74 Seaside Avenue

Grace shook her head adamantly. “Not if I can help it.” In fact, she intended to do whatever she could to avoid Will Jefferson. The problem was, he hadn’t taken her rejection lightly.

He’d come to Cedar Cove once before, hoping to talk his way around his lies and her objections. There’d been an ugly incident, and Cliff had become involved. Just remembering it made Grace want to bury her face in her hands. Until Will had reentered her life, she hadn’t realized how quickly she could lower her principles or how stupid she could be when it came to love. Or, more accurately, infatuation.

“Does Cliff know?”

Grace shook her head again. She should tell him. That went without saying, but even while she acknowledged it, Grace told herself she wasn’t quite ready. She’d do it, of course. Just not yet. The time wasn’t right.

Getting past how she’d misled Cliff—no, how she’d lied to him—had been a major hurdle in their relationship. Unfortunately, his first wife had cheated on him, so Cliff recognized all the signs. He’d heard the excuses. This was a path he wasn’t walking twice. It’d taken Grace months to prove herself to him. Now she was unwilling to put her marriage at risk over a man who meant absolutely nothing to her. His lies had destroyed any feeling she’d had.

The sound of a car coming into the driveway interrupted her thoughts.

“Daddy’s home,” Maryellen announced for Katie’s benefit.

Scrambling out of her chair, Katie ran toward the door, her face lit up with joy. “Daddy, Daddy!”

Jon entered the house and swept the three-year-old into his embrace. With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, Katie smeared kisses across her father’s cheek.

“How are my girls doing?” Jon asked.

Maryellen looked up at him and smiled. “Your son might take exception to being called a girl.”

“Oops,” Jon said and, leaning down, he kissed the baby’s head. “I keep forgetting about you.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Maryellen gazed at the baby, gurgling contentedly in her arms. “Let’s remind him around two this morning, shall we, Drake?”

“Hi, Grace.” Jon greeted her with a lazy grin. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“Did my parents come by?” Jon asked as he walked over to the kitchen counter and sorted through the mail.

“This morning,” Maryellen told him. “They decided to stay in town until the end of the month.”

He nodded.

“Daddy, Daddy, come see.” Katie grabbed her father’s hand, pulling him toward the puzzle she’d completed before her nap.

Seeing that the young family was busy, Grace decided to leave. She put a casserole in the oven, then said her farewells and kissed both her grandchildren.

By the time she pulled into the yard at her home with Cliff in nearby Olalla, she still hadn’t decided what she should do about Will Jefferson. Sooner or later her husband would learn that Will was retiring in Cedar Cove. If she mentioned the fact, it might place more significance on the event than warranted. She didn’t care where Will Jefferson chose to live. He could take up residence on Mars if he wanted to.

But by the same token, not telling Cliff might make it seem significant in a different way—as if she had something to hide.

When Cliff heard her car, he came out of the barn, smiling. Buttercup, her golden retriever, wandered over from her perch on the front steps, plumy tail wagging.

Her husband opened the car door for her. “Welcome home,” he said.

Grace slipped her arms around his middle and kissed him warmly. When they broke contact, Cliff leaned his head back. “Wow! What did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Arm in arm, they strolled toward the house. “You’re late,” he said casually.

“I went to see Maryellen after work.”

“Ah.”

“Missed me, did you?” she asked with a teasing smile.

Grace suddenly realized that if she told Cliff about Will, he’d suspect she was with the other man anytime she was late. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him. And yet … Eventually he’d find out. What then?

Eight

Troy Davis walked into the house and dejectedly tossed the mail on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t even bothered to look at it. He already knew it was nothing but junk with a couple of bills thrown in. Just like it always was. He felt bored, depressed, lonely. In fact, he was downright crumpy, a word Sandy had invented—grumpy plus cranky—to describe him when he was feeling low. Whenever she’d said it, he’d had to smile.

Sandy. He missed her, missed her so much.

Although she’d been in the nursing home for two years, he’d gone there almost every day after work and weekends, too. The nursing home had become an extension of his own home and, apart from his job, visiting Sandy was his routine, his life. Now that she was gone he had time on his hands. Time he didn’t know how to fill.

Turning on the television, he sat in his favorite chair and watched ten minutes of a Seattle news broadcast. There had to be more to life than this … this emptiness. Because Sandy had required so much of his time, he’d never developed hobbies. He supposed he could now, but he couldn’t think of a single thing that interested him enough to devote his efforts and resources to. This didn’t bode well for retirement.

Restless, he got up and wandered into the kitchen. He’d been preparing his own meals for years now. Generally he picked up something easy at the grocery store or got takeout from a fast-food place. He’d learned basic cooking skills and mastered the microwave. He could barbecue a steak, nuke a potato and pour salad dressing over lettuce with the best of ’em. Nothing fancy, though.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he should eat. But even the thought of a T-bone steak didn’t excite him. With no energy and no inspiration, he opened the bread drawer and pulled out the peanut butter and jelly. The bread was relatively fresh, and the peanut butter would provide some protein—something Sandy constantly used to harp on. Good enough. He’d make do with a sandwich.

Sandy would be horrified to see him eating over the kitchen sink. But that way, if the jelly dripped, he didn’t have to worry about wiping off the counter.

His wife had been a real stickler about sitting down for meals. He felt guilty as he wolfed down his dinner staring out the window into the backyard. When he’d finished, he chased the sandwich with a glass of milk. It smelled a little sour and he should probably check the expiry date. On second thought, better just to empty the rest of it down the drain.

Moving to the counter, he flipped up the lid of the garbage can—the “circular file,” as Sandy used to joke—and started sorting through the mail. As he’d suspected, the top three pieces were advertisements. Without reading any of the chance-of-a-lifetime offers, he flicked them into the garbage. The fourth piece was the water bill and the fifth was a card. Probably a belated sympathy card. They were still trickling in.

The return address read Seattle, but F. Beckwith wasn’t a name he recognized. A friend of Sandy’s? He stared at it for a moment and set it aside while he looked through the last few pieces. Then he picked up the envelope, tore it open and removed the card. His gaze immediately went to the signature. Faith Beckwith.

Faith Beckwith? Troy didn’t know anyone named Beckwith. He’d known a Faith, but that was years ago. He glanced at the opposite side of the card and read,

Dear Troy,

I was so sorry to hear about your wife. How very special she must have been. I’ve almost forgiven her for stealing you away from me.

My husband died three years ago and I truly understand how difficult the adjustment can be.

Faith Beckwith was the married name of Faith Carroll, his high-school sweetheart. Faith had mailed him a sympathy card? He smiled and almost before he could rationalize what he was doing, Troy reached for the phone. Directory assistance gave him the Seattle number he sought and without hesitation he dialed it.

Not until it began to ring did he consider what he should say. He’d never been an impulsive man. But he didn’t need to think about what he was doing. Instinctively he knew this was right.

“Hello,” a soft female voice answered.

“Faith, this is Troy Davis.”