16 Lighthouse Road (20 page)

C
ecilia had dreaded this day for weeks. May first. Her wedding anniversary. A year ago, on this very day, she'd stood with Ian before a Justice of the Peace and they exchanged heartfelt vows. In a matter of minutes, they'd joined their lives for what she'd believed would be forever.

The pregnancy was just beginning to show, and Cecilia had felt it was silly to wear white. Instead she'd chosen a lovely soft pink dress and made a matching veil herself.

Her mother had flown to Washington for the ceremony, brief though it was, and taken them both out for dinner afterward. Bobby had slipped a fifty-dollar bill in Cecilia's hand. Ian had insisted they have a honeymoon, and despite their lack of extra money, he'd found a way. They'd spent two glorious days on the Washington coast, the Long Beach peninsula. They'd explored the beach and the small historic towns, like Oysterville and Seaview. At night, they'd cuddled together in
front of the fireplace in their rented cottage and discussed the future. Everything had seemed so perfect then. It was on their honeymoon that they'd decided on names for their unborn child and talked about Ian's Navy career and Cecilia's role as a Navy wife. She hadn't understood everything that would require, but had been willing to follow her husband to the ends of the earth.

She'd followed him to the end of her sanity. Cecilia couldn't possibly guess that within a few months their child would be dead. She couldn't have known that all joy and purpose would disappear from her life.

A year later, May first was just another workday. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. As much as possible, she intended to ignore its significance, the same way she'd been ignoring Ian.

For a while, they'd been e-mailing back and forth—until she'd faced up to the reality of their situation. They remained legally bound, but they were no longer husband and wife, despite her lapse in judgment when they'd made love. Their separation had lasted longer than their marriage. What she'd said to him was true; he deserved to be a father. But as she'd told him in her last e-mail, he needed to accept the fact that she would never again risk that kind of heartache.

Ian's return e-mail had suggested she was overreacting. He'd said she would feel different eventually, that she'd want to have another child. He didn't understand. She didn't try to explain, because any response would've been an invitation for him to argue—and to continue their correspondence. So she'd stopped e-mailing him, stopped going to the library, stopped caring.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean she'd managed to rid her thoughts of Ian. It'd been a mistake to write him, a mistake to get involved with him again, even through that series of short e-mails. No, her decision was made. As soon as she could afford it, she was going ahead with the divorce, which would be the best thing for both of them. In time Ian would see that, and in time, he'd find it in his heart to forgive her.

When she'd worked all of that out, she'd parked his car, refusing to drive it again.

Knowing what the future held for her and Ian, Cecilia couldn't allow the significance of May first to distract her. She headed for her advanced algebra class early that morning, driving her own car, determined to make the best of the day. This was the next level of algebra and far more challenging than her first course. It helped that Mr. Cavanaugh was teaching this one, too. She liked him a great deal.

Despite her efforts to concentrate during class, her mind drifted in various unsettling directions, finally landing on the very subjects she'd wanted to avoid. Ian, her dead baby and the hopelessness of ever getting an education one course at a time. When she finally graduated with any kind of useful degree, she'd be old enough to collect Social Security.

Feeling depressed, she waited to talk to Mr. Cavanaugh after class. Holding her books tightly against her, she walked to the front of the room.

“Yes, Cecilia,” he said, giving her his attention.

“I…I thought you should know I've decided to drop out of class.”

He didn't reveal any overt disappointment. “I'm sorry to hear that. Is there a particular reason?”

Several, but none she could mention. Hanging her head, she shrugged. “I'm not sure where I'll use this knowledge. I'm a restaurant hostess, not some brainy type who'll have a career in math.”

“Knowledge is never wasted. You're right, of course, you might never again have the opportunity to use the quadratic formula, but there's a certain satisfaction in being able to do so. Don't you agree?”

“I don't know.”

“I see.” He reached for his books and placed them inside his briefcase, then left the room.

Cecilia walked with him. Part of her had hoped he'd try to talk her out of quitting. “I did want to thank you.”

“What about your other class? What was it again?”

“Business English,” she supplied.

“Do you intend to drop out of that, too?”

She nodded, clutching her books tighter than ever. The school would refund a portion of the course fees if she pulled out before the end of this week.

“I'm sorry, Cecilia,” he said again.

“I am, too,” she whispered, even more miserable now.

“Give it to the end of the week, all right?”

“Okay,” she agreed, but her mind was made up. She would use the money from the classes to pay for another appointment with Allan Harris. She'd ask him to try to get the prenuptial agreement overturned. He'd mentioned that they could appeal Judge Lockhart's decree, and with Ian out at sea, that was her only option.

After her classes, Cecilia drove her clunker back to the apartment, hoping to nap before work. Normally she started
in on her homework, tackling it with enthusiasm, but not today. Not when there was a very real possibility she wouldn't be returning to Olympic College after Friday.

The light on the answering machine was blinking. Reluctantly Cecilia pushed the button.

“It's Cathy,” came the cheerful voice of her friend. “A bunch of us are getting together tonight for dinner. Are you interested? It's a potluck at my place. I hope you'll come. Give me a call either way. I'd really love to have you here.” Cathy had become a friend, a
good
friend, and they made a point of seeing each other every week. Sometimes with the other Navy wives, more often not. They'd scouted out garage sales, gone to an occasional movie, met for Sunday brunch.

But Cecilia couldn't go tonight, not when she was working the dinner shift at the restaurant. Cathy knew her hours and had invited her anyway, making a point of including her. Cecilia hated having to explain, since it should've been obvious that she couldn't get away.

Cathy answered immediately. “Cecilia,” she cried, sounding really pleased to hear from her. “Say you'll come.”

“I can't.”

“But it won't be the same without you.”

“I'm working and it's far too late to find a replacement.” That was true enough.

Cathy heaved a sigh of disappointment. “Maybe we should all come down and see you. You know that old saying—if Mohammed won't come to the mountain…” She didn't finish the statement, but laughed as though she'd said something clever.

Cecilia didn't join in. “Maybe next time,” she said in a dull voice.

Cathy hesitated. “Is everything all right? No, don't answer that. I can tell it isn't. What's wrong?”

Rather than tell Cathy the whole truth, she opted for the abridged version. “I'm dropping out of school.”

“You can't! You love your classes.”

“I need the money.”

“I'll give you a loan.”

Cecilia was shocked that a friend of such short acquaintance would make an offer like that. “You don't have any money, either.”

“No, but I can get some…I think. Don't worry, if worse comes to worst, I'll take up a collection when I see the rest of the women tonight. We need to stick together, you know? If we can't give one another emotional support, who will? With our men at sea, all we have is each other.”

Cecilia's spirits rose, but that was unavoidable with Cathy, whose optimism and generosity always made life seem more promising, somehow.

“I'll get back to you,” Cecilia told her. Then, despite her mood, she sat down with the algebra book and began working on her assignment. When she looked up, it was past time to leave for work. She tore around the apartment, changing her clothes, and rushed out the door, arriving at The Captain's Galley just as her shift was starting.

As usual, Cecilia poked her head into the lounge to say hello to her father.

He raised his hand and called out “How's it goin'?” when he saw her.

“Fine.” No use explaining her depression to him. He wouldn't know what to say if she did.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, right,” she muttered under her breath.

Cecilia hadn't been at work more than an hour when a deliveryman arrived with a huge bouquet of fresh flowers. Yellow daisies, her favorite, and big pink tulips and a variety of others. “I'm looking for Cecilia Randall,” he said, reading the tag.

Taken aback, Cecilia said nothing for a moment.

“Is there a Ms. Randall here?” he asked, frowning.

“I'm Cecilia Randall,” she told him.

The young man, probably a high-school student, thrust the vase filled with flowers into her arms and left. She didn't need to unwrap the cellophane and read the card to know they were from Ian. This was exactly the kind of low, underhanded thing he did just so she'd feel guilty. Well, dammit, that wasn't going to work. She refused to let it.

Setting the flowers down next to the cash register, she removed the plastic and dropped it into the nearby trash can. Then she reached for the card.

 

Happy First Anniversary. I love you. Ian

 

Her stomach cramped, and Cecilia feared she was about to be sick. Biting into her lower lip, she waited for the sensation to pass.

“Who are the flowers for?” her father asked curiously, walking into the restaurant.

She didn't answer right away. “Me, from Ian,” she whispered.

“Really. Any special reason?”

She nodded. “It's…supposed to be our anniversary.”

“Oh.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. When her father noticed them, he patted her on the back and returned to the bar.

 

Justine sipped her wine and pretended to be listening intently to Warren as he babbled on. She'd lost track of what he was saying, but a response from her wasn't required. Any comment, other than praise or social small talk, wasn't welcome. Justine knew her role and it was that of a social accessory. This hadn't bothered her in the past and didn't really bother her now. She understood Warren, understood the terms of their arrangement.

“More wine?” Warren asked, lifting the bottle and replenishing her glass.

Dinner at this five-star Seattle restaurant was in celebration of some multimillion-dollar contract Warren had landed. Such celebrations happened every two or three months.

“Well,” he said, gazing expectantly at her, “what do you think?”

“Think?” Warren didn't date her for her brains and wasn't really interested in her opinions. They never talked about
her
job; in fact, he avoided dealing with her bank.

He blinked hard. “Justine, weren't you listening?”

“I…I'm afraid it's the wine. I get kind of sleepy. I'm sorry, darling, what were you saying?” Announcing that another man had been on her mind was not likely to garner his sympathy.

Thoughts of Seth Gunderson consumed her day and night, but she'd have to be a complete moron to drop Warren for a man who lived on a sailboat. Seth infuriated her. He could
have slept with her, would have if she'd had any say in the matter. Every time she thought about that night, Justine felt so angry and humiliated, she wanted to bash her head against the wall. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

In her weakness she'd encouraged him, and that had been a dreadful mistake. Seth believed she was leaving Warren for him. She couldn't. Warren needed her, and in her own way she needed him.

“I was talking about us,” he repeated.

The conversation was about to become awkward. Justine could feel it.

“Oh, Warren, do you really think this is the time?” She pouted very prettily at him.

“Yes. Tonight's a celebration.”

“I'm so proud of you.”

He beamed her a smile and leaning across the table, clasped her fingers. Stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, he held her gaze. “You know how I feel about you.”

She did indeed. Justine might be a lot of things, but she wasn't stupid.

“Move in with me.”

“Oh, Warren.” Two or three times a year he pressured her to make that decision. So far, she'd always managed to change the subject, cajole him out of his insistence on “taking the next step.” Dating Warren was one thing; living with him was an entirely new scorecard. She'd never intended their relationship to go that far.

“Before you answer,” he said, “take a look at this.” He broke eye contact long enough to reach inside his pocket and bring out a jeweler's velvet case.

“Warren?”

So the pressure was about to intensify. It didn't matter. She wasn't willing to surrender her freedom, regardless of what he offered.

“Before I show you this, I want to explain.” He took her hand once again, his eyes serious, then looked down at the table. “You never ask for more than I can give,” he murmured.

By that he meant she accepted his inability to perform sexually. Actually, she didn't mind, even preferred the lack of a physical relationship. Justine kept his secret; she owed him that. She suspected very few people knew of Warren's problems. Apparently they were of a kind that a small blue pill wouldn't help.