I’ll be back later,” Cassie assured her.

“You promise?”

How needy she sounded, uncertain and afraid, looking at Cassie with wide eyes, full of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of the future. Cassie knew about that, too. Leaving Duke had required grit and raw courage, but everything afterward had as well.

“You promise,” Maureen repeated.

“I promise, but for now I need to get to work.” Cassie had a job, one that supported her and Amiee. She worked as a hairstylist at a local salon in a quaint community in the south end of Seattle known as Kent. The shelter had supported her while she got the training she needed, and in exchange she’d worked at the shelter, cleaning and cooking. It’d taken her five years following her divorce to crawl out of the black hole that had become her life while married to Duke. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen or heard from Duke since that fateful day when she’d testified against him in a Florida courtroom.

By the time Cassie arrived at work, every chair at Goldie Locks was filled, with the exception of Cassie’s. Working as an independent contractor, Cassie paid Teresa Sanchez, the shop owner, a rental fee for the hair station. This meant she was responsible for paying for her own products, setting her own schedule, building up a clientele, and, probably the most difficult, setting aside money each quarter to pay the state business tax and her federal income tax.

“Mrs. Belcher is here for her haircut,” Rosie, the receptionist, mentioned as Cassie reached for her protective top. She zipped it into place and grabbed a banana off the fruit bowl in the middle of the table. That would have to do for lunch. The hearing had taken more time than she’d expected.

“A letter came for you,” Rosie said, as Cassie peeled away the banana’s skin.

“Here? Really?”

“The envelope is handwritten and has a postmark from Spokane. You know anyone in Spokane?”

Cassie went still. The only person who would write to her from the Columbia Basin was her older sister, Karen. When Cassie first moved to Kent she’d stayed briefly in the same shelter where Maureen and her children were currently housed. Right away she’d reached out to her older sister in Spokane but explained this was only a temporary address. If Karen wanted or needed to get in touch for now, the best address would be the hair salon where she was employed. Until now Karen hadn’t contacted her.

Despite efforts to reconnect with her family, Cassie had a tenuous relationship with her two sisters. After a bitter argument with her parents and older sister, Cassie had run away to marry Duke. They had never forgiven her for leaving the way she did and for not contacting them afterward. Little did they know …

“It’s in back. Do you want me to get it for you?” Rosie asked.

“Not now.” It amazed her how unsettled she felt. The bite of banana seemed to stick in her throat and it took considerable effort to swallow.

Cassie couldn’t imagine what her sister would have to say to her. Then again, she could. Karen had done everything right. Following graduation, she’d gone on to college, married, and had two perfect children. She’d stayed in Spokane and helped their parents. Their father had died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm only a few weeks after Cassie had broken free of Duke. She had been penniless and living in the shelter, and there was no possibility of Cassie returning home for the funeral. Her mother and sisters were in shock themselves. Cassie was too proud to explain her circumstances. All her family knew was that she’d left Duke and was living in Florida.

When her father died no one had offered to pay her way home, and so she’d remained in Florida and wept alone over the father she loved and hadn’t seen or talked to in nearly eight years.

Cassie had always been especially close to her father. Of the three girls, she’d been his favorite. He’d been proud of Cassie’s accomplishments, her high grades, the four–year scholarship she’d garnered upon graduation. Then she’d thrown it all away for Duke. Her father had never gotten over her turning her back on that scholarship and marrying Duke. Her sisters, either.

“Cassie?” Rosie said, breaking into her thoughts. “Mrs. Belcher is waiting.”

“Yes … I’m sorry.”

“You looked a million miles away.”

“I was,” she said, forcing a smile. She left the break room, leaving the banana behind, and collected Mrs. Belcher, who sat in the waiting area, reading the current issue of People magazine.

“I don’t know any of these people anymore,” she said, when she looked up at Cassie. “Who are these stars, anyway?” She shook her head and set the magazine aside.

Cassie led her customer to her station and slipped a plastic cape over the older woman’s shoulders, securing it with snaps at the back of Mrs. Belcher’s neck. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” Cassie apologized.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Belcher assured her. “I’m just grateful to get an appointment. You’re always so busy, and Cassie, my dear, just look at how long my hair is. I’m desperate. I can’t do a thing with it. My husband told me this morning that I resemble a shaggy dog, and he’s right.”

Cassie met the other woman’s eyes in the mirror and smiled. “I’ll take care of that in short order. Now let me take you to the shampoo station.”

It wasn’t until five o’clock that Cassie had the chance to retrieve her sister’s letter. She stared at the envelope several moments before she had the courage to tear it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Rosie watched as Cassie read the letter. It didn’t take her long.

“Well?” Rosie asked. The receptionist was the salon owner’s cousin and not the least bit shy about asking awkward questions.

“This is the first time Karen has reached out to me since my divorce,” Cassie said, unable to tear her gaze from the letter.

“Do you think your sister wants to mend fences?” Rosie asked, lowering her eyes toward the printed page as if hoping to read a few lines herself.

“I don’t know.” Cassie wasn’t getting her hopes up.

Rosie’s dark, expressive eyes widened. “Are you mad at her?”

“I was never angry with her,” Cassie explained. Once Cassie had left the women’s shelter, her first thought had been to go home. She’d contacted her family, needing financial help. Grief–stricken, dealing with the aftermath of her husband’s sudden death, Sandra Judson, Cassie’s mother, had asked Karen and Nichole to answer Cassie’s plea.

According to Karen, who spoke for both her and Nichole, neither sister was financially able to help. Karen’s husband had gone through a period of unemployment and they were barely making it. And Nichole had recently married and wasn’t in a position to be lending anyone money. The bottom line was that Cassie had made her own bed and it was up to her to climb out of it. Read more

92 Pacific Boulevard

Troy Davis had been with the sheriff’s department in Cedar Cove for most of his working life. He knew this town and he knew these people; he was one of them. Four times now he’d been elected to the office of sheriff by an overwhelming majority.

Sitting at his desk on this bleak January day, he let his mind wander as he sipped stale coffee. The department stuff was never good, no matter how recently it’d been brewed. As he sat there, he thought about Sandy, his wife of more than thirty years. She’d died last year of complications related to MS. Her death had left a gaping hole in his life. He’d often discussed his cases with her and had come to appreciate her insights. She usually had opinions, carefully considered ones, on what led people to commit the crimes that brought them to his attention.

Troy would’ve been interested in her views on one of his current cases. A couple of local teenagers had come upon skeletal remains in a cave not far from the road leading out of town. Partial results of the autopsy were finally in, but they raised more questions than they answered. Additional tests were forthcoming, and they might provide further information. He could only hope…. Hard though it was to believe, the body had gone all this time without discovery, and no one seemed to know who it was.

Despite this perplexing—and very cold—case and, of course, the loss of his wife, Troy had reason to count his blessings. He had a comfortable life, good friends and his only child, Megan, was married to a fine young man. In fact, Troy couldn’t have chosen a better husband for his daughter had he handpicked Craig himself. In a few months, Megan would give birth to his first grandchild.

As far as finances went, Troy had no complaints. His house was paid off and so was his car. He enjoyed his work and had strong ties to the community.

And yet… he was miserable.

That misery could be attributed to one source.

Faith Beckwith.

Troy had reconnected with his high-school girlfriend, and almost before he realized what was happening, he’d fallen in love with her all over again.

Neither of them possessed an impulsive personality. They were adults; they’d known what they wanted and what they were doing.

Then the relationship that had seemed so promising had come to a sudden end—thanks to his daughter’s reaction and to some undeniably bad judgment on Troy’s part.

When Megan learned he was dating again so soon after her mother’s death, she’d been very upset. Troy understood his daughter’s feelings. It had only been a few months since they’d buried Sandy; however, Sandy had been ill for years, and in some ways, their farewells had been said long before. But the fact that Troy had hidden his relationship with Faith from his daughter had contributed significantly to the whole mess.

On the evening of Troy’s first visit to Faith’s home in Seattle, the first time he’d kissed her, Megan had been at the hospital. She’d had a miscarriage. And while she and Craig were at the hospital, they couldn’t reach Troy— because he’d turned off his cell phone. Because he hadn’t wanted his hours with Faith interrupted.

His guilt had been overwhelming. The baby had meant everything to Megan and Craig, especially so soon after Sandy’s death.

In retrospect Troy saw that he’d completely mishandled the situation. Immediately after Megan’s miscarriage he’d broken off the relationship with Faith. He’d acted out of remorse but he hadn’t taken Faith’s feelings into account; her shock and pain haunted him to this day.

He’d dedicated himself to his daughter and her needs ever since. That didn’t mean he’d stopped thinking about Faith—far from it. Thoughts of her filled his every waking moment.

To complicate this already complicated situation, Faith had sold her Seattle home and moved to Cedar Cove to be closer to her son, Scott—and to Troy. Seeing her around town these days was torture. Faith had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. Troy didn’t blame her.

“I have that missing-persons file for you, Sheriff.” Cody Woodchase stepped into his office and set the folder in Troy’s in-basket.

“Thanks,” Troy murmured. “You checked the appropriate dates?”

Cody nodded, dutifully efficient. “And came up blank. The only major case I can personally recall was Daniel Sherman a few years back.”

Troy was well aware of the outcome. His old highschool friend had walked away from his family for no apparent reason. He’d simply vanished. The case had bothered Troy for well over a year. As it turned out, Dan had committed suicide, his body eventually found in the woods.

“That one was solved,” Troy pointed out.

“I remember,” Cody said. “Anyway, I pulled all the pertinent missing-persons files and printed them out for you.”

“Thanks.” Troy reached for the folder as soon as Cody left his office. Cedar Cove was fortunate enough to have a low crime rate. Oh, there was the occasional public disturbance, domestic violence now and then, a break-in, a drunk driver—the sort of crime common to any small town. There was a mystery every once in a while, too. The biggest that came to mind was the man who’d shown up at Thyme and Tide, the Beldons’ B and B. The stranger had the misfortune to die that very night. But that case, which was actually a murder, had been solved, too.

And now…the human remains, found just before Christmas.

According to the autopsy, they were those of a young man. A teenage boy between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. Based on those bones, there was no obvious cause of death. No blunt-force trauma, for instance. He’d been dead as long as twenty-five to thirty years.

Twenty-five to thirty years!

Troy had been with the department back then, untested and eager to prove himself. Sandy was pregnant after miscarrying twice, optimistic that this time they’d have their baby.

If a missing teenager had been reported in the late ’70s or early ’80s, Troy was confident he would’ve remembered it. The files Cody had printed out indicated that he was right. Not a single case involving a missing teenager, male or female, had been left unresolved.

To be on the safe side, he checked five years before and five years after. Twelve boys, mostly runaways, had been reported missing in that time. They’d all been found, either returning of their own accord or located by friends, relatives or the authorities.

Surely this young man had family, a mother and father, who must have wondered and waited in anguish. Troy closed his eyes and tried to think of boys he’d known during that time. Random names and faces rushed through his mind.

Around 1985, he recalled, Cedar Cove High School had won the state baseball championship. He could picture the first baseman, Robbie something, and Weaver, one of his deputies now, who’d been the team’s star pitcher. Troy had attended all the play-off games. Sandy had gone with him and, although she wasn’t a real baseball fan, she’d clapped and yelled her heart out.

Oh, how he missed Sandy….

Troy had visited her grave a couple of times over the holidays. Even at the end, when her body had failed her and MS had stolen much of her dignity, she’d been cheerful. He missed her appreciation of life’s simple joys.

At least he and Megan were over the firsts—the first Thanksgiving without Sandy. The first Christmas. The first birthday, wedding anniversary and Mother’s Day… Those were the big ones, when her loss felt like a burden that would never grow lighter. When he and his daughter both acknowledged that nothing would ever be the same.

Troy was startled out of his reverie by someone calling his name.

“Am I interrupting anything important?” Louie Benson asked, standing in the office doorway.

“Louie.” Troy rose to his feet. It wasn’t every day he received a visit from the mayor of Cedar Cove. “Come on in. Good to see you.” He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

“Happy New Year,” Louie said as he slid into the seat. He rested one ankle on the opposite knee, striking a relaxed pose.

“Same to you,” Troy said and sat back down. “What can I do for you?” The mayor was a busy man and didn’t waste time on unnecessary visits. The fact was, Troy couldn’t remember when Louie had last sought him out. Oh, they ran into each other often enough; that was unavoidable, since they worked in the same office complex. Socially they were acquaintances and he saw Louie at civic functions or the occasional party.

Louie’s expression grew serious, and he leaned forward. “I’ve got a couple of things I want to discuss with you.”

“Sure.”

Louie looked down at the floor. “First, I want to remind you that I’m up for reelection this November. I was hoping for an endorsement.”

“It’s yours.” Troy was surprised the other man felt the need to bring it up so early in the year. Besides, he’d supported Louie’s previous campaigns. Nothing had changed. To the best of his knowledge, no other candidates had declared their intentions to run against him.

“I value your support,” Louie said. “And of course you have mine.” His gaze fell on Troy’s desk. “On another matter… What can you tell me about those remains that were recently discovered?”

“I got the autopsy report a few days ago,” Troy told him. “Jack Griffin ran an article about it in the Chronicle over the weekend. I’d hoped someone might step forward with information as a result. Dental evidence is useless because without a name we can’t get a chart for comparison. To date, I have nothing.”

Louie leaned back in his chair and eyed the open folder on Troy’s desk. “So…no clue who that unfortunate soul might be?”

“None whatsoever.”

This didn’t appear to please the mayor. “The reason I’m pushing you on this is that I got a call from the Seattle paper. Apparently Jack’s story aroused some interest there. They want to do a piece on those unidentified remains.” The mayor’s frown deepened. “I tried to steer the reporter away from the subject, but she seems determined to find out whatever she can. I gave her your contact information, so expect a call.”

“Must be a slow news day.” Troy appreciated getting advance notice. “Thanks for the heads-up.” Over the years he’d dealt with the press many times and was accustomed to handling reporters. He had nothing against them as long as they didn’t probe where they didn’t belong or print misinformation.

“My fear,” Louie went on to explain, “is that a negative story will hurt Cedar Cove’s reputation. We want to attract tourists, not drive them away with… with ghoulish stories about our town.”

“At this point there’s nothing for them to report,” Troy reassured him.

“Have you found out anything?” Louie inquired.

“Not really.” Troy shrugged. “Pretty much what Jack wrote in that article. The remains are those of a male, between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. He’s been dead since 1980, give or take a few years. No indication how he died.”

Louie seemed uninterested in the details. “The thing is, Cedar Cove doesn’t need any bad press. Our initiative this year is to attract more tourists to the area. I hate the thought of Cedar Cove becoming the center of some macabre story about unidentified remains and an unsolved mystery.”

Troy nodded. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“Good.” Louie rose to his feet. “Do your best to solve this as quickly as possible.”

Standing up, too, Troy opened his mouth to assure the mayor he was doing the best he could, but he wasn’t given the opportunity.

“I’m not saying I want you to sweep anything under the rug, you understand?” the mayor said.

“Of course I won’t.”

“Good.” Louie extended his hand and Troy shook it. “Make sure nothing sensational or misleading gets printed, okay? Like I said, I want Cedar Cove to become a tourist destination, not some freak sideshow.”

“Do you remember the reporter’s name?” Troy asked.

“I doubt I’d forget it. Kathleen Sadler.”

“Kathleen Sadler,” Troy repeated. “Not to worry, I’ll set her straight.”

“Thanks.” Louie gave him a relieved smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

When the mayor had left, Troy went back to the paperwork on his desk. The phone rang frequently that afternoon, but there was no call from the reporter. He just hoped Kathleen Sadler hadn’t taken it upon herself to investigate the actual location. The cave was still taped off, but a piece of yellow crime-scene tape wasn’t always a deterrent to determined reporters.

Troy had kept the names of the two teenagers who’d discovered the body out of the Chronicle. However, that didn’t mean Sadler wouldn’t be able to track them down.

After they’d stumbled upon the remains, Troy had spoken to the teens twice. He was confident Philip “Shaw” Wilson and Tannith Bliss had told him everything they knew, which wasn’t much. The conversations had been straightforward. Although Tannith— Tanni—had done a good job of pretending to shrug off the incident, Troy could tell she’d been badly shaken. He was glad to turn the sixteen-year-old over to her mother.

The last thing Tanni needed was to be questioned by the Seattle press. Shaw was a bit older and Troy felt the young man would cope admirably with a barrage of questions. It might not hurt to give the two of them some warning.

His phone rang and Troy grabbed it, prepared to talk to the elusive Kathleen Sadler. “Sheriff Davis.”

“Uh, I hope I’m not disturbing you unnecessarily.” It was Cody Woodchase.

Troy caught the hesitation in his voice. “You’re not. What’s up?”

“I just got a call from the 9-1-1 dispatcher and apparently there’s been a break-and-enter at 204 Rosewood Lane.”

“Faith?” Troy’s reaction was immediate as he bolted to his feet. That was the address of the rental house where Faith had recently moved. She’d been there a little more than two months.

“I believe I heard she might be a… friend of yours.”

“Yes,” Troy said curtly, his throat muscles tight.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do, Cody. Thank you.” Within seconds, Troy had thrown on his coat and reached for his hat. He charged out the office door, unable to think of anything but Faith. He needed to know she hadn’t been hurt, that she was safe from harm. Read more

16 Lighthouse Road

Cecilia Randall had heard of people who, if granted one wish, would choose to live their lives over again. Not her. She’d be perfectly content to blot just one twelve-month period from her twenty-two years.

The past twelve months.

Last January, shortly after New Year’s, she’d met Ian Jacob Randall, a Navy man, a submariner. She’d fallen in love with him and done something completely irresponsible— she’d gotten pregnant. Then she’d complicated the whole situation by marrying him.

That was mistake number three and from there, her errors in judgement had escalated. She hadn’t been stupid so much as naïve and in love and— worst of all— romantic. The Navy, and life, had cured her of that fast enough.

Their baby girl had been born premature while Ian was at sea, and it became immediately apparent that she had a defective heart. By the time Ian returned home, Allison Marie had already been laid to rest. It was Cecilia who’d stood alone in the unrelenting rain of the Pacific Northwest while her baby’s tiny casket was lowered into the cold, muddy earth. She’d been forced to make life-and-death decisions without the counsel of family or the comfort of her husband.

Her mother lived on the East coast and, because of a snowstorm, had been unable to fly into Washington State. Her father was as supportive as he knew how to be— which was damn little. His idea of “being there for her” consisted of giving Cecilia a sympathy card and writing a few lines about how sorry he was for her loss. Cecilia had spent countless days and nights by their daughter’s empty crib, alternately weeping and in shock. Other Navy wives had tried to console her, but Cecilia wasn’t comfortable with strangers. She’d rejected their help and their friendship. And because she’d been in Cedar Cove for such a short time, she hadn’t made any close friends in the community, either. As a result, she’d borne her grief alone.

When Ian did return, he’d blamed Navy procedures for his delay. He’d tried to explain, but by then Cecilia was tired of it all. Only one reality had any meaning: her daughter was dead. Her husband didn’t know and couldn’t possibly understand what she’d endured in his absence. Since he was on a nuclear submarine, all transmissions during his tour of duty were limited to fifty word “family grams.” Nothing could have been done, anyway; the submarine was below the polar ice cap at the time. She did write to tell him about Allison’s birth and then her death. She’d written out her grief in these brief messages, not caring that they’d be closely scrutinized by Navy personnel. But Ian’s commanding officer had seen fit to postpone relaying the information until the completion of the ten-week tour. I didn’t know, Ian had repeatedly insisted. Surely she couldn’t hold him responsible. But she did. Unfair though it might be, Cecilia couldn’t forgive him.

Now all she wanted was out. Out of her marriage, out of this emotional morass of guilt and regret, just out. The simplest form of escape was to divorce Ian.

Sitting in the hallway near the courtroom, she felt more determined than ever to terminate her marriage. With one swift strike of a judge’s gavel, she could put an end to the nightmare of the past year. Eventually she would forget she’d ever met Ian Randall.

Allan Harris, Cecilia’s attorney, entered the foyer outside the Kitsap County courtroom. She watched as he glanced around until he saw her. He raised his hand in a brief greeting, then walked over to where she sat on the hard wooden bench and claimed the empty space beside her.

“Tell me again what’s going to happen,” she said, needing the assurance that her life would return to at least an approximation of what it had been a year ago.

Allan set his briefcase on his lap. “We wait until the docket is announced. The judge will ask if we’re ready, I’ll announce that we are, and we’ll be given a number.”

Cecilia nodded, feeling numb.

“We can be assigned any number between one and fifty,” her attorney continued. “Then we wait our turn.”

Cecilia nodded again, hoping she wouldn’t be stuck in the courthouse all day. Bad enough that she had to be here; even worse that Ian’s presence was also required. She hadn’t seen him yet. Maybe he was meeting somewhere with his own attorney, discussing strategies— not that she expected him to contest the divorce.

“There won’t be a problem, will there?” Her palms were damp and cold sweat had broken out across her forehead. She wanted this to be over so she could get on with her life. She believed that couldn’t happen until the divorce was filed. Only then would the pain start to go away.

“I can’t see that there’ll be any hang-ups, especially since you’ve agreed to divide all the debts.” He frowned slightly. “Despite that prenuptial agreement you signed.”

A flu-like feeling attacked Cecilia’s stomach, and she clutched her purse tightly against her. Soon, she reminded herself, soon she could walk out these doors into a new life.

“It’s a rather…unusual agreement,” Allan murmured.

In retrospect, the prenuptial agreement had been another in the list of mistakes she’d made in the past year, but according to her attorney one that could easily be rectified. Back when she’d signed it, their agreement had made perfect sense. In an effort to prove their sincerity, they’d come up with the idea that the spouse who wanted the divorce should pay not only the legal costs but all debts incurred during the marriage. It could be seen as either punitive or deterrent; in either case, it hadn’t worked. And now it was just one more nuisance to be dealt with.

Cecilia blamed herself for insisting on something in writing. She’d wanted to be absolutely sure that Ian wasn’t marrying her out of any sense of obligation. Yes, the pregnancy was unplanned, but she would’ve been perfectly content to raise her child by herself. She preferred that to being trapped in an unhappy marriage— or trapping Ian in a relationship he didn’t want. Ian, however, had been adamant. He’d sworn that he loved her, loved their unborn child and wanted to marry her.

As a ten-year-old, Cecilia’s entire world had been torn apart when her parents divorced. She refused to do that to her own child. In her mind, marriage was forever, so she’d wanted them to be certain before making a lifetime commitment. How naïve, she thought now. How sentimental. How romantic.

Ian had said he wanted their marriage to be forever, too, but like so much else this past year, that had been an illusion. Cecilia had needed to believe him, believe in the power of love, believe it would protect her from this kind of heartache.

In the end, blinded by the prospect of a husband who seemed totally committed to her and by the hope of a happy-ever-after kind of life, Cecilia had acquiesced to the marriage— with one stipulation. The agreement.

Their marriage was supposed to last as long as they both lived, so they’d devised an agreement that would help them stay true to their vows. Or so they’d thought…. Before the ceremony they’d written the prenuptial contract themselves and had it notarized. She’d forgotten all about it until she’d made an appointment with Allan Harris and he’d asked if she’d signed any agreement prior to the wedding. It certainly wasn’t the standard sort of document; nevertheless Allan felt they needed to have the court rescind it. Read more

If Not for You

If not for her loving but controlling parents, Beth Prudhomme might never have taken charge of her life and moved from her native Chicago to Portland, Oregon, where she’s reconnected with her spirited Aunt Sunshine and found a job as Read more

Cottage by the Sea

Annie Marlow has been through the worst. Rocked by tragedy, she heads to the one place that makes her happy: Oceanside in the Pacific Northwest, the destination of many family vacations when Annie was a teenager. Once there, Annie begins Read more

Window on the Bay

Prologue
Where It All Began
Jenna

“We need to talk,” Maureen said as we walked across the University of Washington campus.
Maureen and I had been study partners in our college French class for two years. At the end of the course we were scheduled to travel to France, which for the two of us would be a dream come true.
Paris. We were dying to see Paris. I’d fallen in love with the city as a young teen after watching Casablanca for the first time. When Ingrid Bergman looked deep into the eyes of Humphrey Bogart and whispered, “We’ll always have Paris,” I was captivated.
The city of love had beckoned me. It was the very reason I’d taken six years of French classes—four in high school and now two in college. I couldn’t wait to see Paris. I wanted to walk in the moonlight along the Seine, tour the Louvre and see the view of the city from the Eiffel Tower.
Maureen and I had spent endless hours talking about the trip we planned to take following our graduation in June. We’d both taken part-time jobs to pay for the trip; we’d sacrificed our weekends, saved and dreamed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, holding my text books close to my chest. It was spring—my favorite time of year—and I’d spent a good portion of my French Literature class day dreaming about springtime in Paris. I could see myself walking along the river, viewing artists busily painting on their canvases while a love song came from a distant accordion, the sweet notes drifting through the air and filling the warm sunshine.
“I can’t go to Paris,” Maureen blurted out.
“What?” Her words took my breath away. I was sure I’d heard her wrong.
“I won’t be able to go to Paris the way we planned.”
Dumbfounded, I stopped walking and stared at her. We’d planned this trip for months, going over every detail, checking prices for flights, hotels, and budgeting our money down to the penny.
Maureen lowered her eyes. “I’m pregnant. Peter and I have decided to get married as soon as we graduate.”
I knew she’d been seeing a lot of Peter Zelinski but had no idea their relationship was this serious. Maureen had taken on the role of tutoring students as a means of earning extra money for our Paris trip. Peter had been one of her calculus students.
I was dating, too. Kyle Boltz was a first-year medical student and I was beginning to hope we would have a future together. Kyle had a lot of schooling ahead of him and I would soon be graduating with a nursing degree. We’d met at a party and we had had clicked.
“Say something,” Maureen pleaded.
That was the problem. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t fully assimilated that everything—all our plans, our prep work, the anticipation—had changed overnight. And, my best friend was pregnant. This changed everything.
“You should still go,” Maureen added.
“Not without you.” I refused to entertain the thought. It wouldn’t be the same without my best friend.
“I’ve ruined everything,” Maureen said, biting into her lower lip.
Giving her a big hug, I did my best to comfort her. “You didn’t ruin anything. A baby is far more important than a trip to Paris. We’ll get there one day.”
Maureen’s mouth wobbled with the effort to smile.
“And I get to be in your wedding.”
“Maid of Honor,” Maureen said. “I wouldn’t have anyone else.”
“Deal.”
Yes, I was disappointed, but we had our whole lives ahead of us. Paris would wait. Read more

Love Letters

Chapter 1

If someone had told me, as little as two years ago, that I’d own and operate a bed-­and-­breakfast in this tiny berg of a town called Cedar Cove, I would have laughed my head off. But then I never expected to be a widow at the age of thirty-­six, either. If I’ve learned anything—­and, trust me, life has been filled with several painful lessons—­it’s that the future doesn’t come with a printed guarantee.

So here I am in ninety-­five-­degree heat, stripping beds, scrubbing toilets, and baking cookies. An even greater surprise is that I’m loving it. Well, maybe not the toilet-­scrubbing part, but just about every other aspect of this new life I have carved out for myself.

It’s been two full years now since I got the news that my husband is dead. And while I never thought it would be possible, there are times when I can smile again, feel again, even laugh. All three are surprises. When I got word that Paul had been killed in a helicopter crash on some unpronounceable mountainside in Afghanistan, it felt as if my entire world had imploded. I needed to hold on to something to keep from spiraling out of control, and that something turned out to be Rose Harbor Inn.

Nearly everyone advised against me buying the inn: my family, my friends, my employer. Again and again I heard that this was a drastic change, and I should wait a year. Give it twelve months, I was lectured. That’s the proverbial wisdom, and while I politely listened, I silently went about making my own plans. It was either do something different—­all right, drastic—­or slowly go insane.

Has it been easy? Hardly. Eking out a living by renting rooms, doing a good majority of the work myself, hasn’t helped build up my investment portfolio. I have yet to see a penny in profit, but I’m not going under, either. For the most part I’ve invested every cent back into the inn.

After I purchased the inn, I changed the name and had a new sign constructed and installed. I’d decided to call my new home Rose Harbor Inn. Rose is my surname, Paul’s name, and Harbor because I needed to find a protected environment in order to heal. And my sign hung proudly in front of the inn with my name, Jo Marie Rose, etched below.

In addition to the new sign, there were certain necessary repairs, some cosmetic and others unavoidable. Thankfully, friends introduced me to Mark Taylor, the local handyman.

Mark.

What an enigma he was. I’ve seen him nearly every day for the past year, sometimes two and three times a day, and I still know hardly anything about him other than his name and address. Okay, so he’s a great carpenter and he craves my peanut-­butter cookies. Not knowing more felt like a pesky bug bite with a constant itch. My imagination ran wild. I wanted to uncover Mark’s secrets, conjuring up a dozen reasons he refused to talk about himself. Some of those scenarios were outrageous, and there were a few scary ones lurking in the back of my mind as well.

I’ve been on a mission to pry some small bit of personal information out of him. So far I’ve had little to no success. I might as well try chiseling marble with a marshmallow. The man is as tight-­lipped as they come.

The washing machine beeped, indicating that the cycle had ended.

The Hendersons, who’d recently checked out, had been in town visiting their son, who was stationed at the Bremerton Navy base. He’d recently become engaged to a local woman, and the couple had flown in from Texas to meet their future daughter-­in-­law. Lois and Michael were a delightful couple and I’d enjoyed hosting them.

I had two names on the books for the upcoming weekend. Both would arrive sometime Friday afternoon. After a while, names become a blur in my memory. People come and go, but for whatever reason, I specifically remembered both parties who had booked this weekend.

The first was Eleanor Reynolds, and she’d sounded quite proper when we’d first spoken. I’d guesstimated that she was either an accountant or a middle-­aged librarian. Since that time I’d changed my mind. I’d spoken to Ellie twice—­she asked that I call her that—­since our original phone call. Once when she canceled and then a third time when she rebooked. The woman couldn’t seem to make up her mind. Seeing that I hadn’t heard from her in the last few weeks, I had to assume she would keep the reservation and arrive sometime this afternoon.

By contrast, Maggie Porter had been a breath of fresh air, chatting and happy. This was a getaway weekend she was planning with her husband, Roy. Right before the Fourth of July, Maggie’s in-­laws, who had apparently heard what Maggie was planning, had called and paid for the weekend as an anniversary gift for the young couple. I looked forward to meeting Maggie and her husband.

Rover barked, which told me someone was coming up the front walkway. I glanced at my watch, fearing I’d let time get away from me. This happened more frequently than I cared to admit. Rover, my rescue dog and constant companion, raced to the door. I recognized Rover’s bark, which told me I had nothing to be anxious about. It wasn’t a guest arriving early; it was Mark Taylor.

Great. I’d been hoping it was him. I fully intended to drill him and this time I wasn’t going to let him sidetrack me or sidestep my questions.

I held the door open for Mark. He’d broken his leg last May and it’d healed nicely. I couldn’t detect even a trace of a limp. I’d been upset with him for how long it’d taken him to plant my rose garden. What should have taken only a matter of a few days had stretched into weeks and weeks.

As you might have guessed, patience isn’t my strong suit. To be fair, his injured leg didn’t exactly speed up the process. When the rose garden was in and blooming I was less irritated. Next on my agenda was the gazebo, which I wanted Mark to build. I’d given him a photo of exactly what I envisioned, but that had been weeks ago.

I longed for that gazebo. In my mind, I pictured Rover sitting with me while I sipped coffee or tea at sunset, watching the sun casting a net of pink and orange shadows across the sky as it slowly went down behind the Olympic Mountain Range. I could get the same view from the deck in the back of the house, but I liked to reserve that spot for my guests. It was a picture of the sunset that graced my brochure. Mark took that photo. Actually, he’s quite good at photography, although he brushes away my praise as if receiving a compliment embarrasses him.

Mark came into the inn and paused long enough to look down at Rover. He muttered something about the dog being nothing but a worthless mutt.

I bit down on my tongue to keep from defending Rover. Mark was like that. He’d make a comment just to get a rise out of me, but I was onto his game and I wasn’t falling for it.

“You got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure. What’s up?”

He didn’t answer me directly. Instead, he went into the breakfast room where I served my guests and placed a rolled-­up piece of drafting paper on the tabletop. “I’ve finished the plans for the gazebo.”

This was a surprise. I’d expected it would take another five or six months for him to get around to that. From the first, he’d let it be known that he had other jobs that took priority over mine. This was something else he did, I suspected, hoping to irritate me. To my way of thinking, my money was just as good as anyone else’s, or so one would think. Despite my best efforts, I had yet to figure out how Mark established his priority system. Not that it mattered. However he calculated it, my projects were generally placed near the bottom.

“That’s great,” I said, and hoped to sound encouraging, but not overly so. I didn’t want to be disappointed when it took far longer than I wanted for him to start the project.

He unrolled the sheet of paper and anchored it with the salt and pepper shakers on opposite corners. The free corners curled up slightly.

I glanced down and immediately liked what I saw. “When did you draw this up?” I asked.

“A few weeks ago.”

And he was only showing it to me now?

“Do you like it or not?”

I wasn’t the only one who struggled with patience.

“I do,” I assured him, “but I have a few questions.”

“Like what?”

“What’s it going to cost me?”

He rolled his eyes as if I’d made an unreasonable request. “You want an estimate?”

“That’s generally how it works,” I reminded him.

He sighed as if insulted. “I would have thought by now that you’d trust me to be fair.”

“I do trust you, but building a gazebo can’t be cheap, and I may need to budget for it. I don’t suppose you take payments?”

He shrugged. “Nope.”

“That’s what I thought.” As it was, he preferred to be paid in cash.

“Okay, fine, I’ll get you an estimate but if you complain about delays, then you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Can you give me a general idea?” I pressed. To this point, the cost of everything Mark had built for me had been more than reasonable.

In response, he took out a small spiral pad he kept in his shirt pocket and riffled through several pages. He studied the sheet, then frowned and closed his eyes as if mentally tallying up the final estimation. When he opened his eyes, he named a figure I could live with.

“Sounds good,” I said, trying to disguise how pleased I was.

“It’s a go?”

I studied the design once more. It was basically a carbon copy of the picture I’d cut out of a magazine and handed him months ago. As far as I could see, it was perfect and would add a great deal of curb appeal to the inn.

“It’s a go.” I rubbed my palms together. I was excited now, and I didn’t care if Mark knew it. Rover wagged his tail as if he, too, was pleased.

“Good.” He replaced the salt and pepper shakers to the middle of the table, collected the paper, rolled it back up, and secured it with a rubber band.

Mark wrinkled his nose. “You baked cookies this morning?” he asked, and then frowned. “In this heat?”

“It was early.”

I tend to be an early riser, always have been. My friends, before they married and had children, often slept until ten or eleven on weekends. Try as I might, I rarely made it past seven. Eight at the very latest.

“How early?”

“Four.”

Mark shook his head and grimaced as if he’d unexpectedly tasted something sour. “Too early for me.”

“Is it too early for a taste test?” It went without saying that he was looking for me to make the offer.

“I could be persuaded.” Read more

Silver Linings

Set in Cedar Cove’s charming Rose Harbor Inn, Debbie Macomber’s captivating new novel follows innkeeper Jo Marie and two new guests as they seek healing and comfort, revealing that every cloud has a silver lining, even when it seems difficult Read more

A Girl’s Guide to Moving On

In this powerful and uplifting novel a mother and her daughter-in-law bravely leave their troubled marriages and face the challenge of starting over. Leaning on each other, Nichole and Leanne discover that their inner strength and capacity for love are Read more

Any Dream Will Do

Beloved and bestselling author Debbie Macomber returns with a powerful standalone novel about a woman forced to start her life anew, embarking on the most courageous journey of all—to a place where she learns what love and trust really mean. Read more

Lost and Found in Cedar Cove

Debbie Macomber’s heartwarming new series, set at the Rose Harbor Inn in picturesque Cedar Cove, displays the author’s signature talent for creating characters who feel like friends, and small towns that feel like home. In this original short story available Read more

The Best Is Yet to Come

When a woman alone in the world bravely chooses to open her heart, two lost souls have a new chance at belonging, in this intimate novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber. A new beginning in charming Read more

When First They Met

Debbie Macomber’s Blossom Street and Cedar Cove series have won thousands of fans, thanks to her signature blend of heartfelt romance, delightful humor, and warm wisdom. Now, in this original short story Macomber shares a sneak peek into her new Read more

Falling for Her

Mark Taylor came to Cedar Cove to leave his painful past behind him, and has spent the last few years keeping mostly to himself. But when he meets Jo Marie Rose, his world is turned upside down. She’s hired him Read more

Blossom Street Brides

Chapter One

Lauren Elliott had received the most depressing news of her life.

Her sister was pregnant.

Her younger sister.

Oh, she was happy and excited for Carol, but mingled in with the joy was an undeniable sense of envy. The fact that Carol was about to become a mother shouldn’t have come as a shock—her sister and Jason had been married for two years, after all. Lauren loved her sister, and Jason would make a wonderful father. What bothered her was the fact that at age thirty-four, Lauren was still unmarried.

Single. Oh, how she’d come to hate that word.

Walking down Blossom Street, Lauren buried her hands deep into the pockets of her fawn-colored rain jacket. Tulips and crocuses bloomed in the flowerpots that hung from the streetlights, and the scent of roses, lilacs, and camellias followed her as she walked past Susannah’s Garden, the flower shop.

Lauren kept her head down as she mulled over this latest development. This was it. The end of her rope. The line in the sand. She was finished waiting for Todd to give her an engagement ring. A year earlier she’d had the DTR—Defining the Relationship—talk with Todd and he’d assured her that marriage was definitely part of their future. Only he wasn’t in a financial position to make the leap just yet. He’d suggested they give it time, and she’d reluctantly agreed. That was twelve months ago, and frankly her patience was shot. She’d dated the popular local television newscaster for three years and it was time to own up to the truth. If Todd was sincere about wanting her for his wife, then she would have had a diamond on her ring finger long before now.

Clearly Todd enjoyed their relationship just the way it was, and in some ways so did she. Todd was fun and smart, and she liked being with him. Because of his job, Lauren frequently accompanied him to high-profile social events. As a result, she was able to mingle with some of the city’s elite, and it didn’t hurt that many of these socialites came to John Michael Jewelers, where she worked, for their jewelry needs.

Lauren passed A Good Yarn and the window display instantly caught her attention. She stopped to give it a look and shook her head. Wouldn’t you know it, the display in the yarn store’s window was a baby blanket.

A beautiful baby blanket knit in lovely pastel colors. Lauren wanted to groan. She loved her sister, but there’d always been a friendly rivalry between them. More laid-back of the two, Lauren didn’t have big career ambitions, whereas Carol worked as a program designer for a large software company out of California. She’d married her college sweetheart and seemed to have the perfect life.

Lauren had dropped out of college after a couple of years and over time had worked at a number of jobs. She enjoyed sales and seemed to be good at it. The irony was that her specialty was engagement and wedding bands. The couples she dealt with were deeply in love and eager to start their lives together. It gave Lauren a deep sense of satisfaction to help them take one of their first steps toward commitment.

The bottom line, she realized now, was that Todd was completely content to leave matters just as they were. They got along great and talked frequently. Rarely a week passed without them attending some sort of social event. They would like to spend more time together, but Todd was busy with his broadcasting career. He had his sights set on getting an anchor position and focused most of his attention on achieving his professional goals.

“Hello, Lauren,” Lydia Hoffman said, coming up from behind her.

“Oh, hi.” Lauren spun around to greet the owner of the yarn store. Lydia’s husband, Brad, had purchased his wife’s wedding band at John Michael Jewelers, where Lauren had worked for the past five years.

“Isn’t that a beautiful baby blanket?” Lydia asked, apparently noticing that Lauren’s gaze was focused on the window display.

“It is.” Lauren had no option but to agree.

“I think I’ve sold more yarn from this display than any I’ve ever done. There’s something about knitting for babies that draws people into the shop. Just yesterday a customer stopped by and bought yarn for the blanket and told me she doesn’t know anyone who’s having a baby, but she thought she’d knit it anyway.”

Lauren faked a smile. “I just got word my sister is pregnant.” She didn’t elaborate and explain that Carol was a full two years younger than she. “When I saw this blanket I thought I should knit it for her.”

“I’m sure she’d treasure it. Anything homemade makes a baby gift all the more special.”

Lydia inserted the key to the front door, and while Lauren was tempted to purchase the yarn right then, she needed to get to work herself. “I’ll be by later today or tomorrow to pick up the yarn.”

“Make it Thursday. I’m sold out, but I have a new shipment due in then. I’ll be here if you need any help with the pattern,” Lydia assured her.

John Michael Jewelers was one block down from the yarn store. Elisa Lippincott, the original owner’s daughter, managed the store now with her husband, Garry. Lauren enjoyed her job immensely and considered Elisa a friend as well as her employer.

“Morning,” Lauren said as she came into the store. She locked the door behind her. When the safe was open all the doors leading into the store remained locked.

Elisa stuck her head out of the walk-in safe. “Morning,” she returned brightly. She had a pair of jewel cases in her hands, which she set into the display window that looked out onto Blossom Street.

Lauren removed her raincoat and stuck it in the back office along with her purse. Right away she helped Elisa get out the precious stones. Despite the down economy, the store continued to do well. Elisa, Garry, and Lauren—all working full-time, along with a few part-time sales associates—were a good team.

“Garry will be in sometime this afternoon,” Elisa explained as she set out the semiprecious stones. “He’s got a meeting at the school for one of the boys, and then he’s headed to lunch with the Rotary Club.”

Garry was the company expert when it came to men’s and women’s watches. Lauren headed up their diamond sales, and Elisa handled just about everything else.

“I heard from my sister,” Lauren said casually as she set the jewels in the display case, locking them inside. “Carol and Jason are pregnant.” She made sure she sounded pleased and excited for her younger sibling.

“That’s great.”

“It is,” Lauren agreed. “It’s just wonderful. Mom and Dad are over the moon. Their first grandchild.”

Elisa paused and focused her attention on Lauren. “You sound like you’re ready to cry.”

“I could break into sobs at the drop of a pin,” she admitted, and tried to laugh it off, but the only sound that came out was reminiscent of something one might hear on the Sci-Fi channel. She quickly got hold of herself. “Tell me, Elisa, and please be honest. Is there something wrong with me?” Because Elisa was her friend, she expected the truth.

“Wrong?”

“Am I annoying?”

“Not at all.” Elisa sounded shocked that Lauren would suggest such a thing.

“Do I have a domineering or unpleasant personality?”

“No way.”

“Do I bore you?”

“No.” Her friend shook her head.

“Am I unattractive?”

This question produced a laugh. “Hardly. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re gorgeous—tall and slim, with your stunning blue eyes and that dark hair. I swear there must be some Scottish blood in you somewhere. Half the men who come in this shop leave half in love with you.”

Her friend’s words were a balm to her wounded pride. “Then why am I still single?”

Elisa didn’t hesitate. “Because Todd Hampton is an idiot.” She gently squeezed Lauren’s forearm. “You’ve been much too patient with him. You need to give Todd an ultimatum,” she suggested. “He loves you. All he needs now is a gentle shove in the right direction. Tell him it’s time; you’ve been patient to this point, but you aren’t willing to continue without a firm commitment.”

An ultimatum for Todd—Lauren had reached the same conclusion but then rethought the matter. The fact was, she’d spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, mulling over her options with Todd. She’d teetered back and forth with the relationship, wondering what would be best. She hated the idea of forcing him to set a date, and then wondered why she’d been so willing to let matters drag.

“The thing is . . .” Lauren didn’t get the opportunity to finish her sentence when Elisa’s cellphone chirped.

“It’s Katie.” Elisa grabbed it before the second chirp.

Lauren knew the shop owner had been anxiously awaiting a call from her oldest child. Katie was a college freshman, and Elisa had undergone separation anxiety sending her only daughter away to school, which was less than three hundred miles away in Pullman, Washington. Elisa worried incessantly over Katie’s diet, studies, partying, alcohol, and dating. If Katie didn’t contact her mother at some point during the day, Elisa was convinced her child had fallen victim to any number of dreadful possibilities.

“Katie, why haven’t you called?” Elisa demanded. “You didn’t answer the text message I sent, and—”

Elisa paused, then let out a loud gasp and hurried into the small office, quickly closing the door. Lauren couldn’t help but wonder what that was about. Her friend tended to be something of a drama queen. Even with the office door closed, Lauren could hear Elisa, although she couldn’t make out what she was saying.

The possibilities raced through Lauren’s mind. More than likely, it was something minor. Katie might have flunked an important test. More likely, she needed extra money put into her bank account. Quite possibly, she hadn’t turned in her library books on time and had allowed the fine to accumulate. Lauren liked Katie and considered the teenager levelheaded and responsible. As a friend and employer, Elisa was great, but as a mother, she was a bit fixated.

Ten minutes later, Elisa reappeared, as white as a sun-bleached sheet.

“Elisa,” Lauren asked tentatively. “Is everything all right with Katie?”

Her friend didn’t answer and then simply shook her head.

“Do you need to sit down?”

Elisa nodded.

Lauren scooted over a stool, and Elisa sank onto it in slow motion.

“Do you want me to call Garry?”

That got an immediate response that came as a shout: “No . . . no!”

“Can I get you coffee?”

“I need something way stronger than coffee. Way stronger.”

Lauren didn’t think they kept anything more potent at the store, unless it was for a special sales event. Even then it was champagne, and Lauren suspected Elisa wasn’t in the mood to celebrate with a glass of bubbly. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Tears welled in Elisa’s eyes.

Apparently, this was something far worse than an overdue library book or a failed test. Disregarding what Elisa had claimed she needed, Lauren brewed her a single cup of coffee, making sure it was extra-strong. She added three cubes of sugar and stirred until it had dissolved before delivering it to her friend.

Elisa held on to the cup with both hands as though it was all that was keeping her from falling off the edge of a ten-story building. “Do you remember Dietrich?” Read more

It’s Better This Way

After divorce shatters her family, one woman’s struggle to pick up the pieces finally leads to a new beginning–but is the past truly behind her? #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber explores the powerful intersections of love and Read more

Christmas in Cedar Cove

Ruth Shelton hurried out of her classroom-management lecture at the University of Washington, where she was completing her master’s of education degree. Clutching her books, she dashed across campus, in a rush to get home. By now the mail would have been delivered to her small rental house three blocks from the school.

“Ruth,” Tina Dupont called, stopping her in mid-flight. “There’s another antiwar rally this afternoon at—”

“Sorry, I’ve got to run,” Ruth said, jogging past her friend and feeling more than a little guilty. Other students cleared a path for her; wherever she was headed must have seemed urgent—and it was, but only to her. Since Christmas, four months ago, she’d been corresponding with Sergeant Paul Gordon, USMC, who was stationed in Afghanistan. There’d been recent reports of fighting, and she hadn’t received a letter or an email from Paul in three days. Three interminable days. Not since they’d initially begun their correspondence had there been such a lapse. Paul usually wrote every day and she did, too. They emailed as often as possible. Ruth had strong feelings about the war in Iraq, although her opinions didn’t match those of her parents.

Earlier in the school year, Ruth had been part of a protest rally on campus. But no matter what her political views on the subject, she felt it was important to support American troops wherever they might be serving. In an effort to do that, Ruth had voluntarily mailed a Christmas card and letter to a nameless soldier.

Paul Gordon was the young man who’d received that Christmas card, and to Ruth’s surprise he’d written her back and enclosed his photograph. Paul was from Seattle and he’d chosen her card because of the Seattle postmark. He’d asked her lots of questions—about her history, her family, her interests—and closed with a postscript that said he hoped to hear from her again.

When she first got his letter, Ruth had hesitated. She felt she’d done her duty, supported the armed services in a way she was comfortable doing. This man she’d never met was asking her to continue corresponding with him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to become that involved. Feeling uncertain, she’d waited a few days before deciding.

During that time, Ruth had read and reread his letter and studied the head shot of the clean-cut handsome marine sergeant in dress uniform. His dark brown eyes had seemed to stare straight through her—and directly into her heart. After two days, she answered his letter with a short one of her own and added her email address at the bottom of the page. Ruth had a few concerns she wanted him to address before she could commit herself to beginning this correspondence. Being as straightforward and honest as possible, she explained her objections to the war in Iraq. She felt there was a more legitimate reason for troops to be in Afghanistan and wanted to know his stand. A few days later he emailed her. Paul didn’t mince words. He told her he believed the United States had done the right thing in entering Iraq and gave his reasons. He left it up to her to decide if she wanted to continue their correspondence. Ruth emailed him back and once again listed her objections to the American presence in the Middle East. His response came a day later, suggesting they “agree to disagree.” He ended the email with the same question he’d asked her earlier. Would she write him?

At first, Ruth wasn’t going to. They were diametrically opposed in their political views. But in the end, even recognizing the conflict between their opinions, she did write. Their correspondence started slowly. She enjoyed his wry wit and his unflinching determination to make a difference in the world. His father had fought in Vietnam, he said, and in some ways the war in Afghanistan seemed similar—the hostile terrain, the unpredictability of the enemy, the difficult conditions. For her part, she mentioned that at twenty-five she’d returned to school to obtain her master’s of education degree. Then, gradually, without being fully aware of how it had happened, Ruth found herself spending part of every day writing or emailing Paul. Despite the instant nature of email, and its convenience, they both enjoyed interspersing their online messages with more formal letters. There was something so…permanent about a real letter. As well, depending on his duty assignment, Paul didn’t always have computer access.

After they’d been corresponding regularly for a couple of months, Paul asked for her picture. Eventually she’d mailed him her photograph, but only after she’d had her hair and makeup done at one of those “glamour” studios. Although she wasn’t fashion-model beautiful, she considered herself fairly attractive and wanted to look her absolute best for Paul, although she didn’t entirely understand why it mattered so much. For years, she’d been resigned to the fact that she wasn’t much good at relationships. In high school she’d been shy, and while she was an undergraduate, she’d dated a little but tended to be reserved and studious. Her quiet manner didn’t seem to appeal to the guys she met. It was only when she stepped in front of a classroom that she truly became herself. She loved teaching, every single aspect of it. In the process, Ruth lost her hesitation and her restraint, and to her astonishment discovered that this enthusiasm had begun to spill over into the rest of her life. Suddenly men started to notice her. She enjoyed the attention—who wouldn’t?—and had dated more in the past few months than in the preceding four years.

For the picture, her short brown hair had been styled in loose curls. Her blue eyes were smiling and friendly, which was exactly the impression she hoped to convey. She was a little shocked by the importance of Paul’s re-action—by her need that he find her attractive.

She waited impatiently for his response. A week later she received an email. Paul seemed to like what he saw in her photograph and soon they were writing and emailing back and forth at a feverish pace. A day without some form of communication from Paul felt empty now.

Ruth had never had a long-distance relationship before, and the growing intensity of her feelings for this man she’d never met took her by surprise. She wasn’t a teenager with a schoolgirl crush. Ruth was a mature, responsible adult. Or at least she had been until she slipped a simple Christmas card into the mailbox—and got a reply from a handsome marine sergeant named Paul Gordon.

Ruth walked quickly to the rental house she shared with Lynn Blumenthal, then ran up the front steps to the porch. Lynn was eighteen and away from home and family for the first time. The arrangement suited both of them, and despite the disparity in their ages and interests, they’d gotten along fairly well. With her heart pounding hard, Ruth forced herself to draw in a deep breath as she started toward the mailbox.

The screen door flew open and Lynn came out. “What are you doing home?” she asked, then shook her head. “Never mind, I already know. You’re looking for a letter from soldier boy.”

Ruth wasn’t going to deny the obvious. “I haven’t heard from him in three days.”

Lynn rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand you.”

“I know.” Ruth didn’t want to get into another discussion with her roommate. Lynn had made her feelings about this relationship known from the outset, although as Ruth had gently tried to tell her, it was none of her business. That didn’t prevent the younger woman from expressing her views. Lynn said that Ruth was only setting herself up for heartache. A part of Ruth actually agreed, but by the time she realized what was happening, she was emotionally involved with Paul.

“You hardly ever see Clay anymore,” Lynn chastised, hands on her hips. “He called and asked about you the other night.”

Ruth stared at the small black mailbox. “Clay and I are just friends.”

“Not according to him.”

It was true that they’d been seeing each other quite a bit following a Halloween party last October. Like her, Clay Matthews was obtaining his master’s of education, and they seemed to have a lot in common. But her interest in him had started to wane even before she’d mailed that Christmas card to Paul. The problem was, Clay hadn’t noticed.

“I’m sorry he’s disappointed.”

“Clay is decent and hardworking, and the way you’ve treated him the last few months is…is terrible.” Lynn, who at five foot ten stood a good seven inches taller than Ruth, could be intimidating, especially with her mouth twisted in that grimace of disapproval.

Ruth had tried to let Clay down easily, but it hadn’t worked. They’d gone to the library together last Thursday. Unfortunately, that had been a mistake. She’d known it almost right away when Clay pressured her to have coffee with him afterward. It would’ve been better just to end the relationship and forget about staying friends. He was younger, for one thing, and while that hadn’t seemed important earlier, it did now. Perhaps it was wrong to compare him to Paul, but Ruth couldn’t help it. Measured against Paul, Clay seemed immature, demanding and insecure.

“You said he phoned?” Frowning, she glanced at Lynn.

Lynn nodded. “He wants to know what’s going on.”

Oh, brother! Ruth couldn’t have made it plainer had she handed him divorce papers. Unwilling to be cruel, she’d tried to bolster his ego by referring to all the positive aspects of his personality—but apparently, that had only led him to think the opposite of what she was trying to tell him. He’d refused to take her very obvious hints, and in her frustration, she’d bluntly announced that she wasn’t interested in seeing him anymore. That seemed pretty explicit to her; how he could be confused about it left Ruth shaking her head.

The fact that he’d phoned and cried on her roommate’s shoulder was a good example of what she found adolescent about his behavior. She was absolutely certain Paul would never do that. If he had a problem, he’d take it directly to the source.

“I think you’re being foolish,” Lynn said, and added, “Not that you asked my opinion.”

“No, I didn’t,” Ruth reminded her, eyeing the mailbox again. There was an ornamental latticework design along the bottom, and looking through it, she could tell that the day’s mail had been delivered. The envelope inside was white, and her spirits sank. There had to be something from Paul. If not a real letter, then an email.

“He wanted me to talk to you,” Lynn was saying.

“Who did?” Ruth asked distractedly. She was dying to open the mailbox, but she wanted to do it in privacy.

“Clay” Lynn cried, sounding completely exasperated. “Who else are we talking about?”

Suddenly Ruth understood. She looked away from the mailbox and focused her attention on Lynn. “You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?”

Lynn gasped indignantly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Sit down,” Ruth said, gesturing toward the front steps, where they’d often sat before. It was a lovely spring afternoon, the first week of April, and she needed to clear the air with her roommate before this got further out of hand.

“What?” Lynn said with a defensive edge. “You’ve got the wrong idea here. I was just trying to help a friend.”

“Sit,” Ruth ordered.

“I have class in twenty minutes and I—” Lynn paused, scowling at her watch.

“Sit down.”

The eighteen-year-old capitulated with ill grace. “All right, but I know what you’re going to say.” She folded her arms and stared straight ahead.

“I’m fine with it,” Ruth said softly. “Go out with him if you want. Like I said earlier, I’m not interested in Clay.”

“You would be if it wasn’t for soldier boy.”

Ruth considered that and in all honesty felt she could say, “Not so.”

“I don’t understand you,” Lynn lamented a second time. “You marched in the rally against the war in Iraq. Afghanistan isn’t all that different, and now you’re involved with Paul what’s-his-face and it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Paul doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Yes, he does,” Lynn insisted.

“I’m not going to have this conversation with you. We agree on some points and disagree on others. That’s fine. We live in a free society and we don’t have to have the same opinion on these issues or anything else.”

Lynn sighed and said nothing.

“I have the feeling none of this is really about Paul,” Ruth said with deliberate patience. She hadn’t known Lynn very long; they lived separate lives and so far they’d never had a problem. As roommates went, Ruth felt she was fortunate to have found someone as amicable as Lynn. She didn’t want this difference of opinion about Clay—and Paul—to ruin that.

The other girl once again looked pointedly at her watch, as if to suggest Ruth say what she intended to say and be done with it.

“I don’t want to see Clay,” she said emphatically.

“You might have told him that.”

“I tried.”

Lynn glared at her. “You should’ve tried harder.”

Ruth laughed, but not because she was amused. For whatever reason, Clay had set his sights on her and wasn’t about to be dissuaded. Complicating matters, Lynn was obviously interested in him and feeling guilty and unsure of how to deal with her attraction.

“Listen,” Ruth said. “I didn’t mean to hurt Clay. He’s a great guy and—”

“You shouldn’t have lied to him.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “When did I lie to him?”

“Last week you said you were going to visit your grandmother in Cedar Cove and that was why you couldn’t go out with him this weekend. I overheard you,” she murmured. Read more

Hannah’s List

I am not a sentimental guy. I’ve been known to forget Mother’s Day and, once, when Hannah and I were dating, I even let Valentine’s go unnoticed. Fortunately she didn’t take my lapse too seriously or see it as any reflection of my feelings. As for anniversaries and birthdays, I’m a lost cause. In fact, I’d probably overlook Christmas if it wasn’t for all the hoopla. It’s not that I’m self-absorbed… Well, maybe I am, but aren’t we all to a certain extent?

To me, paying a lot of attention to people because it’s their birthday or some made-up holiday is ridiculous. When you love someone, you need to show that love each and every day. Why wait for a certain time of year to bring your wife flowers? Action really does speak louder than words, especially if it’s a loving deed, something you do for no particular reason. Except that you want to. Because you care.

Hannah taught me that. Hannah. A year ago today, May eighth, I lost her, my beautiful thirty-six-year-old wife. Even now, a whole year after her death, I can’t think of her without my gut twisting into knots.

A year. Three hundred and sixty-five lonely days and empty nights.

A few days after her death, I stood over Hannah’s casket and watched as it was lowered into the ground. I threw the first shovelful of dirt into her grave. I’ll never forget that sound. The hollow sound of earth hitting the coffin’s gleaming surface.

Not an hour passes that I don’t remember Hannah. Actually, that’s an improvement. In those first few months, I couldn’t keep her out of my head for more than a minute. Everything I saw or heard reminded me of Hannah.

To simply say I loved her would diminish the depth of my feelings. In every way she completed me. Without her, my world is bleak and colorless and a thousand other adjectives that don’t begin to describe the emptiness I’ve felt since she’s been gone.

I talk to her constantly. I suppose I shouldn’t tell people that. We’ve had this ongoing one-sided conversation from the moment she smiled up at me one last time and surrendered her spirit to God.

So, here I am a year later, pretending to enjoy the Seattle Mariners’ baseball game when all I can think about is my wife. My one-year-dead wife.

Ritchie, Hannah’s brother and my best friend, invited me to share box seats for this game. I’m not fooled. I’m well aware that my brother-in-law didn’t include me out of some mistaken belief that I’m an inveterate baseball fan. He knows exactly what anniversary this is.

I might not be sentimental, but this is one day I can’t forget.

As a physician, a pediatrician, I’m familiar with death. I’ve witnessed it far too often and it’s never easy, especially with children. Even when the end is peaceful and serene as it was with Hannah, I feel I’ve been cheated, that I’ve lost.

As a teenager I was involved in sports. I played football in the fall, basketball in winter and baseball in the spring, and worked as a lifeguard during the summers. The competitive spirit is a natural part of who I am. I don’t like to lose, and death, my adversary, doesn’t play fair. Death took Hannah from me, from all of us, too early. She was the most vibrant, joyful, loving woman I have ever known. I’ve been floundering ever since.

Although I’ve fought death, my enemy, from the day I became a doctor—it’s why I became a doctor—I learned to understand it in a different, more complex way. I learned death can be a friend even while it’s the enemy. As she lay dying, Hannah, who loved me so completely and knew me so well, showed me that ultimate truth.

A year’s time has given me the perspective to realize I did my wife a disservice. My biggest regret is that I refused to accept the fact that she was dying. As a result I held on to her far longer than I should have. I refused to relinquish her when she was ready to leave me. Selfishly, I couldn’t bear to let her go.

Even when she’d drifted into unconsciousness I sat by her bedside night and day unable to believe that there wouldn’t be a miracle. It’s stupid; as a medical professional I certainly know better. Yet I clung to her. Now I realize that my stubbornness, my unwillingness to release her to God, held back her spirit. Tied her to earth. To me. Read more

Summer on Blossom Street

Lydia Goetz

Wednesday morning, a not-so-perfect June day, I turned over the Open sign at my yarn store on Blossom Street. Standing in the doorway I breathed in the sweet scent of day lilies, gladiolas, roses and lavender from Susannah’s Garden, the flower shop next door.

It was the beginning of summer, and although the sky was overcast and rain threatened to fall at any moment, the sun shone brightly in my heart. (My husband, Brad, always laughs when I say things like that. But I don’t care. As a woman who’s survived cancer not once but twice, I feel entitled to the occasional sentimental remark. Especially today…)

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, enjoying the early-morning peace. I just don’t think there’s anyplace more beautiful than Seattle in the summer. All the flowers spilling out of Susannah’s Garden are one of the benefits. The array of colors, as well as the heady perfume drifting in my direction, makes me so glad A Good Yarn is located where it is.

Whiskers, my shop cat, as Brad calls him, ambled across the hardwood floor and leaped into the window display, nestling among the skeins of pastel yarns. He takes up residence there most days and has long been a neighborhood favorite. The apartment upstairs is an extra storeroom for yarn at the moment; perhaps one day I’ll rent it out again but that isn’t in the plans yet.

The French Café across the street was already busy, as it is every morning. The windows were filled with pastries, breads and croissants warm from the oven, and their delectable aroma added to the scents I associate with summer on Blossom Street. Alix Turner is usually there by five to bake many of these wonderful temptations. She’s one of my dearest friends—and was among my first customers. I’m so proud of everything she’s accomplished in the past few years. It’s fair to say she reinvented her life—with a little help from her friends. She has an education and a career now, and she’s married to a man who seems completely right for her.

Blossom Street Books down the street was ready for business, too. Anne Marie Roche and her staff often leave the front door open as a welcoming gesture, inviting those who wander past to come inside and browse. She and her daughter, Ellen, would be coming home from Paris later today.

Nearly every afternoon Ellen walks their Yorkie past the window so Whiskers and Baxter can stare fiercely at each other. Ellen insists it’s all for show, that the cat and dog are actually good friends but don’t want any of us to know that.

I grinned at Whiskers because I couldn’t resist sharing my joy and excitement—even with the cat. In fact, I wanted to tell the whole world my news. Yesterday, we found out that we’d been approved for adoption. I hadn’t yet shared this information with anyone, including my sister, Margaret. We’ve been through the interviews, the home test and fingerprinting. And last night we heard.

We’re going to adopt a baby.

Because of my cancer, pregnancy is out of the question. While the ability to conceive has been taken from me, the desire for a baby hasn’t. It’s like an ache that never quite goes away. As much as possible I’ve tried to hide this from Brad. Whenever thoughts of what cancer has stolen from me enter my head, I try hard to counter them by remembering all the blessings I’ve received in my life. I want to celebrate every day, savor every minute, without resentment or regret.

I have so much for which to be grateful. I’m alive and cancer-free. I’m married to a man I adore. His son, Cody, now nine years old, has become my son, too. And I have a successful business, one that brings me great pleasure and satisfaction. When I first opened A Good Yarn, it was my way of shouting to the world that I refused to let cancer rob me of anything else. I was going to live and I was going to do it without the constant threat of illness and death. I was determined to bask in the sunshine. I still am.

So A Good Yarn was the start of my new life. Within a year of opening the store, I met Brad Goetz and we were married the following spring. Because of what I’d been through in my teens and again in my twenties, I didn’t have a lot of experience with men or relationships. At first, Brad’s love terrified me. Then I learned not to reject something good just because I was afraid of its loss. I learned that I could trust this man—and myself.

How blessed I am to be loved by him and Cody. Each and every day I thank God for the two men in my life.

Even with all I have, my arms ached to hold a baby. Our baby. Brad, who knows me so well, understood my need. After discussing the subject for weeks on end, after vacillating, weighing the pros and cons, we’d reached our decision.

Yes, we were going to adopt.

The catalyst for all this happened when Anne Marie Roche adopted eight-year-old Ellen.

I realized the wait for a newborn might be lengthy but we were both prepared for that. Although we’d be thrilled with an infant of either sex, I secretly longed for a little girl.

I heard the back door close and turned to see my sister, Margaret. She’s worked with me almost from the first day I opened the shop. Although we’re as different as any two sisters could be, we’ve become close.

Margaret is a good balance for me, ever practical and pragmatic, and I think I balance her, too, since I’m much more optimistic and given to occasional whimsy.

“Good morning!” I greeted her cheerfully, unable to disguise my happiness.

“It’s going to pour,” she muttered, taking off her raincoat and hanging it in the back storeroom.

My sister tends to see the negative. The glass would always be half-empty to Margaret. Or completely empty—if not shattered on the floor. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to her attitude and simply ignore it.

When she’d finished removing her coat, Margaret stared at me, then frowned. “Why are you so happy?” she demanded. “Anybody can see we’re about to have a downpour.”

“Me? Happy?” There wasn’t much point in trying to hold back my news, even though I knew Margaret was the one person who wouldn’t understand my pleasure. She’d disapprove and would have no qualms about imparting her opinion. It’s her pessimistic nature, I suppose, and the fact that she worries about me, although she’d never admit that.

Margaret continued to glare. “You’re grinning from ear to ear.”

I made busy work at the cash register in order to avoid eye contact. I might as well tell her, although I dreaded her response. “Brad and I have applied for adoption,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. “And our application’s been accepted.”

A startled silence followed.

“I know you think we’re making a mistake,” I rushed to add.

“I didn’t say that.” Margaret walked slowly toward me.

“You didn’t need to say anything,” I told her. Just once I wanted Margaret to be happy for me, without doubts and objections and concerns. “Your silence said it all.”

Margaret joined me at the counter next to the cash register. She seemed to sense that her reaction had hurt me. “I’m only wondering if adoption’s a wise choice for you.”

“Margaret,” I began, sighing as I spoke. “Brad and I know what we’re doing.” Although Margaret hadn’t said it openly, I could guess what concerned her most. She was afraid the cancer would return. I’m well aware of the possibility and have been ever since its recurrence ten years ago. It was a serious consideration and one that neither Brad nor I took lightly.

“Brad agrees?” My sister sounded skeptical.

“Of course he agrees! I’d never go against his wishes.”

Margaret still didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.” I was adamant. Sometimes that’s the only way to reach her. “Brad knows the risks as well as I do. You don’t need to spell it out, Margaret. I understand why you’re afraid for me, but I’m through with living in fear.”

Margaret’s eyes revealed her apprehensions. She studied me and after a moment asked, “What if the adoption agency doesn’t find you a child?”

This was something Brad and I had discussed and it could certainly happen. I shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We’ll take the chance.”

“You want an infant?”

“Yes.” I pictured a newborn, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, gently placed in my waiting arms. I held on to the image, allowing it to bring me comfort, to fill me with hope.

To my surprise Margaret didn’t immediately voice another objection. After a thoughtful minute or two, she said in low tones, “You’d be a good mother…you already are.”

I’m sure my jaw fell open. The shock of Margaret’s endorsement was almost more than I could take in. This was as close as Margaret had ever come to bestowing her approval on anything regarding my personal life. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d been partially responsible for Brad and me getting back together when I’d pushed him away—a reconciliation that led directly to our marriage.

“Thank you,” I whispered and touched her arm.

Margaret made some gruff, unintelligible reply and moved to the table at the back of the store. She pulled out a chair, sat down and took out her crocheting.

“I put up the poster you made for our new class,” I told her, doing my best to conceal the emotion that crept into my voice. The last thing I’d expected from Margaret had been her blessing, and I was deeply touched by her words.

She acknowledged my comment with a nod.

The idea for our new knitting class had been Margaret’s. “Knit to Quit,” she called it, and I loved her suggestion. Since opening the yarn store five years earlier, I’d noticed how many different reasons my customers—mostly women but also a few men—had for learning to knit. Read more

1022 Evergreen Place

Almost home. Grateful for the end of his shift, Mack McAfee turned the corner onto Evergreen Place and approached his house, the duplex at 1022. He felt an instant sense of peace when he saw Mary Jo Wyse working in the garden, taking advantage of the longer days and the perfection of a Pacific Northwest spring. At six, the sun was still bright and the sky had the clean-washed look of early May. Mack had to smile as he watched Mary Jo. The young single mother was his tenant, his friend— and the woman he’d fallen for. Hard. Lovely as ever, she wore jeans and a pink, long-sleeved top that clung in all the right places. Noelle was asleep in a stroller a few feet away.

Mack had delivered the baby last Christmas—or assisted in her delivery; that was probably a better way to put it. He’d just joined the Cedar Cove Fire Department and as the most recent hire, he’d pulled duty on Christmas Eve. It’d been a quiet night until the call from the Harding ranch. A woman said she was about to give birth. Mack had taken a medical course and received his emergency medical technician certificate, but nothing he’d learned had prepared him for the exhilaration of being at a delivery. The moment little Noelle drew her first breath she’d completely won him over.

Noelle and her mother had laid claim to Mack’s heart.

Mack parked on his side of the driveway and climbed out of the truck. He was outwardly calm, but his thoughts were in chaos. He hadn’t seen either of them in two days.

With his help, Mary Jo had planted a small garden, which she tended daily. “Hi,” she said, getting up from her knees. She brushed the dirt from her pant legs and glanced at him with a shy smile.

“Hi,” he responded. Afraid that Mary Jo would be able to interpret his feelings, he studied the neat row of green seedlings that had begun to poke through the earth. Mary Jo was still suspicious of men, thanks to her experience with David Rhodes, although Mack was making a serious effort to gain her trust. “The garden’s starting to take shape, I see.”

He crouched down and peeked at Noelle, who slept contentedly with one small clenched fist raised above her head. The baby mesmerized him. For that matter, so did Mary Jo.…

“I…missed seeing you the past couple of days,” she said in a low voice.

That was encouraging. “You did?” He hated to sound too eager since he was treading carefully in this relationship. He’d made a big mistake with her and was almost afraid of what would happen next.

“Well, yes. The last time we talked, well…you know.”

Mack straightened and nervously shoved his hands in his back pockets.

“You told me it wasn’t a good idea for us to continue with the engagement,” she said, although he didn’t need any reminder.

“That seemed for the best,” he muttered. “But—”

Before he could qualify his remark, she broke in. “And you’re right, it is for the best, especially if you don’t love me.”

Mack couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. “No, I just thought—”

“I understand,” she said, cutting him off again. “You proposed because you were trying to protect me.”

Mack studied her through narrowed eyes. “You didn’t hear from David Rhodes again, did you?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically.

Noelle’s biological father had threatened, more than once, to take the baby from Mary Jo, which Mack felt was nothing more than a bluff. But it had frightened her so badly that she’d panicked and decided to move back to Seattle. Back to her brothers, who’d look after her and the baby.

Afraid he was about to lose them both, Mack had suggested marriage. Mary Jo had accepted, with the stipulation that they have a six-month engagement.

That wasn’t the only stipulation. She’d insisted there be no physical contact. That was when Mack had realized his mistake. Mary Jo’s sole reason for moving to Cedar Cove had been to escape her domineering older brothers. In offering to marry her, Mack was doing exactly what they’d done. His motive had been to keep a close watch over her, to protect her. Because he loved her, yes, but without recognizing it, he’d assumed the role her brothers had played in her life. No wonder Mary Jo had stalled their relationship.

A few days after they became engaged, he noticed the shift in her attitude. No longer did she treat him as her friend. No longer could they tease and joke and affectionately kiss. He’d taken control of a situation in her life, squelching Mary Jo’s first tentative efforts toward independence. She’d said yes to his proposal, but it wasn’t because she loved him.

A month passed before Mack figured out what was wrong and why he had to break off the engagement. In his eagerness to be with her, to marry her, he’d nearly ruined everything.

At least neither of them had mentioned the engagement to their families. For his part Mack knew his parents would’ve seen through his reasons immediately. They would’ve said it was too soon, pointing out that Mack and Mary Jo didn’t know each other well enough to make that kind of commitment.

They would’ve been right.

Mack had acted on impulse, his desire to protect her overcoming his better judgment. He needed to bide his time and let the relationship progress naturally.

One problem was his lack of finesse with women. Not that he was totally naive, but none of his relationships prior to meeting Mary Jo had been serious or long-lasting.

He did have a sister—two sisters, actually. Only he hadn’t known about the second one until a few years ago. He’d always been close to Linnette and had now begun to develop a friendship with Gloria.

Linnette had often advised him on relationships, but she’d moved to some Podunk town in North Dakota. They managed regular phone conversations; despite that, Mack hadn’t been smart enough to seek her opinion before he proposed to Mary Jo.

In trying to undo his mistake, Mack had committed another one. He’d broken off the engagement by telling Mary Jo that although he was fond of her, his real love was for Noelle.

It’d seemed like a reasonable approach at the time. He’d hoped to back out of the engagement and save face as he did—let her save face, too. Instead, he’d further complicated an already complex relationship. If there’d been a worse way to handle the situation, he couldn’t imagine it.

What he should’ve done was simply be honest. Whoever said honesty was the best policy—Ben Franklin? Mother Teresa? Bill Clinton? Oprah?—was absolutely correct.

Then the following morning, Mack had been on duty at the fire station. He’d felt uncomfortable and anxious about seeing Mary Jo ever since. This was their first encounter since that day.

“I don’t expect to hear from David again,” Mary Jo was saying. “Like you said, I think it was an empty threat. He only wants Noelle so he can manipulate his father into giving him money.”

Mack nodded. “If you do see him, call me and I’ll deal with him.” As soon as the words were out, Mack wished he could take them back. The whole point of breaking off the engagement was to let Mary Jo solve her own problems.

Instead of responding, she occupied herself with rearranging Noelle’s blanket.

Mack rocked back on his heels and removed his hands from his pockets. He wanted to groan. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? “I guess I should check the mail,” he said with a sigh. He’d just headed over to the mailbox when Mary Jo called him back.

“I learned something about those letters.”

“Letters?” Mack asked in confusion.

“The ones I found under the floorboards in the closet.”

That box of World War II letters had completely slipped his mind. “Tell me,” he said quickly.

“I’d rather show you.”

“Okay.”

“Would you like to come by for dinner?” she asked. She bit her lip, as if she wasn’t confident that inviting him was such a good plan, after all. “I don’t want you to feel any obligation.…”

“No, I want to,” he said with more enthusiasm than he’d intended. “I mean, if you’re sure about having me over.”

“I am.”

Mack checked his watch. “It’s quarter after six now. Shall we say in an hour?”

“An hour,” she agreed.

His spirits lifted. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything the way he’d feared. “See you then,” he said with a relieved smile.

“Okay.” She smiled back, and he felt a sudden hopefulness.

Not until he was on his porch steps did it occur to him to ask if there was anything he could contribute. A salad? No, wine was probably better. He turned and, to his surprise, found Mary Jo watching him. Looking guilty, she glanced away.

“What can I bring?” he asked. “For dinner.”

She gave a half shrug. “I’ve got chicken-and-vegetable stew in the Crock-Pot and I’m making biscuits. I can’t think of anything else.”

“How about a bottle of wine?” When she nodded, he said, “See you around seven.”

After collecting the mail, Mack let himself into his side of the duplex, closed the door and breathed deeply. His sense of excitement was nearly overwhelming. In less than an hour he’d have a chance to make up for the foolish, clumsy way he’d ended the engagement—with a lie. He’d have a chance to start again, to reestablish their relationship on a more equal footing.

Fifteen minutes later, Mack had showered, shaved and changed clothes. He threw a load in the washing machine and set the dials. With another half hour to kill, he walked restlessly from room to room. This evening was important, and it could set the tone for many evenings to come.

In the past he’d often visited Mary Jo and Noelle. She’d regularly invited him over but not, he now suspected, out of any great desire for his company. Mary Jo was simply accustomed to having people around. Until recently she’d lived with her three older brothers.

She’d cooked for her family, although Mack knew they did their share of household chores. She was used to preparing meals for three hungry men; no wonder she always made enough to feed a family. So it was easy to invite an additional person, Mack told himself. She didn’t make extra with him in mind.

Not that he was complaining. Far from it. He liked spending time with her, being part of her life. Entertaining Noelle—that was his job most nights. He held and played with the baby while Mary Jo finished dinner preparations, and then later, they sat together and watched television or played cards. She had card sense, as his father would’ve put it. They talked, too, but not about anything deep or too personal. They’d talk about what they’d read or seen on TV, or mutual friends and acquaintances in Cedar Cove. Both were careful to avoid religion and politics, although he guessed they held similar views.

At the end of the evening, he’d kiss her good-night. After their so-called engagement, those kisses had become more brotherly than playful or passionate. That was what had initially convinced him the engagement was all wrong.

Considering the way David Rhodes had treated her, he understood that Mary Jo would be wary of entering a new relationship. Her trust in men—and in her own ability to judge them—had been badly shaken. But surely she’d come to recognize that Mack was a man of his word. That he genuinely cared for her and the baby and would never do anything to bring them harm.

He worried that he wasn’t as good-looking as Rhodes. He wasn’t as smooth, either, but that probably didn’t attract Mary Jo anymore, not after being involved with a player like David. Unlike Rhodes, Mack wasn’t tall, dark and handsome. He was just under six feet and his brown hair had a hint of auburn in it, which accounted for the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was an average guy, he supposed. He might work for the fire department, but he doubted anyone would select him for one of those hunk calendars.

Mary Jo, however, was beautiful. He wasn’t surprised that someone like David Rhodes would notice her. Mack had long decided that her beauty was part of the problem; it put her out of his league. He was sure she could have her pick of any man she wanted. All Mack could hope for was that, given enough time, she’d want him.

When he knocked at her front door, Mary Jo immediately opened it, almost as if she’d been waiting for him, although that was unlikely to be the case. Noelle cooed from her seat and waved her arms, and he chose to see that as a greeting just for him.

“How’s my girl?” he asked. He handed Mary Jo the bottle of chilled pinot grigio he’d taken from his fridge, then walked into the living room and reached for the baby. As he lifted her in his arms he grinned at Mary Jo. “I’ve only been away a couple of days and I swear she’s grown two inches.”

“She changes every single day,” Mary Jo said. “I see it, too.”

He tickled Noelle’s chin and she gurgled back, which made him laugh.

“There are those World War II letters,” Mary Jo said, pointing at the coffee table.

Mack looked away from Noelle long enough to glance at the cigar box sitting there. He could tell it was faded and a little shabby. “How many letters were inside?”

“Dozens. It didn’t seem like that many when I found them, but the paper is really thin.”

She’d been enthralled by her discovery. Mack was interested, too—who wouldn’t be? These letters were a direct link to history, a personal connection to some of the most momentous events of the previous century.

“The article I read on the internet called this paper onionskin and it said the letters were referred to as V-mail.” She smiled at that. “I think the V stands for victory.” She sat on the sofa and Mack joined her, still holding the baby. He divided his attention between Mary Jo and Noelle.

“I’ve read them twice. They’re addressed to Miss Joan Manry.”

“I remember.” Mack recalled the recipient’s name, now that she mentioned it, although not the sender’s. He cocked his head but couldn’t read the return address. “Who are they from?”

“His name is Jacob Dennison and he was a major stationed in Europe during the war. Some of his letters have black marks on them, but a lot of them don’t have any at all. I assume those marks were put there by censors. You know, I read that there were over two hundred censorship offices. Their job was to ensure that military personnel didn’t reveal anything sensitive in their letters.” She paused. “Of course, that doesn’t explain why these letters were hidden.” Read more

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