16 Lighthouse Road (5 page)

“He moved to Cedar Cove three months ago.”

“Old news,” Olivia muttered. “If that's all you have…”

“From the Spokane area.”

This appeared to be something Olivia didn't know. “Newspaper background, obviously?”

“Yes, from a paper with ten times the circulation of the
Chronicle.
” Grace wasn't a gossip by nature, but she'd been wondering about Jack Griffin since she'd read his first Saturday column. She'd liked what he'd had to say, and it was apparent he approved of Olivia. She'd met him briefly at a Chamber of Commerce meeting shortly after he'd come to Cedar Cove but hadn't formed an impression one way or the other.

“Why does a man give up working for a prestigious newspaper and move across the state to a town the size of Cedar Cove?” she asked Olivia.

Her friend shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps he wanted to be closer to his son.”

“He has a son?” No one Grace had spoken to knew that.

“Eric. He lives in Seattle.”

That was interesting. But before she could comment further, their instructor, Shannon Devlin, entered the room, clapping her hands to gather her students around her.

“Trust me. There's more to this career change than meets the eye.”

“Trust
you!
”

“Yeah, trust me,” Grace joked.

Olivia grinned and placed her hands on her hips as she
rotated her waist, making deep bends as Shannon led the class in warm-ups. “You've been hanging around the mystery section of the library too long,” she whispered as they took their places in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Shannon was twenty, if that. A pretty girl with pliant limbs and a body devoid of fat. Grace's own figure had once been that slim and perfect, she reminded herself—before two children and the onset of menopause.

The music, impossibly loud, gave her a surge of energy. She had a love/hate relationship with this class. If not for Olivia, she would have dropped out a dozen times. Unfortunately she needed the benefits of all this huffing, puffing and stretching. Despite the muscle pain, she didn't mind the mat exercises, the sit-ups and such, but she hated Shannon's little dance routines.
Step back, slide left, cross right…
Olivia never seemed to have a problem with the complicated patterns; Grace, on the other hand, had trouble living up to her name.

After fifty minutes of sweating and grumbling under her breath, plus cool-down exercises, they were finished. None too soon, as far as Grace was concerned. Not until they'd showered and changed back into their sweats did Olivia mention Jack again. The fact that she wanted to continue the conversation surprised Grace.

“Did you learn anything else about Jack Griffin?”

Grace had to think. It always seemed to take a while for her brain cells to stop bouncing around after her aerobics class. “You know more about him than I do,” she finally said.

Olivia reached for her gym bag. “I doubt that.”

“You're interested in him, aren't you?”

Olivia laughed off the suggestion. “Oh, hardly. I've got enough worries without adding a relationship to the mix.”

“Worries?” Sure, her friend had worries, but then everyone did.

“Mom's getting on in years and Justine—I just can't seem to talk to her anymore, and I haven't heard from James in two weeks.”

“I thought he was out at sea.”

“He is, but he can still e-mail me.”

“Okay, okay, we all have kid problems, and our parents are a concern, but that doesn't mean we have to stop living.”

“You think I've stopped living?” Olivia asked. “Because I don't have a man in my life?”

Grace knew the question had offended her. First Dan and now her best friend, and Grace hadn't meant to upset either of them.

“I didn't mean it like that,” she assured her. “I just think you should leave your options open when it comes to Jack.”

“Why?”

“Because.” And that was all the answer she was willing to give, but Grace had a very strong feeling that the new editor of the
Cedar Cove Chronicle
was going to bring something exciting to Olivia's life.

C
ecilia was working as a hostess at The Captain's Galley the night she'd met Ian Randall, and she continued to work there five evenings a week. Her father, Bobby Merrick, was one of the bartenders and had gotten her the job.

Soon after graduating from high school, Cecilia had moved to Cedar Cove at her father's urging. After a long estrangement, he'd contacted her with promises of making up for lost time. He'd seemed genuine, and because she'd felt cheated out of a father during her childhood, she'd readily agreed. Following her parents' divorce when she was ten, Cecilia hardly ever saw her father and she welcomed this unexpected opportunity. Refusing to heed her mother's warnings, she'd packed up her entire life and moved across the country, from New Hampshire to this small waterfront community in Washington. Within three months she knew she'd made a mistake. Her dreams of a college education were simply that. Dreams.
Bobby's idea of setting her up for the future was talking to his boss and getting her a job at the same restaurant where he worked. Being a hostess and cocktail waitress wasn't how Cecilia wanted to spend the next few decades, but it was all too easy to imagine. Without intending it, she'd let her entire life get sidetracked.

Now she was about to be divorced, up to her ears in debt and utterly miserable. Her illusions about her father and men in general had been shattered. Bobby wanted to be her friend, but as badly as Cecilia needed a friend, she needed a father more.

One day, she vowed, she'd find a way to attend college but first she had to figure out how to pay for it. With the legal fees and what it'd cost to bury her daughter, she suspected she'd be at least thirty before she could afford to get an education. Bobby couldn't help her out financially; he'd made that completely clear.

In an effort to supplement her income, she was putting in extra hours on weekends, serving drinks in the bar once the dining room closed at ten. Often she wasn't home until two-thirty in the morning.

When she showed up for work late Friday afternoon, she knew she was in for a hectic shift. The aircraft carrier, the
Carl Vinson,
was in town, which meant a crew of 2,500 sailors. The Captain's Galley served the best seafood in the area and the bar was a popular meeting place.

It was here that Ian had come for a drink one night last January. He'd had his eye on her, and she'd been watching him just as avidly. Then he— She gave herself a mental shake. Cecilia didn't want to think about her husband, and tried to push him from her mind. It didn't work.

She hadn't seen or heard from him since he'd charged out of her apartment a week earlier. They hadn't made any decisions about what to do next. That was typical of him, she thought angrily. He left every decision to her. If they were going ahead with this divorce, then their best option was the Dispute Resolution Center. Not that
their
dispute could ever be resolved… She sighed in resignation. Obviously, she'd have to make the appointment. Ian's so-called suggestion that they pretend to be divorced was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous!

The bar was already hopping when the restaurant closed. Cecilia collected her tray and joined Beverly and Carla, the two other cocktail waitresses. The lounge was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer hung in the air, trapped by the smoke. The music came from a jukebox and was earsplitting loud. Cecilia had to struggle to hear her customers' orders.

One man who drank alone seemed to speak softly in an effort to force her to lean closer. He was older, at least forty, and he sent out all the signals—he was interested in her. He gave her the creeps and Cecilia did her best to ignore him. The way his eyes followed her about the room made her skin crawl.

By closing time only a few patrons lingered; unfortunately her admirer was one of them. Cecilia's feet hurt and her eyes smarted from the smoke. She was eager to collect her tips and head home. Just when she thought she was finished for the night, Ian and Andrew Lackey, another sailor, walked into the bar.

Cecilia tensed, especially when she noticed Ian's demeanor. It was obvious The Captain's Galley hadn't been his first stop. Her husband didn't hold his liquor well, never had, and generally avoided anything stronger than beer.

Her attention was on Ian when she should have been keeping closer tabs on the loner whose gaze had been glued to her for the last four hours.

“You wanna bite to eat?” The husky male voice spoke from behind her.

Cecilia whirled around.

“I'm Bart, and you're Cecilia, right?”

“Right.” She watched Ian and his friend stroll up to the bar. Her husband seemed to be pretending she wasn't there. But then, that was his preferred approach to anything awkward or inconvenient, wasn't it? “Actually it's been a long night,” she answered, her gaze flicking back to Bart. “Another time.”
In your dreams,
she added silently.

“You've gotta be hungry.”

“Ah…”

Ian finally glanced in her direction, and his eyes narrowed when he saw her talking to the other man.

“Hey, it's no big deal. Breakfast, conversation.” Bart continued the pressure. “You look like you could use a friend and I can be a very good…friend.”

Cecilia was more concerned about Ian than ditching Bart. “I don't think so.”

“Tomorrow then, just you and me.”

“I…” Her gaze flew from Bart to Ian, who was scowling heavily. She was afraid he'd cause a scene, which she wanted to avoid, for everyone's sake.

Ian leaned toward his friend and whispered, but Andrew adamantly shook his head. Cecilia could see that Ian was looking for trouble and his friend was trying to dissuade him.

“Perhaps another night,” Cecilia said quickly, putting Bart
off. That seemed the best way of getting rid of him before Ian did something stupid.

Her husband stepped away from the bar. “Is he bothering you?” he demanded, his words half-slurred.

“Butt out,” Bart snarled, angry at the interruption. He seemed to think he was making progress with Cecilia. He wasn't, but Ian didn't know that and apparently neither did he.

Andrew tried to stop him, but Ian shook off his hand and advanced a menacing step. He wasn't about to back down, even if Bart outweighed him by fifty pounds. “In case you didn't know it, you're trying to pick up my wife.”

Bart glanced at Cecilia as if to gauge the truth. She didn't dare meet his look.

“We're divorced, remember?” she taunted, reminding her husband that it'd been his idea to
pretend
they were no longer married.

“The hell we are.”

“You're the one who said we should just get on with our lives.”

“I…I…” Ian sputtered, searching for a satisfactory reply.

“Why should you care if I date another man?”

“Because until a judge says otherwise, you're legally my wife!”

“Are you married or not?” Bart muttered.

“Married!” Ian shouted.

“Separated,” Cecilia said.

Bart reached for his jacket. “In that case, let's go.”

“The hell she will.” Ian started toward Bart, but Andrew stepped between them.

“Anytime, buddy,” Bart growled.

“Right now sounds good to me,” Ian said, raising his clenched fists.

“Get out,” Cecilia cried. “Both of you! I have no intention of going anywhere with either one of you.” She ran toward the back room where her father had conveniently disappeared, supposedly checking inventory.

“What's happening out there?” Bobby Merrick asked as if he wasn't aware of the situation he'd left her to deal with on her own. Ian and Bobby had never gotten along, and Bobby avoided any confrontation between them by making himself scarce.

Cecilia shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Everything okay?”

“Ian's here, looking for a fight. That's all.”

Her father stared back, frowning. “I don't want any trouble here. Tell him to take it outside.”

“Yeah.” Cecilia sighed wearily. “I did. And now I'm leaving.”

“Get rid of Ian first.”

“Not to worry, I'm sure he's left.”

She retrieved her coat and purse, got her share of the tips and walked toward the front door, hoping she wouldn't stumble upon her husband slugging it out with the loner. To Cecilia's surprise, Ian hadn't left, after all. They stared at each other from opposite sides of the room.

Beverly was the only other person in the bar, preparing the night's cash for deposit; she muttered “good night,” still intent on her task.

“We're closed,” Cecilia told Ian.

He paid no attention. “Were you actually going to leave with that sleazebag?”

The contempt in his voice rankled. “That's none of your business.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned and stalked out the door.

Cecilia resisted the urge to hurry after him. Ian was in no condition to drive. She hesitated, arguing with herself. He wouldn't appreciate her concern, and it might give him the wrong impression. Just a few minutes earlier she'd demanded he stay out of her life. The least she could do was follow her own advice and stay out of his.

The door opened and she glanced up expectantly, thinking it might be Ian. Instead, it was his friend. Andrew seemed awkward and unsure. She barely knew the other sailor, who'd recently been transferred to Bremerton.

“Yes?” she asked stiffly.

“I thought you should know Ian's going to sea. He's been transferred to the
John F. Reynolds.
”

That didn't make sense to her. The
John F. Reynolds
was an aircraft carrier. Ian was a submariner, a nuclear electronic technician. “He'll be away six weeks?” she asked numbly, not understanding the transfer.

“More like six months.”

Six months? “Oh.”

“That's why he came by tonight. He wanted you to know.”

Cecilia wasn't sure what to say.

“He didn't mean to cause any trouble.”

Cecilia swallowed hard. “He didn't…not really.”

Andrew peered over his shoulder as if he'd heard someone call his name. “I've got to go. I just wanted to tell you I'm real sorry about your little girl.”

“Th-thank you,” she managed to say. But he was already gone. She waited a few moments and decided her peace of
mind was worth more than her pride. She had to be sure Ian wasn't driving. Hurrying outside, she stood on the sidewalk, searching for her husband's car. He was nowhere to be seen.

A sense of loss filled her, an emptiness. Ian was going to sea for six months and she hated the thought of it. She didn't
want
to feel anything for him, but she did. At any rate, she told herself wryly, he had his wish—with Ian at sea, she couldn't proceed with the divorce.

Tired and discouraged, Cecilia strolled toward her own ram-shackle car, shoulders hunched against the cold. She could smell the ocean tonight, and a low-lying fog was rolling in from the cove. A car drove slowly past. Looking up, Cecilia saw that it was Ian's. Thankfully, Andrew was behind the wheel. As she watched, her husband's gaze connected with hers.

Cecilia was shocked by the longing she saw in him. It was all she could do to keep herself from calling out. She yearned to wish Ian a safe voyage and see him off without this animosity between them.

But it was too late. Much too late.

 

Charlotte Jefferson wore her finest dress—navy dotted Swiss, with long sleeves and a full skirt—on her next visit to Tom Harding at the Cedar Cove Convalescent Center. She'd worked feverishly knitting the lap robe for him, and it showed excellent workmanship, even if she said so herself.

Tom was sitting in his wheelchair when she breezed into the room. “I told you I'd be back,” she said, smiling warmly, the newspaper tucked under one arm. Her new friend looked well. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes were clear and bright.

Tom nodded, obviously pleased to see her. His right hand pointed shakily to the empty chair.

“Thank you,” she said, sinking gratefully onto the seat. “I don't usually dress up in my best except on Sundays, but I just came from the funeral of a friend of my husband's.”

Tom stared at her blankly.

“We were friends with the Iversons for years,” she said. “He was a good man. Died of lung cancer. Used to smoke like a chimney.” She shook her head sadly, then crossed her legs and removed her left shoe. “I was on my feet most of the afternoon,” she explained. “I'm not as young as I used to be, and Lloyd Iverson's death really shook me.” Sighing, she looked over at him. “How was your week?”

Tom shrugged.

“Are they treating you well?”

He nodded as if to say he had no complaints.

“How about the food?”

Another shrug.

“Speaking of food,” she said, brightening. “I got the most fabulous recipe for broccoli lasagna at the wake. I just love it when I find a good recipe. Last month we buried Marion Parsons, and a lady from her church brought the most incredible noodle salad made with—and this is the kicker—whipped cream. Spaghetti noodles with a marshmallow and cream dressing. It was out of this world.” It suddenly occurred to her that Tom might not be interested in hearing about the recipe exchange that went on at wakes.

“I'm glad to hear you like it here in Cedar Cove.”

He nodded again.

“I think I'll make up a batch of that broccoli lasagna and take
half of it over to my daughter. She lives alone now, and I just don't think she eats enough vegetables. It doesn't matter that she's fifty-two, she's still my little girl and I worry about her.”

Tom smiled faintly.

“Would you like me to bring you a piece, too?”

Grinning, Tom shook his head.

“You don't like broccoli, is that it? You and George Bush. Not George W. I don't know if he likes broccoli or not.”