92 Pacific Boulevard

“You should’ve called 9-1-1,” he repeated.

“But what if it was nothing? I thought my imagination might be running away with me.”

“Then you saw the graffiti… .”

“The next morning,” she confirmed, “and I realized I’d been foolish not to call the authorities right away.”

“You should have,” he said. There was no telling what might’ve happened while she hemmed and hawed, afraid to risk a little embarrassment.

“Faith, listen to me.” He cupped his hands around her face and raised her head so that their eyes met. “I would rather you had peace of mind. I don’t want you lying awake at night, worrying that someone’s on the property.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m not sleeping nights … I haven’t slept more than two or three hours at a time since the break-in.”

“Faith …”

“I know I was ridiculous. I won’t ignore any noises again.”

“Has this happened more than once?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know … I don’t think so. I sleep so lightly now. I’m afraid someone will break in… . My emotions are all askew—just look at me.

I’m not a weak woman! I hate being vulnerable. I’m on the verge of tears, and all because I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m afraid it’s going to affect my ability to do my job. The worst thing—” she paused “—is the fear. Night comes and I’m terrified all over again.”

Troy pressed his hand against her head, weaving his fingers into her thick dark hair. He was almost overwhelmed by the temptation to bury his face in the clean freshness of it. He’d missed her more than he’d dared admit, even to himself.

He wished he knew how to reassure her. But no matter how strong that desire, he refused to whisper platitudes, nor would he mislead her by making promises he couldn’t keep.

Faith must have recognized that she’d said more than she’d intended. She eased out of his embrace and glanced self-consciously at the street. She folded her arms around her waist, as if she suddenly felt cold.

“Let’s talk about this inside,” Troy suggested, placing his arm around her again as they headed back to the house.

Once inside, Faith removed her coat and hung it by the door, first straightening the shoes and boots that stood there. Then she refreshed their coffees. Troy could tell that this busywork was an attempt to regain her composure.

For his part, he would’ve been content to spend the next ten years holding Faith, even if it meant standing in full view of the street on a bitter January day. With the woman he loved in his arms, physical comfort didn’t matter. He’d hardly noticed the damp or cold—until she’d stepped out of his arms.

“Would you like another bran muffin?” Faith asked.

Before he could answer, she added, “I believe I got this recipe from my mother. If you like, I could pass it along to your daughter. I saw Megan the other day. Did she mention that?”

“Faith.” Troy took off his damp coat and hung it over the back of a chair.

“She’s a lovely girl, Troy.”

“Faith,” he said a bit more loudly this time.

She clutched the kitchen counter with both hands.

“I know how distressed you must be.”

She spit out a laugh as though his statement had been an exaggeration. “I’m fine, really. Tired, but. Okay, I’ll confess this break-in has me unnerved. But wouldn’t anyone feel that way?”

“Of course they would. Now, promise me you won’t hesitate to call 9-1-1 if you suspect someone’s on the property.”

“I …”

“Faith,” he coaxed.

“I will,” she finally said, “if I really think there’s someone here.”

Troy figured this half promise was about all he could wheedle out of her.

They stood just looking at each other for a moment, neither of them inclined to speak.

“Would you like me to stop by one evening?” he asked, hoping she’d agree to that, too. Maybe she’d let him come over occasionally and then, given time, he’d have the opportunity to regain her trust.

She considered his question, then slowly shook her head. “I appreciate your willingness to look in on me, but … but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Personally Troy thought it was brilliant.

“Would it be all right if I phoned and checked on you in the morning?” Maybe he was pressing his luck, but he had to try.

“I suppose … but only this once.”

“Only this once,” he echoed. “I won’t call again after tomorrow.” The crack in her resolve to keep him out of her life was barely discernible but it was there.

Reaching for his coat and hat, Troy saw that he’d left a small portion of his bran muffin on the plate. He popped it in his mouth and gave Faith a lopsided grin. He swallowed, wishing he’d accepted a second one when she’d offered it. “I’ll ask Megan to get the recipe from you,” he said on his way to the door.

“I’ll be happy to share it.”

Troy lingered at the front door, but there was nothing else to say. Leaving Faith never seemed to get any easier.

Six

Will Jefferson knew he needed to play his cards carefully if he hoped to have a relationship with Shirley Bliss. Now that his divorce from Georgia was final, he was a free man. Of course, a wedding ring hadn’t been much of a detriment in the past. He’d had a number of affairs, which wasn’t something he took pride in. It was just … a fact. Georgia had repeatedly forgiven him, and he always meant to be faithful. His intentions were good—the best—but then he’d meet someone and the attraction would be there and, well, when it came to beautiful women, he was weak. That was all he could say about it. He didn’t even attempt to defend himself, although, to be fair, it did take two to tango—and to do certain other things… .

He experienced more than a twinge of guilt about cheating on his wife. Ex-wife. They should never have gotten married. The marriage hadn’t worked for either of them. They were mismatched, and as time went on, there’d been less and less to hold them together. He hoped Georgia didn’t resent him. But he’d begun a new life here in Cedar Cove, returning to his hometown, where he’d spent some of his happiest years. He wanted to become that person again, wanted to redeem himself, in his own eyes and those of his family and friends. Maybe Shirley Bliss would help him… .

He’d met Shirley, a widow, when he’d purchased the art gallery. He’d felt an immediate attraction, but it was more than that. She was a widow, and therefore available, so perhaps that meant he’d moved beyond his compulsion to seduce women already involved with other men. Whatever the reason for his urge to stray—boredom, the thrill of conquest, the need to prove his own masculinity—he wanted to overcome it. Besides, he was genuinely interested in Shirley and impressed by her talent.

Will wandered over to his desk. The Harbor Street Gallery was doing well, better than he’d expected. That was due, in no small way, to Shirley. She’d given him some excellent suggestions, many of which he’d used. The idea for the new display cases had come from her. They’d cost more than he’d budgeted for, but they were worth it.

In appreciation for all her help, he’d made Shirley, who worked with fabrics, the featured artist for January and would be pleased to inform her that over the weekend he’d sold the largest piece she had on display. He had a check for her, and he thought she’d be as excited about this sale as he was.

When he picked up the phone, he did so with a sense of anticipation. Aside from his pleasure in her success and consequently his own, he felt challenged by her. And not merely as a potential lover. This was the perfect opportunity to get to know her better. She hadn’t revealed any interest in him, however, which was puzzling. Not to brag, but he knew he looked good; at sixty he’d gained a stateliness that suited him. He was intelligent and had a natural charm, as so many other women—including Georgia—had told him. The possibility existed that Shirley was still in love with her dead husband. From what Will understood, it’d been a year or so since the accident that had claimed his life.

Will knew his own strengths and his weaknesses. He hadn’t gotten this far without identifying his assets and using them. He didn’t mind admitting that he was a man who generally got what he wanted; he’d also admit that this trait hadn’t always been to his benefit. Georgia had called him a “serial philanderer,” claiming he only wanted women he couldn’t have—and when he got them he lost interest. He didn’t deny it but he believed that Shirley would change all that.

He dialed her number and waited for her to answer. After four rings the answering machine came on. Then, just as he was about to leave a message, he heard someone pick up.