Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series, Volume 2 (2 page)

T
roy Davis had been the duly elected sheriff of Cedar Cove for nearly seventeen years. He'd been raised in this town, graduating from the local high school. Afterward, like many of his friends, he'd enlisted in the army, where he'd served as an MP. He'd trained at the Presidio in San Francisco, and just before shipping out to a base in Germany, he'd spent a three-day leave touring the city. That was where, on a foggy June morning in 1965, he'd met Sandy Wilcox.

After spending the day together, they'd exchanged addresses and corresponded during his tour of duty. When he was discharged, Troy had asked Sandy to marry him. By then she was in college and he'd joined her at SFU in San Francisco. In 1970, they were married and settled in his hometown of Cedar Cove, where Troy had accepted a job in law enforcement. He'd worked as a deputy until he ran for sheriff and won. Life had been good to him, to both of them. And then Sandy had gotten sick….

“Dad?”

Troy looked up from where he was seated in the living room, staring down at the carpeted floor. “Pastor Flemming's here,” Megan said quietly. She'd come over to help him organize Sandy's things—figure out what should go where.

Deep in thought, Troy hadn't even heard the doorbell. He stood as the other man walked into the room.

“I came to see how you're doing,” the pastor from Cedar Cove Methodist church said. He was a soft-spoken, caring man who'd officiated at Sandy's funeral services with compassion and sincerity. Many an afternoon, Troy had found Dave Flemming sitting with his wife, reading from the Bible or praying with her or sometimes just chatting. He'd been touched by the sympathy the pastor had extended, first to Sandy and now to Megan and him.

Troy wasn't sure how to respond to the pastor's concern. “We're coping as well as we can,” Troy said.

No death was easy and although Troy had felt he was prepared to lose Sandy, he wasn't. As sheriff, he'd certainly seen his share of death, and it wasn't something he'd ever get used to. But this one struck at the very foundations of his life. Nobody was ever truly ready to lose a wife or mother, he supposed, and Sandy's death had hit both him and Megan hard.

“If you need anything, just say the word.”

“I will.” Troy gestured toward the sofa. “Would you care to sit down?” he asked.

“I've made a fresh pot of coffee,” his daughter added. “Will you have some?”

Troy was proud of what a good hostess Megan had become. Ever since Sandy's multiple sclerosis had become so much worse, his daughter often filled that role for him, something she'd continued to do after her marriage. Troy appreciated the way she'd willingly stepped in for her mother. She'd accompanied him to various functions in Sandy's place, and occasionally held dinners for family friends. They'd grown especially close since Sandy had gone into the nursing home two years before.

“Thank you, no,” Dave told them. “I can't stay. But I'd like to help in any way I can. If it's too painful for you to sort through Sandy's things, for instance, I'd be happy to ask some of the ladies at church to lend a hand.”

“No, no, we're fine,” Troy assured him.

“Everything's under control,” Megan said. She'd already begun packing up her mother's clothes and personal effects.

“I'll leave you two, then,” Dave said and after shaking Troy's hand, the pastor let himself out.

“We're going to be all right, aren't we, Dad?” his daughter asked him in a tentative voice that reminded him of how she'd sounded as a child.

Draping his arm around her thin shoulders, Troy nodded. He usually managed to hide his pain. And for Megan's sake he even tried to smile. She had enough grief of her own to carry.

“Of course we're going to be fine.” With his daughter at his side he walked into the bedroom he'd shared with his wife for more than thirty years. Boxes crammed with Sandy's clothes were scattered across the carpet. Half the closet was spread on the queen-size bed—dresses, sweaters, skirts and blouses, most of which had hung there for years without being touched.

Sandy had been in the nursing home for two years. He'd understood, when they settled her into the care facility, that she wouldn't be coming home again. Still, he'd had difficulty reconciling himself to the knowledge that MS would eventually take her life.

It didn't. Not exactly. As with most people suffering from this disease, her immune system was so compromised that she died of pneumonia. Although it could've been almost any virus or infection…

For her sake, Troy had made the pretense of believing she'd move home one day, but in reality he'd always known. He brought her whatever she asked for. As the months dragged on, Sandy stopped asking. She had everything she needed at the nursing home. Her large-print Bible, a few precious photographs and a lap robe Charlotte Jefferson had knit before she married Ben Rhodes. Sandy's needs were simple and her demands few. As the weeks and months passed, she needed less and less.

Troy had left everything in the house exactly the way it was the day he'd taken her to the nursing home. In the beginning that seemed important to Sandy. It was to him, too. It helped perpetuate the pretense that she'd recover. She'd needed to believe it, until she no longer could, and he'd wanted to hold on to the slightest shred of hope.

“I'm not sure what to do with all of Mom's clothes.” Megan stood in the middle of the bedroom, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Sandy's half of the walk-in closet was bare.

“I had no idea Mom had so many clothes,” Megan said helplessly. “Should we donate them to charity?”

Troy wished now that he'd asked Pastor Flemming about that. Perhaps the church had a program that collected items for the poor.

“We should.” Still, if it was up to him, he wouldn't change a thing. Or at least not for a while… He didn't understand why Megan thought it was important to pack up the remnants of her mother's life so soon. When she'd arrived with the cardboard boxes, Troy hadn't argued, but frankly, he didn't see the necessity of rushing into this.

“Most of them are outdated now.” Megan held up a pink sweater, one Sandy had always loved.

“Leave everything here for now,” he suggested.

“No.” The vehemence with which his daughter responded surprised Troy.

“Megan, let's not do something we might regret later.”

“No,” she said again, shaking her head. “Mom's gone. She'll never hold her grandchildren. She'll never go shopping with me again. She'll never share a recipe with me. She'll…she'll…” Tears rained down her pale cheeks.

Troy felt utterly incapable of easing her grief. He'd never been good at dealing with emotions and was at an even greater loss now. Megan was an only child and she'd been close to her mother. Both Sandy and Troy had wanted more children. For years, they'd tried for a second child, until after the third miscarriage, when Troy had said
enough.
They should be grateful they had a beautiful daughter, he'd told her, instead of yearning for a larger family.

“It's only been two months,” he reminded Megan as gently as possible.

“No, Dad,” she said. “It's been a lot longer than that.”

Troy understood this far better than Megan seemed to realize. In the end, Sandy barely resembled the woman he'd married. Her death, while tragic, was a release from the physical nightmare that had become her reality. Sandy had lived with MS for at least thirty years. Not until after she miscarried the third pregnancy had she been tested. Then, and only then, were the physicians able to put a name to the seemingly random symptoms she'd been experiencing for years. Multiple sclerosis.

“Let's not donate anything just yet,” Troy said.

“Mom's
gone,
” Megan repeated in the same emotionally charged tone. “We both have to accept it.”

Troy didn't have any choice but to accept the fact that his wife was dead. He wanted to tell Megan that he was well aware Sandy was gone. He was the one who walked into an empty house every night, the one who slept alone in a big bed.

Ninety per cent of his free time had been spent at the nursing home with Sandy. Now he was bereft and at loose ends. He knew he'd never be the same. Like him, Megan was hurting and she needed to vent her grief, so he said nothing.

“I'll help you pack everything up and I'll put the boxes in the basement,” he murmured. “When you're ready…when we both are, I'll bring them upstairs again. Then, and only then, should we think about donating your mother's things to charity. If we decide to do it, I'll ask Pastor Flemming to suggest an agency. There might even be one at the church.” If not, he'd go to St. Vincent de Paul or the Salvation Army, both organizations Sandy had supported.

For a moment it looked as if Megan wanted to argue with him.

“Agreed?” he pressed.

His daughter reluctantly nodded. Glancing at her watch, she gnawed on her lower lip. That told him how close she was to breaking down. “Craig will be home any minute. I should leave.”

“Go.” He gestured toward the door.

His daughter hesitated. “But the bedroom's a mess.”

“I'll take care of it.”

She shook her head. “That's unfair, Dad. I…I didn't mean for you to have to deal with all this.”

“All I'm going to do is fold everything, put it inside these boxes and haul them downstairs.”

“You're sure?” she asked uncertainly.

He nodded. The truth was, Troy would rather be alone right now.

She edged her way into the living room and toward the front door. “I hate leaving you with this….”

“Don't worry about it.” He was more than capable of packing away a few boxes of clothes.

Megan reached slowly for her purse. “You've thought about dinner?”

So far he hadn't. “I'll open a can of chili.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.” Not that skipping dinner would do him any harm. Troy figured he could easily afford to lose twenty pounds. Most of that extra weight had snuck up on him after he'd moved Sandy to the nursing home. Meals became haphazard after that. He'd fallen victim to the fast-food chains; there weren't many in Cedar Cove, but the few that had opened in town he knew well. Because of his job and its demands on his time, he often missed breakfast and sometimes even lunch. Then he'd arrive home ravenous late in the evening and he'd eat whatever was quick and easy, which usually meant high-calorie processed food. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually made a green salad or eaten fresh fruit.

With Sandy gone, he'd lost his emotional balance. Troy felt a sense of emptiness, a gap where his love for Sandy used to be. He still
loved
her, of course, but the duties and responsibilities attached to that love had disappeared. They'd represented a big part of his life in the last few years.

Sandy dead at fifty-seven—it wasn't supposed to happen like this. He should've been the one to die first; he was the one in a dangerous profession. Practically every day someone in law enforcement was killed in the line of duty. He should've died before his wife did. That was what all the statistics predicted. Then Sandy would've been able to live comfortably on his pension for another ten or twenty years. Instead, his wife was gone and he was floundering.

“I'll give you a call later,” his daughter said as she walked to the front door.

“Okay.” Troy stood on the porch and watched her pull out of the driveway. He felt so drained, it took an inordinate amount of energy to step back and close the door.

The house had never seemed quieter. Standing by the threshold, he was astonished by the total lack of sound. Silence reverberated around him. Generally he turned on the radio for company, or if he was desperate, the television. But tonight, even that seemed to require more ambition than he could muster.

As he went back into the bedroom with Sandy's clothes strewn about, Grace Sherman drifted into his mind. Grace Harding now, since she'd married Cliff.

Funny that he'd think about one of his high-school friends at a time like this. And yet, it made sense. What came to mind was an incident shortly after Dan's disappearance. Hard to believe that had been six years ago. Dan Sherman was found dead a year later.

Troy never knew exactly what had driven the other man into his own private hell. He wasn't sure he wanted to know either, although he suspected it had something to do with Dan's experience in Vietnam. The war had left Dan permanently damaged in some way. Not in body but in mind, in spirit. He'd become reclusive, unfriendly, refusing to share his memories and fears even with other Vietnam vets like Bob Beldon.

When Dan disappeared, Troy had taken the missing-persons report. Several months later, he'd been called by a neighbor, who was concerned about Grace. In her pain and anger, she'd tossed Dan's clothing onto the front yard of their home on Rosewood Lane.

Now, standing in his own room surrounded by Sandy's things, Troy remembered the sight of Dan's clothes scattered on the grass—and he understood the powerful emotions that had led Grace to explode in such an uncharacteristic display. A part of him didn't want to deal with the residual effects of Sandy's life. Just limping from one day to the next was painful enough.

His gaze fell on the pink sweater Megan had so recently shown him. He picked it up and buried his nose in the soft wool. There was still a hint of his wife's favorite perfume and he breathed it in, deeply, greedily. She'd worn this sweater at Easter last year. Troy had pushed her wheel-chair to the open-air church services overlooking the cove. Sandy had always been a morning person, even toward the end. He used to tease her that she'd been born with a happy gene.

Her smile was one of the things he'd loved most about her. No matter how much he growled or muttered in the mornings, she'd respond cheerfully, often making him laugh. He closed his eyes as the pain cut through him. Never again would he see Sandy's smile or hear her joyful voice.