16 Lighthouse Road (10 page)

“You don't mind?”

“I love the Taco Shack,” she assured him, and it was the truth. She should've known better than to expect fine French dining. Jack was a taco kind of guy.

He looked vastly relieved as he led the way to his vehicle. She could tell he'd made an effort to clean off the front seat of his car; he'd tossed everything in the back, which was littered with wadded-up bags from fast-food establishments, old newspapers, books and a variety of other junk she didn't get a chance to see.

Jack seemed oblivious to it all. By nature, Olivia was neat and orderly. One look at his Ford Taurus told her Jack Griffin was her exact opposite.

Olivia had to fumble with her seat belt before she managed to secure it. It was obvious he didn't often have anyone riding with him.

“Have you ever had the stir-fried jalapeños at the Shack?” he asked as they headed out of town.

“You can stir-fry them?” Olivia asked, thinking that sounded more like Chinese cooking than Mexican.

“Sure. Just until the skins start to blister. Then they squeeze lime juice over top, sprinkle on seasoned salt—and serve them with plenty of water.”

“You eat whole jalapeños?”

“You don't?”

Olivia enjoyed a bit of spice now and then, but she wasn't interested in experiencing pain as part of her meal. “Food isn't supposed to
hurt.
”

Jack laughed. “You have a sense of humor. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Olivia liked him, too.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot outside the Taco Shack and hurried around to help her out. Not until he slammed the car door did she notice that it was dented and didn't close properly.

Ever the gentleman, he held the door to the roadhouse for her. They walked up to the counter, and stood in line; the place was deservedly popular. Olivia studied the menu, hand-printed on a large board suspended from the ceiling. She ordered the combination plate, which included a cheese enchilada and a bean burrito, and iced tea. Jack ordered something she'd never heard of, plus a side of the stir-fried jalapeños. That suggested he wasn't planning to kiss her—definitely a disappointment.

She found them a seat by the window, vacated by another couple barely a minute before. When she climbed over the bench of the red-painted picnic table, Olivia was grateful she'd changed out of her dress. She hadn't been here in ages and had forgotten just how rustic it was. The window was decorated with what resembled red Christmas lights, but on closer examination, she saw they were shiny plastic peppers. She found that an amusing detail.

Jack brought napkins and plastic forks to the table and a
large container of fresh salsa. When their order was ready, he collected both plates, then went back for their drinks. The food smelled delicious and she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Jack's peppers and the mixture of salsa and coriander.

They talked comfortably about a variety of topics: town politics, the paper, the play they'd both seen. She felt as though she'd known him for years. She wouldn't have said he was her type, but she was beginning to believe she didn't have one. Stan was an engineer, and like her, a highly organized person.

“Did I mention my son recently got married?” she said casually.

“No.” Jack grinned widely. “That's great!”

“He's about to make me a grandmother.”

He gave her an engaging grin. “You're the most beautiful grandmother I've ever seen.”

Her ego thanked him. “Both the marriage and the pregnancy came as a surprise, but I don't mind.” Well, she did…a little. “James sounded happy and although I haven't met his wife, she seems very nice.” Olivia had her fears, but she wouldn't second-guess her son and his decisions. This was his life, not hers.

“Stan and I were on the phone, discussing the prospect of becoming grandparents when you arrived. That's why it took me so long to answer the door.”

“You must have a good relationship with your ex.”

“I wish we'd gotten along this well while we were married,” she joked. “Now his second wife's getting the benefit of all my training.”

“Stan's remarried?”

Olivia nodded.

Jack studied his dinner for a moment, then said, “Because of the treatments Eric underwent for the cancer, he'll never father children.”

Which meant there was no possibility of Jack's ever being a grandfather, Olivia realized. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to be.” It seemed he wanted to change the subject. “Do you speak to Stan often?” he asked.

“Only in matters having to do with the children,” she told him. “They're both adults now, so there isn't much reason for phone calls and so forth. I suppose we'll be in touch a little more often once James's baby is born. What about you and your ex?”

Jack tore his paper napkin in half, then looked horrified by what he'd done. “I haven't spoken to Vicki in years. Unfortunately, our divorce was bitter.”

“I'm sorry,” she said again because she could see that talking about his ex-wife distressed him.

“What's the matter with couples these days?” he asked. “Doesn't anyone stay together anymore?”

“The Beldons have been married since shortly after high school,” Olivia said, leading into the subject of how he knew Bob.

“Ah, yes, Bob and Peggy.”

“I went to high school with both of them,” Olivia explained.

“They were boyfriend and girlfriend back then?” Jack asked.

“From tenth grade on.” Those two had been together practically as long as she could remember.

“Bob was in Vietnam,” Jack said.

“Is that how you know him?” Olivia asked.

Jack shook his head. “I met him later. About ten years ago.”

Olivia waited, wondering if he'd tell her how they'd come to meet. He didn't.

“Bob's the one who suggested I apply for the job here in Cedar Cove. I was looking for a slower pace and decided to take him up on his offer to visit the bed-and-breakfast. I immediately fell in love with the area.”

“And so you uprooted your whole life.”

She met his gaze and they shared a smile.

“I'm glad I did,” he said, offering her a jalapeño.

She shook her head vigorously. “I'm glad you made the move, too.”

Very glad!

 

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, Cecilia poured herself a soothing glass of milk and sat at the small table in her tiny kitchen. She rested her bare legs on the second chair and leaned back, closing her eyes.

After a night on her feet, her toes throbbed. It'd been much worse when she was pregnant. She remembered how badly her ankles had swollen nearly every night. From the first, the pregnancy had been hard on her. She hoped subsequent pregnancies wouldn't be as difficult, then realized there wouldn't be any more. Never again did she plan to risk that kind of emotional pain.

She sipped the milk, hoping it would help her sleep. The
John F. Reynolds
had pulled back into the naval shipyard earlier in the day, just as predicted, leaving Cecilia to wonder if she'd hear from Ian.

Probably not. She was mentally reviewing the reasons they should stay away from each other when the phone rang.

Startled by the unexpectedness of it, Cecilia grabbed the receiver.

“Hello.”

Silence.

Great, a prank call. If she could afford caller ID, she would've phoned right back and given the pervert a piece of her mind.

“Hi.”

Ian.

She was too breathless to respond.

“I tried calling you earlier, but you weren't home,” he said.

“I was at work.”

“I know. I thought of stopping by The Captain's Galley, but I promised you I wouldn't.”

She supposed he was letting her know he'd kept his word. “I just got home a little while ago.”

“That's what I figured. I didn't wake you or anything, did I?”

“No.”

“How are you?” he asked.

Cecilia could hear background traffic and supposed he was calling from a pay phone. “I'm okay.” Nothing had changed in the week since she'd seen him.

“You heard the
John F. Reynolds
had to turn back, didn't you?”

“Yeah.” She didn't mention that news had drifted into town on Wednesday—four days ago.

“I don't know how long we're going to be in port, but probably not long.” He paused, then added, “I'd like to see you. Would you be willing to meet?”

Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't thinking clearly enough to answer him. Her heart leapt at the offer, but her head told her it would be a big mistake.

“I was at the college this week,” she told him, avoiding his question for the moment.

“Olympic College?”

“I signed up for two classes.”

“Cecilia, that's great!” At least Ian was willing to encourage her, even if her father wasn't. “What else is new?”

“I've been working in the bar on weekends, to help pay off the credit card bills.” And all the attorney-related expenses, too. “I got paid on Friday and since I'm current with everything, I thought I'd put the extra money in the bank.”

“Good idea.”

“That's what I thought, until I went window shopping.” It'd been almost a year since she'd gotten anything new—a few maternity outfits she'd recently given to charity. Last week, the temptation to spend her extra cash had been overwhelming. The spring clothes looked so appealing. There were new books she wanted. Cosmetics. A gorgeous pair of shoes. She sighed. “Everything started calling my name.”

“So you decided if you were going to spend it, you'd make sure it was on something productive.”

Ian did know her. “Yes.”

“Good for you. When are your classes?”

“Early mornings, three days a week.” She was lucky to get in, since school had already started. The early classes meant she wasn't going to have a lot of time for sleeping in. That was all right, though. The months after she'd buried Allison, all she'd done was sleep. She'd welcomed the oblivion it offered, the release from pain.

“Are you driving to school?”

Cecilia laughed. “Of course I am.”

“You don't have the most reliable car.”

Her 1993 Ford Tempo had almost a hundred-and-fifty-thousand miles on it. “I'll be fine,” she said, knowing she sounded defensive. “If I run into problems, I can always take the bus.” It wouldn't be a short trip nor would it be convenient, but it was manageable.

Ian paused, as if silently debating with himself. “You didn't answer my question.”

“You want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason? You're my wife.”

“We're separated.”

“Don't remind me,” he muttered.

Cecilia's hand tightened around the receiver. “We didn't speak for months. Remember? Why is it so important that we see each other now?”

“I have something I want to ask you,” he said.

“Ask me now.”

“No.” He was adamant about that. “I'd rather do it in person.”

“When?” She knew all these questions of hers were nothing more than a delaying tactic.

“Soon. Listen, Cecilia, I don't know how long I'll have before I'm deployed. I've got a proposition for you.” When she didn't reply, he said, “Okay, okay, you're right, we
are
separated, but you're the one who wanted that.”

By the time he'd moved out of the apartment, Ian had been in full agreement. Now he'd decided to heap all the blame for the separation on
her
shoulders.

“Fine, you don't want to see me,” he said shortly.

Cecilia sighed. “It isn't that.” The truth of it was she
did
want to see him. More than anything.

“Then set the day and time.”

Cecilia closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her brow as she tried to think.

“Do you want my attorney to contact your attorney?” he asked.

“No!” she flared, angry he'd even suggest such a thing.

“Then tell me when I should come over.”

“You want to come here?” That put a whole new slant on the invitation.

“Fine, we can go somewhere else,” he said. “Anytime, anyplace. You just tell me. I'm not asking again, Cecilia.” His voice held an edge that hadn't been there earlier.

“All right,” she whispered. “How about next week? Someplace in Bremerton? You choose.”

His relief was palpable, even over the phone. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

But it was, damn hard, and Ian knew it.

“When are you free to meet?” she asked, barely able to get the words out.

“I'll let you know. All right? It depends on what's happening with the
John F. Reynolds,
but it'll be soon.”

This wasn't exactly
anytime
or
anyplace,
but then he was in the Navy, and the military ruled his life—and consequently hers.

T
hursday afternoon was the monthly potluck at the Jackson Senior Center, named after longtime Washington State senator Henry M. Jackson. Charlotte looked forward to these get-togethers with her dearest friends. It was a time to visit, catch up on each other's lives, share a fabulous lunch and listen to a speaker. Generally it was someone from the community. A local politician had spoken in January—a real windbag, as far as Charlotte was concerned. In December, the sheriff had discussed safety tips for seniors, and his talk was one of the best received in months. He'd been both interesting and informative.

It just so happened that the speaker for the first week in February was Jack Griffin. Charlotte wouldn't have missed it for the world. She arrived early, secured a table for her knitting friends and made sure the spot next to her was saved for Jack.

“Yoo-hoo, Laura,” Charlotte called, waving her hand so her friend could see where she was sitting. The ladies in the
knitting group always ate together at these functions. As the unofficial head of the group, Charlotte was expected to arrive early and claim the table—not that she minded.

Laura nodded in her direction and carried her dish of deviled eggs to the buffet table. Her friend made the most incredible deviled eggs. She didn't fill them with the standard yolk-and-mayonnaise mixture. Instead, Laura stuffed hardboiled egg whites with a crabmeat-and-shrimp salad. Every month, her platter was among the first to empty.

Charlotte had brought the broccoli lasagna recipe she'd picked up at Lloyd Iverson's wake. She'd experimented with it and added her own personal touch—mushrooms to the crumbled bacon, and cheddar cheese as well as mozzarella. She hadn't been sure what to bring, seeing that she'd collected several excellent recipes lately. That was what happened when she attended three funerals in as many weeks. The dessert recipe she'd gotten last Monday, made with lemon pudding and cream cheese, was worth sitting through the two-hour wake, even if she hadn't been all that fond of Kathleen O'Hara's husband.

Laura joined her, and Evelyn and Helen followed. As soon as they were seated, they reached for their dessert plates, headed for the buffet table and took their pick. Everyone did. Charlotte disapproved of the practice, but choosing your dessert early was the only way to guarantee you'd get one.

“There's Jack now,” Charlotte said, hurrying down the narrow aisle between the tables.

“Jack!” she called out. It was important after all the bragging she'd done that her friends know the newspaperman considered her his personal friend. She made a show of hugging him and was gratified when he returned the gesture.

Mary Berger, president of the Senior Center, joined them and held out her hand. “I'm so pleased you could be with us today, Mr. Griffin,” she said formally, frowning at Charlotte.

“The pleasure's all mine.” His gaze met Charlotte's over the top of Mary's head and he winked.

Charlotte couldn't help it; she blushed. Oh, that young man could melt a heart or two. Her own included. Now if only Olivia would wake up and realize what a catch he was. She did hope this was the man for her daughter. Charlotte had liked Jack the instant they met, and it wasn't often she felt such complete rapport with a man. It seemed to be happening more and more these days. First Tom Harding and then Jack Griffin, both newcomers to the community.

“I saved you a place at my table,” Charlotte told Jack, eager for her friends to meet him.

“I've arranged a seat for Jack at the head table,” Mary countered, glaring at Charlotte.

“But Jack and I are
friends,
” Charlotte said, certain that he'd prefer her company to the stuffed shirts who ran the Senior Center.

“Why don't we leave it up to Jack?” Mary offered and stepped back, crossing her arms. Her expression was confident, as if to suggest there was no contest.

Jack was smiling. “Well, it's been a long time since I've had two lovely women fighting over me.”

Mary cast Charlotte a saccharine-sweet smile, and it was all Charlotte could do not to throw up.

“Why don't I sit with Charlotte and her friends for the buffet,” Jack suggested, “and join Mary and her friends for dessert?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Charlotte said, firmly taking his
arm. Without giving anyone an opportunity to sidetrack him, she led Jack to the table where her friends were waiting.

Evelyn and Helen were dying to talk to Jack, Charlotte knew. They both had article ideas they wanted to discuss with him. Her friends felt that the community had long ignored the contribution of its senior citizens. With Jack as editor, Charlotte believed this was about to change.

Just as she knew he would, Jack won over her friends with little more than a smile. Since she'd talked his ear off the night of the community play, Charlotte was willing to share him now. The ladies gathered around him like deer at a salt lick, each one spouting her opinion of the local newspaper.

Evelyn and Helen spoke nonstop, outlining their ideas and making suggestions.

“Ladies, you're right.”

Charlotte's friends beamed at the praise.

“What the
Cedar Cove Chronicle
needs is a page specifically for seniors. Interviews, health news…”

“Recipes,” Charlotte inserted.

Jack pointed his index finger in her direction. “Recipes,” he agreed.

“I sometimes feel the young people don't understand or appreciate the history of this town,” Laura added. “Did you know Cedar Cove has had three different names in the last hundred years?”

“Three?” Charlotte only knew of two.

“I'm more interested in why the name changed,” Jack said. “Laura, you seem to know. Write me an article for the next edition and I'll print it.”

“But will people read it?” Laura asked, sounding doubtful.

“They'll read it,” Jack said. “I'll make sure of that.”

Charlotte chuckled, guessing at his strategy. Jack would come up with a misleading headline guaranteed to generate interest.

“I like your ideas,” he told the women. “Now, which one of you is willing to head up the senior page?”

Laura, Evelyn, Helen and Bess, who was the quietest member of the knitting group, all looked to Charlotte.

“Everyone knows if you want to get something done, you should ask Charlotte,” Bess said, blushing profusely. “She's got more energy than the rest of us combined.”

Jack grinned as if to say he'd find it a distinct pleasure to work with her. “All right,” Charlotte muttered, thinking she needed her head examined for taking on another project. “I'll do it, but I've got to have help.”

“We'll all help,” Laura promised.

“Bring your ideas to me,” Jack said, “and we'll work on them together.”

Those few words were all the incentive Charlotte required. She wanted to encourage Jack's relationship with her daughter and she could think of no better opportunity to provide him with information about Olivia. Her daughter needed a little assistance. This wasn't so different from the way things had been when Olivia was a shy teenager and Charlotte had spoken to Betty Nelson about having her son ask Olivia to the Junior Prom. Olivia never knew that the date had been arranged between the two mothers, and what her daughter didn't know hadn't hurt her.

Delighted with this turn of events, Charlotte enjoyed her lunch. All too soon, Jack had to move to the head table. The
second he was out of earshot, Charlotte leaned toward her friends. “Isn't he a sweetheart?”

Everyone agreed. The knitting group loved him. It hadn't gone unnoticed that he'd chosen to eat at their table, either. Charlotte's stock had gone up considerably.

“He's dating my daughter, you know,” she announced. It was difficult not to gloat.

“Jack's dating Olivia?” Laura's eyes widened.

“Yes, and as far as I'm concerned, they're perfect together.” Charlotte had high hopes for this relationship. Very high hopes, indeed.

“He's a good man,” Bess whispered. “But a bit rough around the edges, don't you think?”

“How do you mean?” Charlotte instantly took Jack's side. He might not be the smoothest dresser in town, but he was honest, open-minded and he valued their opinions. This was the first time anyone from the newspaper had taken their suggestions seriously.

“I don't know.” Bess shrugged, and reached for her knitting. “Don't misunderstand me, I like Mr. Griffin, but I believe there's more to him than meets the eye.”

“Do you want me to check him out on the Internet?” Evelyn asked, lowering her voice to a husky whisper.

“That's ridiculous,” Charlotte muttered. The former schoolteacher had taken a computer class, and ever since, she'd been downright obnoxious, forever expounding on what she could find out about a person's background. Evelyn fancied herself a private investigator, Charlotte thought sourly.

Before anything more could be said, Mary Berger introduced Jack, and he stepped to the podium, looking completely at ease.

Charlotte found Jack's talk fascinating. He started by recounting his first visit to Cedar Cove and his impressions of the town. Bob Beldon had mentioned that the
Cedar Cove Chronicle
was planning to hire a new editor. It was Jack's luck to arrive the weekend of the Annual Seagull Calling Contest, he said, and his retelling of the day had the entire room in hysterics.

His talk was one of the most entertaining they'd ever had. Those thirty minutes passed quickly.

The seniors gave him a standing ovation.

“Did you notice,” Bess said, whispering in Charlotte's ear when they stood to applaud him, “he didn't tell us a single detail about his own background?”

“Yes, he did,” Charlotte argued, then realized her friend was right. Well, she didn't care. Where he'd lived and worked before moving to Cedar Cove wasn't important. She'd always been a good judge of character, and her instincts told her she could trust Jack Griffin. Besides, Olivia had said Jack was from the Spokane area.

Later, however, Charlotte decided she was curious. Bess and Laura were right; one could never be too careful. Besides, her daughter was involved now, and that meant she had an obligation to dig up whatever she could.

On the pretext of finding out more about the Seniors' Page in the
Cedar Cove Chronicle,
Charlotte stopped at the
Chronicle
headquarters next to the Laundromat on Seaview Drive. She hadn't been inside the newspaper office in years.

The building was new, and it saddened her to see a neat row of desks with computer screens. She longed for the days when the scent of ink hung in the air and reporters yelled into phones and kept bottles of booze in their bottom drawers.
Like in those 1940s movies. Or maybe she was thinking of Lou Grant. They didn't make newsmen like that anymore. Jack Griffin, however, passed muster.

Jack came out of his office to greet her personally. “Did you enjoy the talk yesterday?”

“Very much,” she assured him. “But I was disappointed not to learn more about you.”

“Me?” He laughed lightly. “What's interesting about me?”

“Your newspaper history,” she elaborated.

He rattled off a number of newspapers he'd worked for over the years. The towns and positions sounded impressive. When he'd finished, he waited as if he expected her to respond.

“Well,” Charlotte said, and sighed. “That does sound grand.”

“And boring. Which is why I gave a talk I hoped would be more entertaining. I'm sorry to hear you were disappointed.”

“Oh, not me,” she was quick to tell him. It was her suspicious friends—who didn't know Jack the way she did.

 

Ian asked Cecilia to meet him at the Thai restaurant in Bremerton, where he'd taken her on their first official date. He'd chosen this place on purpose and hoped his wife would remember that night with the same fondness he did.

Cecilia had agreed, although dining out on a Thursday night meant she had to find someone to cover for her at The Captain's Galley. He was sorry about that, but he didn't have any choice; he'd had three straight days of duty. The
John F. Reynolds
probably wouldn't be in dock much longer and this might well be his only opportunity to spend time with her.

He was at the table waiting when Cecilia arrived. He watched her come toward him and was struck anew by her
loveliness. She looked better—healthier—than she had in months. After Allison's death, she'd lost weight. More than she could afford to lose, but it wasn't just that; it seemed as though his wife had given up caring about herself. She hadn't bothered with her hair or her makeup, or any of the other things she used to do when they were first married. Their sex life had gone to hell, along with everything else. He'd tried to help her, but everything he suggested had backfired. He'd asked his mother to call, to talk to her, but Cecilia had taken offense at that. Perhaps if they'd met face-to-face… But his home was in Georgia. His mother had offered to fly to Washington—an offer Cecilia had rejected. Ian had tried to arrange an appointment with a Navy psychologist; she'd refused to go. He'd had conversations with her mother but Cecilia had accused him of interfering. He didn't want to seem critical of Sandra Merrick, but he sensed that her sympathy wasn't entirely a positive thing. As far as he could tell, Sandra wasn't encouraging her to recover, to move on. And because Cecilia didn't know his family, she'd been uninterested in their attempts to help. His own efforts to reach her emotionally had failed. He'd been in pain, too, dammit! Cecilia was angry with him and irrational though her anger was, he understood. But he
couldn't
have been with her when Allison died. It was that simple.

“You're frowning,” she said as she stepped up to the table.