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Uncertain what she was supposed to do with the key, Charlotte looked questioningly at Tom. “Everything seems to be in order,” she assured him, returning the key and the receipt to the pouch. She was about to place it in the drawer when he stopped her, leaning forward and clasping her forearm with his right hand.

His eyes pleaded with her.

“You don’t want me to put it back here?” she asked.

He shook his head, breathing hard from his exertion.

“What would you like me to do with it?”

He looked directly at her purse, which rested on the floor next to her large knitting bag.

“Take it with me?”

He nodded.

“Wouldn’t you rather I gave it to someone in the office?” Surely that would be more appropriate than for Charlotte to keep it.

He shook his head, his expression adamant.

“All right, but I feel I should tell Janet about this.”

He shrugged.

“Don’t worry, your key’s in good hands. I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.” She slipped the pouch inside her purse, then reached for her knitting bag. “I made you a lap robe. You need something to keep your legs warm. There’s a chill in the air these January mornings, isn’t there?” She settled the robe over his legs and stepped back to admire it.

Tom smiled, and made a shaky gesture to show his appreciation.

“You’re most welcome,” she said.

Tom’s eyes closed briefly and she understood that he was tired. It was time to go. “I’ll be back next Thursday,” she said, gathering her bags.

He gave a slight nod.

“Don’t you fret about a single thing. Oh, and I’ll bring you a slice of that lasagna.”

He grinned and shook his head.

“All right, I’ll spare you.” Tom was probably on a special diet, anyway. “I promise to take good care of this key for you.”

He sighed and patted the lap robe.

“The pleasure was all mine. Goodbye until next week.”

She left his room more quietly than she’d entered it, and immediately sought out the social worker. She didn’t want to take the key without letting someone know.

Janet was in her office, talking on the phone. When she saw Charlotte, she motioned her in and ended the conversation a minute later.

“Hello, Charlotte, what can I do for you?”

She explained about Tom Harding and the key.

Janet rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. Extracting a file, she laid it on her desk. While she read through the file, Charlotte took a second look at the receipt for the storage unit. She saw that it was a renewal, which had been paid by the state—paid in full for the entire year. Apparently Tom had run out of funds for his care and become a ward of the state. What assets he owned were being stored in the unit and would be sold at the time of his death.

Janet continued to scan the file. “Unfortunately the information I have here is the bare minimum. Tom suffered a stroke five years ago, but there’s nothing about any family—and next to nothing about his background.”

“He seemed to want me to keep the key,” Charlotte said, unsure what she should do.

“Then I think you should. I know you have it, and so does Tom.”

“All right, I will.” That settled, Charlotte stood. “He’s a lovely man.”

“Yes, he is, but just a little mysterious.”

Charlotte had to agree and she admitted to being intrigued.

Grace Sherman grabbed a carton of milk and placed it in her grocery cart, then headed for the checkout stand. As she wheeled toward the front of the store, she decided to take a short detour and look over the paperback display. Books were her passion—books of all kinds, from classic fiction to mysteries and romances, from bestseller titles to biographies and history and…almost everything. That was why she’d gone into library work. She loved to read and often read late into the night. Her daughters shared her delight in books, although Dan had never been much of a reader.

As Grace reached the front of the store, she noticed that the lineups were long. She chose one, then got the current copy of People magazine and flipped through that while she waited. The truth came to her as she approached the cashier—she dreaded going home.

The realization left her breathless. They were low on milk, but it certainly hadn’t been necessary to make a special trip. She could easily have waited a day or two. Since she was here anyway, she’d thrown several packets of pasta into her cart, plus toilet paper and a couple of yogurts…as though to justify being to the supermarket at all. In fact, she’d been delaying the inevitable.

Dan had been in such a bleak mood lately. There seemed to be problems at work, but that was only a guess because her husband refused to talk to her about anything beyond the mundane. Any other inquiries were met with one-word replies. Television was vastly more interesting than sharing any part of himself with her.

Grace wanted to discover what was wrong, but he snapped at her whenever she tried. Every night it was the same. Walking into the house after work was like standing in an electrical storm; she never knew when lightning might strike. Because Dan was uncommunicative and morose, she chatted endlessly about this thing and that, in an effort to lighten his mood—and to forestall his outbursts of anger. They always came without warning.

Dan listened to her remarks, nodded at the appropriate times, even smiled now and again. But he contributed nothing to the conversation. The quieter he was, the harder she tried to draw him out, to no avail. Practically every evening he settled in front of the television and didn’t move until it was time for bed.

This was no marriage. They might as well be college roommates for all the love and affection they exchanged.

Their marriage had never fulfilled Grace’s expectations. She’d been eighteen and pregnant with Maryellen when she married Dan. He’d enlisted in the Army and almost immediately been shipped to Vietnam. The two years he’d been away were hell, for him and for her. When he returned, Dan was a different person from the young man who’d left. He’d become bitter and cynical, prone to rages; he’d also experimented with drugs and when she refused to allow them in the house they’d briefly separated.

For Maryellen’s sake, they’d managed to patch things up long enough for Grace to get pregnant a second time. Later, because of their daughters, Dan and Grace had tried hard to make their marriage work.

The war still haunted him and for years Dan used to be awakened by nightmares. He never spoke of his experiences. Those, along with everything else, were hidden away inside his head. Throughout their marriage, Grace had continually hoped things would improve. Once the girls were in school, once she finished her own studies and got the job at the library, once the girls graduated from high school—surely then everything would be better. Year after year of hoping, of looking for signs…

It wasn’t all bad. There’d been good times, too. When the girls started grade school, Grace had entered Olympic College and later commuted into Seattle to attend the University of Washington. Dan had been wonderfully supportive, working two jobs and helping with all their daughters’ assorted activities.

Maryellen and Kelly had both been difficult teenagers, but they’d turned into responsible young women. Dan deeply loved his daughters. Grace never questioned his devotion to them, but she seriously doubted he was still in love with her.

These last few years had been hard on his pride. His career was over, and his job with the tree service wasn’t nearly as satisfying as logging had been. Her salary now paid a larger share of the expenses, and she suspected that bothered him—not that he’d actually said so. But then, they didn’t talk about money, mainly because she avoided any subject that might distress him.

Although she was half an hour later than usual, Dan didn’t comment when she walked into the kitchen, carrying her groceries.

“I’m home,” she announced unnecessarily as she set the sack on the countertop.

Dan had already positioned himself in front of the television, watching the local news. His boots were off and his sock-covered feet rested on the footstool that matched his old overstuffed chair.

“I thought we’d have taco salad for dinner. How does that sound?”

“Great,” he answered without enthusiasm.

“How was your day?”

“All right.” His eyes didn’t waver from the television screen.

“Are you going to ask about mine?” she asked, growing irritated. The least he could do was show some interest in her and their life together, even if it was just a token effort.

“How was your day?” he muttered, his voice impassive.

“Terrible.”

No response.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“You can tell me if you want.”

The man she’d lived with for thirty-five years couldn’t have cared less. Grace couldn’t stand it any longer. Each attempt to draw him out was met with denial and accusation. If she was unhappy, it was her fault, not his—that was his argument the last time she’d tried to talk to him.

Walking into the living room, Grace reached for the remote control and muted the sound. Sitting down on the footstool, she faced her husband.

“What?” he demanded, annoyed that she’d disrupted his news program.

Grace stared at him. “Do you love me?”

Dan laughed as though she’d made a joke. “Love you? We’ve been married for thirty-five years.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What do you want me to say? Of course I love you. I can’t believe you have to ask.”

“Is there someone else?”

He sat back and looked hard at her, then shook his head. “That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Is there?” she repeated.

“No. When’s dinner going to be ready?”

Grace had another question first. “Do you remember the last time we made love?”

“Are you keeping track?”

She wasn’t fooled. Answering a question with one of his own was a familiar trick of his. “No, but I can’t remember. Can you?”

“I hate it when you do this.” He shoved the footstool forcefully away and got up, burying his hands in his pants pockets. “If we’re going to have an argument, let’s make it over something worthwhile. I didn’t realize you were so insecure that you need to be told I still love you.”

“What I need is some affirmation that you want to be in this marriage.”

“I had no idea you were so paranoid.” He walked to the other side of the room.

“I’m not!”

“You suggested I’m having an affair.”

She didn’t believe it, and in fact, there was no real evidence, but she’d felt it might shock him enough to get his attention.

“What do you want from me?” he asked irritably.

“Some sign of life,” she cried.

He glared at her. “Did it ever occur to you that I might be tired?”

“Too tired to talk?”

“I’ve never been a conversationalist. You knew that when you married me. I’m not going to change at this stage of my life. I don’t know what’s bothering you, Grace, but get over it.”

“That’s not fair! I’m trying to get you to take some responsibility for what’s happening to us.”

“You’re the one who’s so unhappy.”

“Because I want more from our marriage than this.” She motioned with her arms in a futile effort to explain.

He frowned. “I’m giving you everything I have to give.”

So was she. Dear God, so was she.

“If it isn’t enough, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Her throat thickened with heartache. This was all there was, all there would ever be, and it wasn’t enough.

The phone rang and they both jerked their attention toward the kitchen wall. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she brushed them aside as she hurried into the other room.

“Let the machine get it,” Dan said.

“Why, so we can talk some more?”

“No,” he responded gruffly.

“That’s what I thought.” She reached for the receiver and cleared her throat before she spoke. “Hello,” she said, forcing herself to sound calm.

“Mom? Oh, Mom, you’ll never guess what?” Kelly cried. “I just got the news. We’re pregnant!” The joy in her youngest daughter’s voice was as pure and sweet as anything Grace had ever known.

“Pregnant? You’re sure?” Grace felt her tears start again, but these were tears of an altogether different kind. After ten years of marriage, Kelly and Paul were desperate for a child. They’d undergone countless tests and procedures, and Grace had about given up hope that her daughter would ever conceive. She longed for grandchildren and it hadn’t seemed likely. Not with Kelly’s fertility problems and Maryellen divorced. This was incredible news. Fabulous news.

Dan walked into the kitchen. “It’s Kelly,” she said excitedly, putting her hand over the receiver. “She’s pregnant.”

Her husband’s eyes lit up and he smiled. It was the first real smile she’d seen from him in months. “Damn, that’s great.”

“Oh, sweetheart, your father and I are thrilled.”

“Let me talk to Daddy.”

Grace handed him the receiver. Kelly had always been especially close to her father, and they chatted for several minutes.

Dan replaced the receiver and went over to the stove where she’d put the hamburger on to fry for their meal. He slid his arms around her waist from behind and hugged her.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know. I love you, too.”

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I know.” And it would. Grace had faith. Hope. And now she had a reason to continue, a reason to look to the future. Her marriage wasn’t everything she wanted, but maybe it was enough. She’d make it enough. She’d shared thirty-five years with Dan. There had been good times and some not so good.

A grandchild gave her hope for the future.

Four

“I’ll drive this evening,” Olivia told her mother. The previous time she’d gotten into a car with Charlotte driving, Olivia had sworn it would be the last. Her mother out on the roads was a frightening thing to contemplate. She suspected Charlotte was the type of driver who never had an accident, but caused them.

“Well, it’s my turn, although I have to admit I don’t like driving at night.”

Olivia removed her black robe and hung it in the small closet inside her chambers. Court was over for the week and her hot Friday-night date was with her mother. In fact, she ate more meals out with Charlotte than anyone. “I don’t mind driving,” Olivia told her.

“All right, if you insist.”

Olivia did insist. The previous driving adventure with her mother had ended up being a narrow escape. Apparently Charlotte had lost the ability to turn her neck in order to look behind her. She adjusted the rearview mirrors left and right and honked before barreling willy-nilly out of her parking space. She’d also confessed that her eyes weren’t what they used to be. It was a quandary. Olivia didn’t want to limit her mother’s independence, but she couldn’t help worrying.

“It’ll be a girls’ night out,” Charlotte said, sounding excited at the prospect. “But I have to be home by eleven. Harry worries if I’m not there.”

Her mother doted on her cat. “Not a problem. The play starts at eight, so it should be over long before eleven.”

“Shall we have dinner first?” Charlotte suggested.

“Sure, why not?” Olivia was in the mood to live it up. Her best friend was about to become a grandmother. Her seventy-two-year-old mother had a beau of sorts. Charlotte talked incessantly about her friend Tom at the convalescent center. The only person without something significant happening in her life seemed to be Olivia. She was ready for a change, ready for a risk. She’d hoped to hear from Jack Griffin, but he hadn’t phoned nor had he shown up in court again. He obviously wasn’t interested. Well, she could deal with that.

They arrived at the Playhouse shortly after seven-thirty. Plays were staged upstairs at the Community Theater, located on Harbor Street, which was the main road through the center of what was commonly referred to as downtown. The old theater still ran movies, but generally second-run features that had appeared earlier at the six-plex on the hill. The Playhouse was above the movie theater in small but cozy quarters. Every time Olivia attended a local production, she was astonished at the talent in a town as small as Cedar Cove.

Without assigned seating, Charlotte chose the very front row. No sooner had they settled in than Jack Griffin approached.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, looking at the empty space next to Olivia.

“Jack!” She’d blurted his name before she had a chance to restrain her delight.

“Jack Griffin? Is this Jack Griffin?” Charlotte was immediately on her feet. Before Olivia could even guess what her mother intended, she’d wrapped both arms around Jack and given him one of her enthusiastic hugs.

He met Olivia’s gaze over Charlotte’s shoulder. She noted his surprise and amusement at such a vigorous greeting.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Charlotte said, sitting down again—one seat over—and patting the empty space beside her. “That was such a wonderful column you wrote about Olivia. I made sure all my friends read it.”

Jack arched his brows—as though to suggest her mother might have been impressed but that hadn’t been the case with Olivia.

“I was so pleased with what you had to say about my daughter. She is a gutsy judge and an innovative thinker, too,” Charlotte continued.

Olivia was mortified, but she knew better than to say anything, so she smiled blandly and felt the heat radiate from her cheeks.

Charlotte had arranged it so Jack was now sitting between the two of them. Olivia hadn’t been quick enough to realize what was happening in order to avoid it. She was interested in spending time with Jack, but she’d prefer to do so without her mother present.

Soon, Jack and her mother were deeply engrossed in conversation. At one point Jack let out a hoot of laughter and abruptly turned to look at Olivia, still smiling.

Olivia could only wonder what was so funny; she was fairly sure it had to do with her. What could her mother have told him? No doubt it was something embarrassing from her teen years.

“Your mother’s hilarious,” Jack said a moment later, leaning toward her.

That was true enough. Olivia merely nodded, and Jack soon turned back to Charlotte for entertainment. Meanwhile, Olivia studied the program. To Kill a Mockingbird was an ambitious project for so small a troupe, but those who’d seen it had raved about the performances. She assumed Jack had come to write a review.

Olivia happened to be looking idly around the theater when Justine strolled in. She wore black pants with a cropped cashmere sweater in a soft green, her long dark hair hanging loose to the middle of her back. Her arm was entwined with Warren Saget’s and she gazed up at the older man with wide, adoring eyes. Olivia immediately felt her hackles rise. She didn’t like Warren, never had, and hated the fact that her daughter was dating him.

Warren had moved to Cedar Cove twenty years ago. He’d bought up large parcels of land and built row upon row of tract houses. The homes had been constructed of the cheapest possible materials and had quickly developed a host of problems. First, the roofs leaked and then the siding developed mold. Basements flooded, walls shifted, ceilings cracked. Lawsuit followed lawsuit.

Olivia didn’t recall how it was all settled—her own life was undergoing a series of traumas at the time—but somehow Warren and his company had survived.

It wasn’t only his business practices that distressed Olivia. Everyone knew that Warren had cheated on his wife—correction, wives. He’d flaunted his affairs until both women had filed for divorce and left town. The most recent Mrs. Saget had left five or so years ago, leaving Warren free to go through young women like a kid through a candy store. It hurt Olivia to see her own daughter fall victim to such an unscrupulous man.

Warren apparently liked his women young. The younger the better. A woman like Justine—tall, classy and beautiful—enhanced his image. She looked good on his arm, and Warren knew it.

Olivia wondered whose idea it was to see the play. To Kill a Mockingbird wasn’t the sort of entertainment she suspected a man like Warren would choose. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas seemed more his kind of show.

Apparently Justine hadn’t noticed Olivia. Or if she had, she’d chosen to ignore the fact that her mother and grandmother were seated in the front of the theater. Justine and Warren sat in the last row, where the shadows were darkest and they couldn’t easily be seen.

This relationship had worried Olivia from the start and not solely because of Warren’s age and reputation. Over the years, Olivia had observed a pattern. Justine preferred older men and there’d been several, all quite similar to each other in situation and personality. Warren had lasted the longest. Olivia cringed every time she thought of her daughter marrying the likes of Warren Saget. But at twenty-eight, Justine had revealed no desire to marry. Olivia prayed Warren wouldn’t be the one to change her mind.

Her heart told Olivia that her daughter’s dating habits were linked to that fateful August day in 1986. Justine refused to risk the pain that real closeness could bring. She’d been with her twin brother when he died, and the love she felt for him had turned into agony. Caught up in her own grief, Olivia had failed to recognize the devastating effect his death had had on her daughter.

Olivia suspected that, deep down, Justine blamed herself. She’d been at the lake with Jordan and a whole slew of friends, not paying any attention to her twin. He’d been diving off a floating dock, joking and splashing, all of them laughing at their own antics. It’d been a hot lazy afternoon, and the world had seemed a beautiful place. Then within a matter of seconds all their lives were changed. Their capacity for innocent, uncomplicated pleasure was gone forever. Jordan, clowning around with his buddies, dove into the lake and didn’t surface. By the time his friends figured out it wasn’t a joke, it’d been too late. Jordan had broken his neck and drowned.

Justine had swum out to the dock and sat with Jordan’s lifeless body until the paramedics arrived, but there was no hope. The poor girl hadn’t slept a full night for weeks afterward. She’d been lost and confused, believing she should’ve been able to do something.

Olivia had her own share of regrets. If she’d been more focused on Justine’s grief, gotten her into counseling, spent time helping her deal with the tragedy…

But it’d been all Olivia could manage to make it from one day to the next. For the sake of her husband and her two other children, she’d tried to be strong. Each day had been filled with busywork so she wouldn’t have time to think. Pretending had failed miserably. Her marriage had collapsed, and her beautiful daughter had never recovered from the tragedy.

“I’ve been meaning to phone you,” Jack said, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts.

That was encouraging news. Olivia had been brought up to believe that girls shouldn’t phone boys—a bit of social conditioning she’d never shaken off. She’d dated since the divorce, but not much. Friends had attempted to matchmake, without notable success.

Jack appeared to be waiting for a response from her, some indication that she would have welcomed his call.

“I wish you had.” There, she’d said it, and it was true. She liked Jack Griffin and had thoroughly enjoyed their impromptu meeting and the talk that followed.

Jack stared at her as though he wasn’t sure he should believe her. He seemed about to say something when Bob Beldon stepped onto the middle of the compact stage. Bob and his wife, Peggy, ran Thyme and Tide, a local bed-and-breakfast. Bob was actively involved in the theater group.

Once he had everyone’s attention, Bob made several safety announcements regarding the fire codes and pointed out the exits. When he’d finished, he introduced the play and the actors. Before he left the stage, he looked at Jack Griffin and Olivia—and then Bob did the oddest thing. He winked at Jack.

“What was that about?” Olivia asked him.

“Bob’s a friend.”

“You knew him before moving to Cedar Cove?”

He nodded absently as he watched the actors take their places on stage. “It was Bob’s way of encouraging me,” he muttered.

“To do what?” Olivia pressed.

Jack squared his shoulders. “To ask you to dinner.” He glanced in her direction. “Are you game?”

Are you game? was certainly an inventive invitation.

“Did you ask her yet?” Charlotte bent forward in order to get a better look at them both.

“I just did,” Jack answered.

“Ask her what?” Someone Olivia didn’t recognize called out from two rows back.

Mortified, Olivia slid down in her chair and hunched her shoulders.

Jack slid down, too. “Will you?”

She nodded. Well, why not? She’d already admitted that she was anxious to hear from Jack. Now he’d taken the next step. A dinner date.

She intended to have a very good time.

Cecilia woke Saturday morning feeling more than a little depressed. She hadn’t heard from Ian. She’d deluded herself, thinking he’d call. He might already be out to sea; she wasn’t sure whether the John F. Reynolds had left port, but then how would she know? She got her information from rumor and an occasional issue of the Chronicle. Nor had Ian mentioned being transferred from the submarine to the aircraft carrier. Apparently there was a lot he hadn’t told her.

Cecilia wished now that she’d made friends with other Navy wives. She’d tried early on, but had felt like an intruder. The women had already formed cliques and she was an outsider. Between her job and the pregnancy, she didn’t have the time or emotional reserves to socialize with them. She had declined the few invitations she’d received.

When Allison was born, no one had come to the hospital and after her daughter’s death, Cecilia had rejected all attempts—by the other wives, by Ian’s family in Georgia, by nurses and a Navy chaplain—to help her cope with the loss. As far as she was concerned, it was too little, too late. Her father hated anything to do with death and dying and avoided her entirely. Other than giving her the sympathy card, all he’d done was pat her on the back, mumbling a clichéd condolence or two.

And Ian…wasn’t there.

It did no good to brood about Ian, the pending divorce and past hurts, so Cecilia showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a worn, comfortable sweatshirt. As always, Saturday was reserved for errands, but today she lacked the energy for it. Once she got to the grocery, her sole purchase was a big bouquet of flowers.

The cemetery was on the outskirts of town. A dense fog had rolled in; it was impossible to see across the street, let alone to the other side of the cove and the naval shipyard. Cecilia had purposely chosen this burial site because it overlooked the naval base. Maybe that didn’t make sense, but she’d wanted their daughter to be close to her father, and this was the only way Cecilia knew to make that happen.

The lawn was spongy and damp, and her feet sank into the earth as she walked toward the grave. She squatted down and brushed a few dead leaves away from the small, flat headstone. The vase was too narrow to hold all the flowers, so she sorted through and removed the prettiest ones and arranged those inside. When she’d finished, she divided the remaining flowers among the other graves in the row.

Standing, she found Ian several feet back, watching her.

Neither spoke. He wore his thick Navy coat, with his white sailor’s cap. His hands were buried in his coat pockets, arms pressed against his sides.

“I saw you leave the grocery store,” he murmured.

“You followed me here?” She didn’t like the idea of that.

He nodded. “It isn’t a habit, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just happened to see you and wanted to talk.”

Cecilia thrust her own hands into her pockets, waiting, unsure what to say.

“I wondered if this was where you were heading,” Ian continued, “and I was right.” He paused, shrugging. “I thought we could talk.”

She stiffened. “What’s there to talk about?” The last time she’d seen him, he’d been drinking and argumentative.

Ian sighed, glancing past her, past the row of graves. “I want to apologize for showing up at the restaurant the other night.”

“Andrew told me you’re leaving on the John F. Reynolds.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, or explain the transfer.

“When did you get assigned to the carrier?”

“You’d know the answer to that if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to file for divorce,” he said with unconcealed bitterness.

“We couldn’t—can’t—even talk without snarling at each other.” Then and now. It hurt so badly to be standing on one side of their daughter’s grave while he stood on the other.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “I’m in the Navy—that hasn’t changed.”

She shook her head. The reasons were unimportant; he didn’t owe her an explanation. Defensiveness had become an automatic response, a means of keeping people at a distance. Especially him…

“Damn,” he said impatiently. “Why is it so hard to talk to you?”

Didn’t he already know? What else could she say?

“Like I said, I’m sorry about the other night. It won’t happen again.” He turned away, his movement abrupt.

“You’re leaving soon?” she called after him, not wanting him to walk off just yet.

He turned back to face her and nodded.

“I’d like to know about the transfer.”

He stared down at their daughter’s grave. “I requested it. If I’d been assigned to the carrier when Allison was born, I could’ve been airlifted home. To be with you…. It’s a moot point now, but I didn’t want to risk anything like that ever again.”