Olivia suspected that, deep down, Justine blamed herself. She’d been at the lake with Jordan and a whole slew of friends, not paying any attention to her twin. He’d been diving off a floating dock, joking and splashing, all of them laughing at their own antics. It’d been a hot lazy afternoon, and the world had seemed a beautiful place. Then within a matter of seconds all their lives were changed. Their capacity for innocent, uncomplicated pleasure was gone forever. Jordan, clowning around with his buddies, dove into the lake and didn’t surface. By the time his friends figured out it wasn’t a joke, it’d been too late. Jordan had broken his neck and drowned.
Justine had swum out to the dock and sat with Jordan’s lifeless body until the paramedics arrived, but there was no hope. The poor girl hadn’t slept a full night for weeks afterward. She’d been lost and confused, believing she should’ve been able to do something.
Olivia had her own share of regrets. If she’d been more focused on Justine’s grief, gotten her into counseling, spent time helping her deal with the tragedy…
But it’d been all Olivia could manage to make it from one day to the next. For the sake of her husband and her two other children, she’d tried to be strong. Each day had been filled with busywork so she wouldn’t have time to think. Pretending had failed miserably. Her marriage had collapsed, and her beautiful daughter had never recovered from the tragedy.
“I’ve been meaning to phone you,” Jack said, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts.
That was encouraging news. Olivia had been brought up to believe that girls shouldn’t phone boys—a bit of social conditioning she’d never shaken off. She’d dated since the divorce, but not much. Friends had attempted to matchmake, without notable success.
Jack appeared to be waiting for a response from her, some indication that she would have welcomed his call.
“I wish you had.” There, she’d said it, and it was true. She liked Jack Griffin and had thoroughly enjoyed their impromptu meeting and the talk that followed.
Jack stared at her as though he wasn’t sure he should believe her. He seemed about to say something when Bob Beldon stepped onto the middle of the compact stage. Bob and his wife, Peggy, ran Thyme and Tide, a local bed-and-breakfast. Bob was actively involved in the theater group.
Once he had everyone’s attention, Bob made several safety announcements regarding the fire codes and pointed out the exits. When he’d finished, he introduced the play and the actors. Before he left the stage, he looked at Jack Griffin and Olivia—and then Bob did the oddest thing. He winked at Jack.
“What was that about?” Olivia asked him.
“Bob’s a friend.”
“You knew him before moving to Cedar Cove?”
He nodded absently as he watched the actors take their places on stage. “It was Bob’s way of encouraging me,” he muttered.
“To do what?” Olivia pressed.
Jack squared his shoulders. “To ask you to dinner.” He glanced in her direction. “Are you game?”
Are you game? was certainly an inventive invitation.
“Did you ask her yet?” Charlotte bent forward in order to get a better look at them both.
“I just did,” Jack answered.
“Ask her what?” Someone Olivia didn’t recognize called out from two rows back.
Mortified, Olivia slid down in her chair and hunched her shoulders.
Jack slid down, too. “Will you?”
She nodded. Well, why not? She’d already admitted that she was anxious to hear from Jack. Now he’d taken the next step. A dinner date.
She intended to have a very good time.
Cecilia woke Saturday morning feeling more than a little depressed. She hadn’t heard from Ian. She’d deluded herself, thinking he’d call. He might already be out to sea; she wasn’t sure whether the John F. Reynolds had left port, but then how would she know? She got her information from rumor and an occasional issue of the Chronicle. Nor had Ian mentioned being transferred from the submarine to the aircraft carrier. Apparently there was a lot he hadn’t told her.
Cecilia wished now that she’d made friends with other Navy wives. She’d tried early on, but had felt like an intruder. The women had already formed cliques and she was an outsider. Between her job and the pregnancy, she didn’t have the time or emotional reserves to socialize with them. She had declined the few invitations she’d received.
When Allison was born, no one had come to the hospital and after her daughter’s death, Cecilia had rejected all attempts—by the other wives, by Ian’s family in Georgia, by nurses and a Navy chaplain—to help her cope with the loss. As far as she was concerned, it was too little, too late. Her father hated anything to do with death and dying and avoided her entirely. Other than giving her the sympathy card, all he’d done was pat her on the back, mumbling a clichéd condolence or two.
And Ian…wasn’t there.
It did no good to brood about Ian, the pending divorce and past hurts, so Cecilia showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a worn, comfortable sweatshirt. As always, Saturday was reserved for errands, but today she lacked the energy for it. Once she got to the grocery, her sole purchase was a big bouquet of flowers.
The cemetery was on the outskirts of town. A dense fog had rolled in; it was impossible to see across the street, let alone to the other side of the cove and the naval shipyard. Cecilia had purposely chosen this burial site because it overlooked the naval base. Maybe that didn’t make sense, but she’d wanted their daughter to be close to her father, and this was the only way Cecilia knew to make that happen.
The lawn was spongy and damp, and her feet sank into the earth as she walked toward the grave. She squatted down and brushed a few dead leaves away from the small, flat headstone. The vase was too narrow to hold all the flowers, so she sorted through and removed the prettiest ones and arranged those inside. When she’d finished, she divided the remaining flowers among the other graves in the row.
Standing, she found Ian several feet back, watching her.
Neither spoke. He wore his thick Navy coat, with his white sailor’s cap. His hands were buried in his coat pockets, arms pressed against his sides.
“I saw you leave the grocery store,” he murmured.
“You followed me here?” She didn’t like the idea of that.
He nodded. “It isn’t a habit, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just happened to see you and wanted to talk.”
Cecilia thrust her own hands into her pockets, waiting, unsure what to say.
“I wondered if this was where you were heading,” Ian continued, “and I was right.” He paused, shrugging. “I thought we could talk.”
She stiffened. “What’s there to talk about?” The last time she’d seen him, he’d been drinking and argumentative.
Ian sighed, glancing past her, past the row of graves. “I want to apologize for showing up at the restaurant the other night.”
“Andrew told me you’re leaving on the John F. Reynolds.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, or explain the transfer.
“When did you get assigned to the carrier?”
“You’d know the answer to that if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to file for divorce,” he said with unconcealed bitterness.
“We couldn’t—can’t—even talk without snarling at each other.” Then and now. It hurt so badly to be standing on one side of their daughter’s grave while he stood on the other.
“Does it matter?” he asked. “I’m in the Navy—that hasn’t changed.”
She shook her head. The reasons were unimportant; he didn’t owe her an explanation. Defensiveness had become an automatic response, a means of keeping people at a distance. Especially him…
“Damn,” he said impatiently. “Why is it so hard to talk to you?”
Didn’t he already know? What else could she say?
“Like I said, I’m sorry about the other night. It won’t happen again.” He turned away, his movement abrupt.
r /> “You’re leaving soon?” she called after him, not wanting him to walk off just yet.
He turned back to face her and nodded.
“I’d like to know about the transfer.”
He stared down at their daughter’s grave. “I requested it. If I’d been assigned to the carrier when Allison was born, I could’ve been airlifted home. To be with you…. It’s a moot point now, but I didn’t want to risk anything like that ever again.”
She hadn’t known such a transfer was possible.
“I’ll be away for six months,” he told her.
It sounded longer than a lifetime. Her reaction must have shown on her face.
“I can’t help that,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered.
“I suppose you’re worried about your divorce.”
He always referred to it like that, emphasizing whose decision it had been. “The delay doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t have any money for attorney’s fees, anyway.”
“I thought you wanted to take it to the Dispute Resolution Center?”
“I did, but with you at sea, it’d be a waste of time, wouldn’t it?” She could talk to an impartial third party, but without Ian available, they wouldn’t be able to resolve anything.
“We’re still legally married then—right?”
Cecilia guessed this was his way of telling her he regretted last week’s suggestion about pretending they were divorced.
“Yes,” she said. “You don’t need to worry that I’ll be dating anyone else.”
He frowned.
Perhaps she’d read him wrong. “That’s what you were saying, wasn’t it?” She couldn’t help recalling his reaction to the man in the bar.
He looked at her blankly. “No, but I’m glad to hear it. No man likes to think of his wife with someone else, regardless of the situation.”
Now Cecilia was confused. “Exactly what are you saying? Do you want us to be married? Or do you just want me to remember that I’m still legally bound to you?”
“I want you to keep in mind that we’re stuck together—legally and financially—until we can sort this mess out, all right?”
Cecilia nodded, crossing her arms. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like his reasoning.
“The last time I was away…” He paused and glanced toward Allison’s gravestone. “You ran up the credit cards. While we’re still married, I’m legally responsible for those bills, so I’d appreciate it if you used some discretion.”
It would have hurt less if he’d punched her.
“You mean you’re worried about me spending money while you’re at sea?” She couldn’t believe he’d say such a thing. “Every penny I spent, every single penny that went on those credit cards, was so I could bury Allison.” Cecilia started to shake, first with anger, then with outrage. How dared he? How dared he! If she’d needed a reminder of why she could no longer stay in this marriage, he’d certainly given it to her.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said.
“It won’t happen again,” she said in a deadened voice, consciously echoing his earlier words.
Ian shook his head. “I don’t even know why I mentioned that. I’m sorry.”
She ignored him. Her lack of response should be answer enough.
“You do this every time,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I try to talk to you, get things into the open and you clam up on me like I’m not even here.”
Her arms remained folded, her head down. “Every penny I charged was so I could bury our daughter,” she repeated dully. “And the three-hundred-dollar phone bill… I know it upset you, but—”
Suddenly she could no longer control her voice—or her emotions.
“But that was for me!” she cried, shouting the words at him, hurling them in her anger and pain. “So there wouldn’t be two funerals that day instead of one. I’m sorry, Ian, for being so weak, but I’m not like you. I needed my mother…I needed to talk to someone. My dad couldn’t deal with it and you weren’t here. My mother…” Unwilling to have him witness her tears, she whirled around and started searching frantically through her purse.
“Cecilia?”
She found what she was looking for and tore open the small plastic holder. “Here,” she choked, taking out the VISA card and throwing it at him. The card landed on the wet green grass. “Take it! I don’t want it….”
He hesitated before picking it up. “You might need it for emergencies.”
As though the death of their daughter hadn’t been one.
She shook her head vehemently. She’d rot in hell before she’d use any credit card with his name on it again. She’d get one with her own name. Her maiden name.
Ian examined the card, and ran his thumb over the raised letters that spelled out Cecilia Randall.
“I didn’t come here to get your credit card.”
“Well, you have it now,” she returned flippantly, refusing to look at him.
Ian said nothing. A long moment passed. “I’m sorry, Cecilia,” he finally whispered.
“What for this time?”
There was another pause. “I’m going away for six months,” he murmured. “I wish we’d been able to settle this divorce business before I left, but…”
They’d been over this too many times already.
“I’d like to leave without bad feelings between us. I know you’d rather not be married to me anymore, but we can’t do anything about that right now.”
“And your point is?” she asked, deliberately sarcastic.
“Dammit, Cecilia, would you listen to us? Is this what you want? Is this how you want things to be? I don’t. I followed you here because I thought…I hoped there’d be a chance for us to end this on a friendly note.”
“Divorces aren’t friendly.”
“You’re right, but does that give you any pleasure?”
It didn’t. She knew why he’d come. Ian would leave for sea in a few days, and when he left he wanted to go without a huge knot in his gut over her.
“Goodbye, Ian,” she said softly. “Have a good tour.”
He frowned, as though he wasn’t sure he should trust her. “Do you mean it?”
She nodded. “I don’t want to fight, I never did. Go with a clear conscience. When you get back, we’ll settle all the legal stuff.”
“Thank you.” His relief was evident and his eyes softened as he turned away. Cecilia watched him disappear into the fog, watched until she could no longer see his dark shape.
She closed her eyes. She pictured how their parting might have been if Allison had lived. She’d be standing on the pier with all the other Navy wives and Ian would kiss her goodbye, kiss Allison and then her again, one last time. Then he’d run toward the aircraft carrier and she’d hold the baby in her arms, raise Allison’s tiny arm so she could send her daddy off with a wave. Instead, they bade each other farewell standing over their daughter’s grave.
Justine had avoided her mother all weekend, and with good reason. The minute they were together, Olivia would start to criticize Warren. Not openly, but she’d insinuate things. For instance, she’d mention some piece of gossip she’d supposedly heard about one of his ex-wives. Or she’d refer to problems with one or other of the homes his company constructed.
In Justine’s opinion, the fact that she was seeing Warren was none of her mother’s business. Okay, he was a few years older. And she’d concede that his reputation wasn’t the greatest. But there were things about Warren that her mother and most other people didn’t know and never would. Warren trusted her and his confidence meant a great deal to her.
The second reason Justine had been avoiding her mother had to do with her brother James. A year earlier, without warning, he’d joined the Navy and as a result, was away from home for the first time. He missed his family, and their mother fretted about him. Now her younger brother had made another life-altering decision and had left it to Justine to announce to their family.
&
nbsp; “Tell her for me,” he’d pleaded, and because she loved him she’d foolishly agreed.
Now a confrontation was inevitable. Monday morning, she’d half decided to call her grandmother and let Charlotte deliver the news. She went as far as picking up the phone and actually dialing the number. At the first ring, she’d replaced the receiver, berating herself as a coward.
All afternoon, she’d had difficulty concentrating on loan applications and staff meetings—she was the manager of the Cedar Cove branch of First National Bank and had plenty of responsibilities to occupy her. Justine sighed; she knew she had to tell her mother in person and as soon as possible.
After work, she drove straight from the bank to the family home at 16 Lighthouse Road. She’d lived here until she left for college ten years ago; she’d returned for short periods in the intervening years. It was home in a way no other place had ever been. Every time she took the curve in the road and came upon it, Justine experienced a sensation that had been impossible to reproduce anywhere she’d lived since.
She parked out front. Her mother must have been looking out the window when she drove up, because she opened the door as Justine climbed the steps to the porch.
“Sweetheart,” Olivia said, holding out her arms for a hug. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
Justine forced a smile.
“You’re just in time for dinner.”
Justine could never figure out why her mother insisted on feeding her. It was the same with her grandmother. A maternal need to nurture, she supposed. Not that she needed nurturing anymore. Well, not that kind. “Great,” she said, without enthusiasm. Her stomach was in knots already.
Olivia took a good look at her. “Something on your mind?”
Radar. Justine swore her mother had radar.
“Why don’t you make a pot of tea?” she suggested.
Her mother froze. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you? Dear God, don’t tell me you’re going to marry Warren!”
“Mother, just make the tea and no, I’m not pregnant.”
“Thank God.” Her relief couldn’t have been more evident. Did she even realize how insulting her reaction was?