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.”
Once more Tom shook his head.
“Broccoli’s good for the bowels. Now, that’s something we both need to think about, especially at our age.” She laughed outright, wondering how Olivia would react if she could hear her now.
Shuffling his right foot, Tom laboriously rolled the wheelchair over to his nightstand.
“You want me to get something for you?” she asked.
His white head bobbed.
“It’s inside the drawer here?” she asked.
His brown eyes were intense, and he indicated that she’d guessed right.
Charlotte eased open the drawer and found a pen, pad and a small coin purse that closed with a zipper. Years earlier, Clyde had carried a similar one. Thinking Tom might want her to write something down, she took out the pen and paper.
He frowned and shook his head.
She reached for the coin purse, instead, and glanced at him again.
Tom smiled and nodded.
“Do you want me to open it?” She realized that he must and carefully unzipped the small leather pouch. Inside was a folded yellow sheet of paper, which she removed. She set aside the coin holder and realized there was something enclosed in the paper. A key.
“What’s this?” she asked, openly curious now.
Tom sat back; he seemed to be waiting for her to discover the answer on her own.
Charlotte unfolded the single sheet of paper and saw that it was a receipt for a storage unit right here in Cedar Cove. How he’d arranged that, she couldn’t guess. She’d have to ask Janet Lester.
Uncertain what she was supposed to do with the key, Charlotte looked questioningly at Tom. “Everything seems to be in order,” she assured him, returning the key and the receipt to the pouch. She was about to place it in the drawer when he stopped her, leaning forward and clasping her forearm with his right hand.
His eyes pleaded with her.
“You don’t want me to put it back here?” she asked.
He shook his head, breathing hard from his exertion.
“What would you like me to do with it?”
He looked directly at her purse, which rested on the floor next to her large knitting bag.
“Take it with me?”
He nodded.
“Wouldn’t you rather I gave it to someone in the office?” Surely that would be more appropriate than for Charlotte to keep it.
He shook his head, his expression adamant.
“All right, but I feel I should tell Janet about this.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t worry, your key’s in good hands. I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.” She slipped the pouch inside her purse, then reached for her knitting bag. “I made you a lap robe. You need something to keep your legs warm. There’s a chill in the air these January mornings, isn’t there?” She settled the robe over his legs and stepped back to admire it.
Tom smiled, and made a shaky gesture to show his appreciation.
“You’re most welcome,” she said.
Tom’s eyes closed briefly and she understood that he was tired. It was time to go. “I’ll be back next Thursday,” she said, gathering her bags.
He gave a slight nod.
“Don’t you fret about a single thing. Oh, and I?
??ll bring you a slice of that lasagna.”
He grinned and shook his head.
“All right, I’ll spare you.” Tom was probably on a special diet, anyway. “I promise to take good care of this key for you.”
He sighed and patted the lap robe.
“The pleasure was all mine. Goodbye until next week.”
She left his room more quietly than she’d entered it, and immediately sought out the social worker. She didn’t want to take the key without letting someone know.
Janet was in her office, talking on the phone. When she saw Charlotte, she motioned her in and ended the conversation a minute later.
“Hello, Charlotte, what can I do for you?”
She explained about Tom Harding and the key.
Janet rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. Extracting a file, she laid it on her desk. While she read through the file, Charlotte took a second look at the receipt for the storage unit. She saw that it was a renewal, which had been paid by the state—paid in full for the entire year. Apparently Tom had run out of funds for his care and become a ward of the state. What assets he owned were being stored in the unit and would be sold at the time of his death.
Janet continued to scan the file. “Unfortunately the information I have here is the bare minimum. Tom suffered a stroke five years ago, but there’s nothing about any family—and next to nothing about his background.”
“He seemed to want me to keep the key,” Charlotte said, unsure what she should do.
“Then I think you should. I know you have it, and so does Tom.”
“All right, I will.” That settled, Charlotte stood. “He’s a lovely man.”
“Yes, he is, but just a little mysterious.”
Charlotte had to agree and she admitted to being intrigued.