8 Sandpiper Way (11 page)

“Y
ou were right about the knitting.”

The young female voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Startled, Faith Beckwith looked up from the pattern book she was studying. She sat at a table in The Quilted Giraffe, searching for a knitting project, only to find Troy’s daughter, Megan, staring down at her.

“Megan.” She hoped the shock didn’t show in her eyes. It took her an instant to get past the fact that this was Troy’s daughter. Despite her intentions, forgetting about him was a futile effort. “How are you feeling?”

“Really good,” Megan said, then lowered her voice. “This pregnancy feels so different from my first one.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Faith murmured, genuinely happy for Troy’s daughter.

“I haven’t told anyone about the baby. Except Craig. I
had
to tell my husband.”

“Of course you did.” Faith was relieved to hear that. She hated the thought of Megan keeping this pregnancy to herself.

“My dad and my in-laws don’t know yet.” She hesitated. “It’s hard not to tell my dad.”

“Then why don’t you?” Faith asked. Troy would make a wonderful grandfather.

“We’re really close,” Megan went on to say. “I don’t want him to worry unnecessarily.” She smiled slightly as she pulled out a chair and sat next to Faith. “I have a good feeling, though.”

“You’ll know when the time’s right to tell your father and your in-laws,” Faith said without meeting her gaze. It felt odd to speak about Troy in such an abstract way. She noticed, however, that Megan looked healthy. Color showed in her cheeks and her eyes were clear and bright.

“I was glad when I saw you here,” Megan said as she set her gigantic purse on the table. “You were so helpful the day I went to the clinic.”

“Actually, it was my first day on the job.”

“You’re kidding!”

Faith laughed softly.

“I felt like you were there just for me. I was feeling so emotional. You calmed me down, and after we talked, I felt…a real sense of hope.”

Faith was grateful for those kind words.

“But it was more than that,” Megan continued. “You said knitting would be good for me. You were right. Every time I feel anxious about the baby, I pick up my needles and I remember what you said. It’s almost as if…” She hesitated again. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression or anything, but you said exactly what I would’ve wanted my mother to say.”

“I’m sure your mother would have been just as reassuring if she was with you.”

“I miss her every single day,” Megan said. She sniffled loudly. Obviously embarrassed, she searched inside her purse for a tissue. “My hormones are so out of whack
these days, I burst into tears at the drop of a hat.” She tried to laugh and only half succeeded.

“I was like that when I was pregnant,” Faith told her. “I can remember watching a rerun of the old Mary Tyler Moore show, the one where Chuckles the Clown dies. Even though it’s a comedy, I was bawling my head off and then all of a sudden I was laughing and crying at the same time.”

“You liked
The Mary Tyler Moore Show?
” Megan asked, her eyes wide. “My mother and I used to watch it at the care facility. I know exactly which episode you’re talking about. That was Mom’s very favorite show.”

Then, as if she’d suddenly remembered why she was at the fabric store, Megan reached inside her purse and brought out her knitting. “I came here hoping I could find someone to help me with this.” She set her yarn and needles on the table.

Faith saw immediately that Megan had stopped knitting in the middle of a row, never a good idea.

“I’m afraid I dropped a stitch and I didn’t know what to do next.”

“I can help you with that,” Faith murmured, looking at the half-completed baby blanket.

Retrieving a crochet hook from her own knitting bag, Faith captured the renegade stitch and wove it into place. Then she slipped it back on the needle. “There,” she said calmly. “Now you can finish the row. You saw how I did that, didn’t you?”

Megan nodded. “I should probably buy a crochet hook, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s an excellent tool to have.”

“Okay, I’ll do it today. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” Faith glanced down at the pattern
book and tried not to think about Troy and how much she missed him.

“Would you…I mean…” Megan looked uncertain. “I realize you’re working at the clinic and you don’t really know me…”

“Yes?” Faith prompted.

“Would it be all right if I came to see you sometime? Not as a patient, though.”

“You mean as a friend?” Faith asked.

Megan nodded eagerly. “Like on your coffee break or maybe even for lunch.”

Faith was in a quandary. If Troy learned about their friendship, he’d assume she’d somehow arranged this because of him. He’d assume she was trying to reconnect with him through his daughter and nothing could be further from the truth.

“Would it be improper?” Megan asked, frowning.

“Not…improper,” Faith said.

“Perhaps we could meet outside the clinic,” Megan suggested, as if she’d stumbled upon the perfect solution.

“We could meet here at the store, I suppose,” Faith said. “I’d be happy to help you with your knitting. This blanket’s an excellent project but I could also show you how to knit booties and a hat for the baby to wear home from the hospital.”

“You could?”

“I…could,” Faith told her. “I have a pattern I use whenever there’s a new baby in the family. We could meet right here at the table they have for classes.”

“That’s great! Thank you, Faith.” Megan paused, a look of concern in her eyes. “Is it okay if I call you Faith?”

“Of course. Faith is just fine.”

They set a date for the following week and Faith
wondered—fearing for her own peace of mind—if this was such a smart idea. She hadn’t meant to get involved with Troy’s daughter. Yet, at the same time, Megan was emotionally needy, especially with this second pregnancy so soon after losing the first.

Still, Troy might think—

No. She would not allow Troy Davis into her mind. It was over. If she became friends with Megan, it would have nothing to do with Troy. Megan was her own woman. So was Faith.

When she returned home from the fabric store, Faith made a pot of tea, then sat down in her living room. She’d found a lovely natural-fiber yarn in earth tones and had decided to knit a sample afghan. Eager to start the project, she picked up her needles and the new yarn and was about to cast on stitches when the doorbell rang.

Although it was only a little past four in the afternoon, the day had already grown dark. Faith turned on her porch light and checked the peephole in the door.

And then she saw him.

Troy Davis.

No doubt he’d heard about Megan and Faith meeting and felt he needed to wade right in, making unwarranted assumptions and judgments. If that was the case, and it probably was, Faith didn’t intend to listen. She didn’t require
his
permission to see Megan.

With reluctance she unlocked the door and opened it. She’d hung an evergreen wreath on the outside, and the scent, with its memories of childhood Christmases, wafted into the room.

Still in uniform, Troy stood there, his hat in hand. “Hello, Faith.”

“Troy.” She nodded, keeping her voice level and cool.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?” he asked when she didn’t immediately open the door.

Without smiling, she unlatched the screen door and he came inside.

She noticed that he’d lost a few pounds since she’d last seen him almost two weeks ago and wondered briefly if he’d been ill. Worried despite her own resolve, she watched him closely—as if she were starved for the very sight of him, she thought with disgust.

She didn’t
want
to care about Troy Davis. Didn’t want to feel even a flicker of emotion. Letting him back into her life would only bring more pain. He’d proved that.

Troy entered the living room. “Would it be all right if I sat down?” he asked.

Faith nodded. Her lack of welcome and warmth went against the grain, but she was protecting herself. She had no choice.

She sat down again in the overstuffed chair that was her favorite and Troy took the one across from her. He sat on the edge of the cushion, hat still in his hand.

He didn’t speak for an interminable moment. “You’re looking well,” he finally said.

“Thank you,” she returned stiffly. She had to bite her tongue to keep from bragging how well she really was and how nicely she’d gotten along without him.

He nodded. “I was thinking…”

Faith reached for her knitting needles, needing something to occupy her hands.

“I was thinking, actually I was hoping, you might be free for dinner tonight.”

Faith set the needles in her lap and raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon? Did you just ask me to dinner?”

“Yes. Cedar Cove has several good restaurants and—”

“How
dare
you, Troy Davis.”

He blanched.

“Did I hear you wrong two months ago, not to mention last week? Did I somehow misconstrue your words or intentions?”

Troy frowned uncertainly.

“As I recall, you said it would be best if we no longer saw each other. That’s the way I remember it, so correct me if I misunderstood.”

“I did say that,” he agreed. “But at the time I didn’t have any idea how difficult that would be. I love you, Faith.”

“No, you don’t,” she said flatly, unwilling to fall under his spell yet again.

His head snapped back as if she’d struck him.

“If you loved me,” she continued in a cold voice, “you wouldn’t have been so quick to break my heart. You have a habit of doing that, Troy, and I’m through. This was the last time.” She picked up her knitting again, avoiding his eyes. “As for your dinner invitation—”

He didn’t allow her to finish. “I’ve missed you, Faith.”

She’d missed him, too, more than she wanted to admit, but that didn’t change what he’d said—that he could no longer see her. She recognized how concerned he was about his daughter, and she sympathized, especially now that she’d met Megan. She would’ve understood if he’d asked for her patience. Instead he’d cut her out of his life. Just like that. If she hadn’t pressured him, he wouldn’t even have given her a reason. Oh, no. She was done with Troy Davis.

“Not a day passes that I don’t think about you,” he murmured.

She refused to look at him.

“Whenever I drive past your house, I call myself every kind of fool.”

“I have a few other names I could add to your vocabulary.”

She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but he laughed.

“Yes, I suppose you could.”

Her hands tightened around the knitting needles.

“It’s taken me this long to find the courage to come to your door. It isn’t dinner I’m asking for, Faith. What I really want…is a second chance.”

She pinched her lips together. “Isn’t it a
third
chance?”

“Third?”

“You broke my heart when I was a teenager.”

“Oh, come on, Faith, not that again. You broke mine, too, and if you’re blaming me for that, then you’re way off base.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your mother lied to me,” he reminded her.

“And you believed her! You didn’t even talk to me. You took her at her word and went about your merry way and met Sandy.”

“You met Carl and married
him
quickly enough.” Anger flared in his eyes.

There was no point in arguing. They were at a standstill, neither of them willing to budge.

“That was years ago,” Troy said after a tense moment. “As far as I’m concerned, it was unfortunate, but it happened. We both went on with our lives and found other people. You married a good man and I married a woman I loved. We both had families. Everything turned out the way it was meant to be.”

He made it all sound so reasonable. Troy didn’t know how many nights she’d cried herself to sleep back in
college, wondering why he’d dumped her—why he’d been so cruel. Yes, she’d met and married Carl but getting over Troy hadn’t been easy. She’d genuinely loved him then—and she genuinely loved him now.

“Fate brought us back together,” he murmured.

“And then you blew it.”

“I did, and I apologize,” he said without hesitation.

At least he admitted that much.

“I assumed Megan wouldn’t accept another woman in my life,” he explained, “especially so soon after Sandy’s death.”

Faith was curious as to whether Megan had mentioned her. Since she’d kept her pregnancy a secret from her father and in-laws, Faith suspected she hadn’t said anything about their recent friendship, either.

“Megan’s my only child and I love her, but I have my own life.” He paused, then added in a soft, coaxing voice, “Right now my life feels very empty without you.”

Faith could feel herself weakening.

“Shall we try again?” Troy asked.

Despite her stubborn insistence that they were through, she wavered. He watched her, waiting, his expression hopeful. Faith forced herself to look away. “I need to think about it.” She paused. “Are you
sure
this time, Troy?”

“I’m sure.”

Faith wanted to trust him but was afraid to. She knew she couldn’t tolerate another rejection, another betrayal. “I’m not ready to make that decision yet,” she said.

For a fleeting moment Troy seemed disappointed. But his demeanor quickly changed, becoming more businesslike. “Fair enough.” He stared down at his hat as if carefully considering his next statement. “I’ll tell you what. Once you’ve made your decision, you let me know.”

“Fine.”

“I won’t trouble you again, Faith.” He stood, walking toward the front door. “No need to show me out.”

Nevertheless she got up and accompanied him.

Troy’s posture was stiff and straight. She knew he’d stand by his word; he wouldn’t contact her again.

The next move, if there was one, would have to come from her.

J
ustine Gunderson could hardly wait to see her mother. She called Olivia once or twice a day, but hadn’t been able to visit since Wednesday. She wanted to continue their ongoing conversation about her new restaurant, a conversation that brought great pleasure to them both. The Victorian Tea Room was now under construction and Olivia’s suggestions had made all the difference.

Her mother seemed to be recovering from the surgery well, with her chemotherapy scheduled to begin in early January. “What a way to start the new year!” she’d joked and they’d both laughed. After all, there wasn’t anything to do
but
laugh—laugh and endure.

Justine finished her Saturday-morning errands: the dry cleaners, then the library and finally the grocery store to buy powdered sugar for the gingerbread house she was making with Leif that afternoon. Throwing everything in the car, she hurried to her mother’s place on Lighthouse Road.

She parked in front of the house and bounded up the porch steps. After knocking once, loudly, she opened the door. “Mom? Jack?”

“In here,” her mother called from the bedroom.

Justine ventured down the hall. It was unusual for her mother to still be in bed on a Saturday morning. Justine knew the surgery and anesthetic had taken their toll on her energy, but despite that, she couldn’t help feeling a little shocked. Olivia was a lifelong early riser, and this was just so…uncharacteristic.

As she entered the darkened room, she found her mother sitting on the side of the bed.

“Could you hand me my housecoat?” she asked groggily.

Justine did. “Shall I open the drapes for you, Mom?”

“Please.”

As she let in the day’s weak light, she asked, “Where’s Jack?”

Olivia stared up at her. “Oh…He’s writing a sports piece on youth soccer in Kitsap County,” she explained. “This was the only time he could get the interview.” Her mother stood and tied the sash to her housecoat. “I’m sure he’ll be back any minute.” Blinking, she asked, “What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten-fifteen.”

Olivia rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I slept this late.”

“You obviously needed it. Shall I make us a pot of tea?”

Yawning, Olivia nodded. “Thank you, dear.”

Justine loved this old house, especially the kitchen. She knew it as well as she did her own. She moved confidently from stove to cupboard, putting on water to boil, setting out her favorite white ceramic teapot, choosing peppermint tea bags. She figured it was better for both of them at this point than the strong Irish Breakfast they tended to prefer.

“Is Leif at home?” her mother asked, joining her ten minutes later.

“He’s visiting his other grandparents with his daddy.” Justine had already set two cups and saucers on the kitchen table. She poured the hot tea, breathing in the fresh, minty aroma, as Olivia settled in her chair. She was still in her flannel pajamas with their snowflake pattern and her red fleece housecoat, a get-well gift from Grace Harding.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Justine,” her mother said, smiling over at her.

“You, too, Mom. I meant to stop by yesterday afternoon, but—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that you should’ve been here. We talk every day.”

Her relationship with her mother was on solid ground. It hadn’t always been, and Justine didn’t want to do anything to impede the progress they’d made since she married Seth.

“You’re feeling well?” her mother asked, looking pointedly at Justine’s stomach.

“Fabulous. A hundred years ago, I probably would’ve been one of those women who gave birth every year or two. I’m perfectly healthy and I love being pregnant.”

Her mother smiled. “I loved it, too. With you and your brother…” She hesitated as she sometimes did when referring to Jordan. Pain shadowed her eyes for a moment, but if she hadn’t known her mother so well, Justine might have missed it. She felt that sense of loss, too. Loss for the twin brother who’d died the summer they were thirteen.

“Do you think I might have twins?” Justine asked. She and Seth had been wondering about it; she supposed the coming ultrasound would give them a definite answer.

“They do run in the family.” Her mother smiled again, clearly pleased by the thought.

“Grandmother had twin brothers, right?”

Olivia nodded. Her two grand-uncles were both gone now, but Charlotte had an album full of pictures.

“Justine, do you
feel
as if you’re carrying twins?”

“Oh, heavens, I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Mom, I wanted to tell you what’s happening at the Tea Room.”

Her mother sat up straighter. “Okay, fill me in.”

“Well, I’ve decided to paint the outside a lovely shade of pink.”

“Pink,” Olivia repeated. “Pink,” she said again, frowning as though she hadn’t heard correctly.

Justine grinned at her mother’s expression. “Your reaction is the same as Seth’s when I told him.” He hadn’t tried to dissuade her but she could tell he found her choice odd. Justine was very sure about the color, though. She’d gone over every detail at least a dozen times.

She was at the site every day, discussing the project with her builder. So many decisions had to be made daily that it was prudent and sensible to check in with the construction crew. After every visit she felt more excited about the new restaurant and what it would mean to the Cedar Cove community, especially the women. They’d adore going out to lunch. It would be a special place to meet that catered to them specifically.

“The Tea Room’s going to be a destination restaurant,” she said proudly.

“It’ll be pink as a flamingo,” her mother teased, “which should make it easy to find.”

“No, pink as in dusty rose.” Feeling almost giddy, Justine laughed and her mother joined in. It took Justine
a moment to realize that her mother’s laughter sounded forced.

She wanted to ask if anything was wrong, but didn’t. If her mother and Jack had quarreled, Justine had no intention of prying. Anything Olivia meant to share, she’d tell Justine without prodding.

“I’m so tired,” Olivia said weakly, sipping her tea.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

“Maybe I should. In a few minutes.” She finished her tea and reached for the white pot. It shook precariously in her hand.

“Here, Mom.” Justine quickly took the teapot away from her. “Let me do that.” Her mother’s frail condition after the surgery worried her. She looked dreadful, something Justine hadn’t wanted to admit earlier. Her skin was flushed and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Is your grandmother done with the recipes?” Olivia asked, diverting Justine’s interest.

“Almost. Oh, Mom, you won’t believe what a fabulous job Grandma’s doing.”

Olivia nodded, smiling. “I knew she would.”

“Grandma’s been collecting recipes for weeks.” All Justine had asked for was a few of Charlotte’s special recipes, but her grandmother had gone far beyond her expectations.

“Grandma’s determined to finish organizing everything before she and Ben leave on their Christmas cruise in two weeks.”

“She has quite a few, then?” Her mother’s hand trembled as she lifted her cup.

“I’d say a couple of hundred. Mom, you’ve just got to see it. Ben typed everything into the computer for her. Then Grandma read over each of the recipes and added
special touches and little anecdotes. She made me my very own family cookbook. She even included recipes from friends like Grace and Corrie McAfee and Peggy Beldon. All her holiday dishes are there, too. But the best part is the little notes.”

“Give me an example,” Olivia said.

“Well, for instance, on her recipe for cinnamon rolls, she says that if she’s baking them for Jack to leave out the raisins.”

Her mother nodded.

“Grandma thought it was funny that Jack would hate raisins since he likes grapes.”

Her mother’s eyes softened. “He likes plums, too, but not prunes, you know.”

Justine thought they should avoid any further comment on Jack’s dislike of dried fruit. “Anyway,” she went on, “Grandma has all kinds of hints, plus she explains where she got some of the recipes. Remember all those wakes she attended over the years?” Justine and Olivia shared a complicit grin. “Mom, the cookbook’s a real treasure.”

“That’s your grandmother,” Olivia murmured. “When she sets her mind on something, there’s no holding her back.”

“It’s the most wonderful gift she could’ve given me.”

“Your brother’s favorite cookies were gingerbread.” Her mother seemed lost in thought.

“James?”

“Jordan. Only he didn’t want me to bake them in the shape of little men. He was far too
cool
for that. So I made them round like every other cookie.”

Justine didn’t remember that.

“He asked me to bake them for him.”

They seldom talked about Jordan’s youth. Even now,
after more than twenty years, it was simply too painful. The fact that her mother was talking about his favorite cookies was decidedly odd.

“Jordan wanted you to bake cookies? When?” He’d died in August and it was unlikely that their mother would’ve been baking cookies on one of the hottest days of the summer.

Olivia threw Justine a puzzled look. “This morning.”

Justine froze. When she spoke, she kept her voice soft. “You couldn’t have talked to Jordan this morning, Mom.”

Olivia stared at her blankly and then, seemingly embarrassed, shook her head. “Of course it wasn’t this morning. I don’t know what I was thinking. Jordan can’t ask me to bake cookies, can he?”

“No, Mom, he can’t.” Alarmed, Justine studied her mother carefully. Her eyes were far too bright, and they glittered with fever.

“I’m so thirsty,” Olivia said. She picked up her cup and this time her hand shook uncontrollably. Tea splashed over the sides before the cup fell from her fingers and crashed to the table, spilling tea on the Christmas-themed place mats.

Leaping to her feet, Justine dashed to her mother’s side.

“What have I done?” Olivia cried. “Look at this mess!”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m getting you back to bed.”

Olivia regarded Justine with a confused expression, as if unsure where she was.

Supporting her mother, Justine managed to get her out of the kitchen and down the long hallway to the master bedroom. With one arm around her waist, she half carried, half dragged her to the bed.

Once Olivia was covered by the sheet, Justine felt her
mother’s face and nearly gasped aloud at how hot she was to the touch. She located a temperature strip in the bathroom, then pressed it against Olivia’s forehead.

The reading nearly sent her into a panic. No one needed to tell her that with a temperature of a hundred and five degrees her mother was in a life-threatening situation.

“I’ll be fine, Justine,” Olivia insisted in a slurred voice. “Jack will be home soon.”

“I’m calling him right this minute!”

“No…don’t do that. No need. I’ll go back to sleep and…be fine.”

Rather than argue, Justine left her mother and rushed into the kitchen. She ignored the spilled tea as she scrambled to find Jack’s cell number. Ever organized, her mother had written it neatly in the telephone directory under
Jack.

He didn’t answer for three rings.

It felt more like three years. When he did pick up, Justine burst out, “Something’s wrong with Mom. Her temperature’s a hundred and five…she’s talking to Jordan…Jack, what should I do?”

To his credit, Jack didn’t ask any questions. “I’m on my way,” he said urgently. “I’ll get in touch with her oncologist right now. I’m close…I’ll be there in under ten minutes.”

Justine went back to check on her mother, only to find that Olivia appeared to be having entire conversations with Jordan now. She chuckled at something and murmured, “Oh, Jordan, you always made me laugh.”

“Mom, Mom.” Justine sat on the edge of the bed and took her mother’s hand. Her heart raced and she struggled to hold back the tears.

The sound of a speeding car reached her. Justine ran
into the living room, praying frantically that it was Jack. Instead it was a teenage boy, driving recklessly in a souped-up vehicle without a muffler. She scanned the road for any sign of Jack.

In another five minutes, he was there. He banged the door open and dashed into the house, shouting for her.

“In here,” Justine cried.

Jack tore into the bedroom. Olivia gazed up at him as though she’d never seen him before.

“She’s out of her mind with fever,” Justine said, not even trying to hide her fear. “It’s high, Jack. Way too high.”

“Dr. Franklin said we’re to get her to the hospital.” He scooped Olivia into his arms, blankets and all, and started for the front door. By this point Olivia was too weak to protest.

Justine hurried along at his side, gathering up the dragging blanket. They got Olivia into the backseat of his car and drove straight to the hospital in Bremerton. Justine rode with her mother.

“He never grew up,” Olivia said, turning to Justine.

“Do you mean Jordan, Mom?”

She smiled and laid her head against the seat. “When he asked about the gingerbread cookies, he was thirteen. He still is…”

Justine clutched her mother’s hand, working hard to keep the emotion at bay. Jack went over the speed limit when he could, with the windows open so the cold December air blew into the car. It was his desperate attempt to bring down her fever. Olivia closed her eyes as the icy breeze touched her heated face. Justine shivered. She hadn’t bothered to grab her jacket or purse, and her teeth were beginning to chatter.

Once they arrived at the hospital, everything happened quickly. Her mother’s physician had phoned ahead and the hospital staff was waiting for them.

Justine and Jack sat in silence until Dr. Franklin, the oncologist, appeared. His face was grim. “I’m afraid Olivia has a massive infection at the site of her incision,” he said.

“How could this be?” Jack demanded. “We were so careful. We followed all the instructions to the letter.”

“We probably won’t ever know the exact cause. Our biggest concern at the moment is to get her temperature down. We’ll be starting her on antibiotics intravenously.”