“Yeah, I’m still in school.” And loving the challenge, despite the drain on her time and energy.
“Ian around these days?” her father asked cautiously.
“Apparently not,” she said, speaking in a nonchalant manner. “The George Washington left earlier this week.” It wasn’t as though she could ignore the fact. The media—both the local paper and the Seattle dailies, plus the TV news—had made a big issue of the repaired aircraft carrier departing for the second time within a month. Not only that, Cedar Cove had been full of talk about it.
“You speak to him lately?”
Cecilia noticed that Bobby stood several feet away from her. He seemed prepared to make a quick getaway if she snapped at him again.
“Ian and I are getting a divorce,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he was quick to tell her, “but I thought, you know, that you might be reconciling.”
Cecilia had started to believe the very same thing. After the night they’d gone to dinner, and the lovemaking, she’d been hopeful. Excited. It was similar to the way she’d felt when they’d first begun seeing each other. Then, when he’d left her apartment that night, everything had changed, and she couldn’t understand why.
“I wish you’d work it out,” Bobby told her, “you and him.”
Resentment swelled up inside Cecilia. “I wish you and Mom had tried harder, too, but wishing doesn’t do me a damn bit of good, does it?” With that, she grabbed her paycheck and slammed out the door.
She was angry, without justification. Her father irritated her, her co-workers annoyed her—everyone did lately—and that wasn’t like her. Bobby only wanted to be helpful and she’d immediately found fault with him. Not since her pregnancy had Cecilia been so out of sorts. She didn’t have that excuse this time; her period had showed up right on schedule—thank God. Her bad mood was simply…a bad mood, she decided.
After depositing her paycheck, she went to the grocery store and picked up the few items she’d need to see her through the week. Although it was an extravagance she couldn’t afford, she purchased a bouquet of spring flowers—for Allison. She hadn’t visited her baby’s grave in almost a month. Staying away was difficult for her. She’d had to make a real effort not to visit the cemetery every day. In the beginning she had.
She’d wanted to be more than a good mother; she’d wanted to give her daughter everything she herself had never had. Not material things, but attention and love and security. As it happened, she couldn’t give Allison the most fundamental thing of all. Life itself. Her baby had been cheated from the first, and Cecilia, with all her good intentions, had failed. Rationally she knew she wasn’t to blame, but emotionally…She couldn’t get over the feeling that there must have been something she’d neglected to do. Something she should’ve done. The doctor had said that was a common reaction in such cases and had urged her to seek counselling. Cecilia hadn’t been able to face it.
She didn’t head for the cemetery until midafternoon. With tears in her eyes, she strolled along the pathway that led to the section of the cemetery with Allison’s grave site. She stopped now and again to brush leaves or grass from a headstone, checking names and dates, wondering about each lost life.
When she arrived at Allison’s grave, Cecilia noticed the bouquet of fresh flowers. Yellow daisies, which just happened to be Cecilia’s favorite.
Ian. It could only be Ian.
He hadn’t called to tell her he was being deployed, but he’d been to visit their daughter. Cecilia crouched down and placed her own bouquet next to the one her husband had left. She touched the daisies with one fingertip, wondering if this was a message to her.
No, she decided, steeling herself against any lingering emotion. Ian had made it plain that he didn’t want her in his life. He’d wanted her body but not her. That message had come through loud and clear. He’d asked her to leave his hospital room in terms she couldn’t possibly misunderstand. And he hadn’t phoned to apologize. Fine, dammit! She didn’t need his car, anyway.
The more Cecilia insisted she didn’t care about Ian, the less she convinced herself. Not that she wanted to care. This depression and anger was all his fault. Once again she’d allowed him into her bed…and her heart. And now she was suffering the consequences.
It hurt that he’d left Bremerton without so much as a word to her. Not goodbye, not I’m sorry, nothing. He’d been rude and unreasonable, and this wasn’t the first time, either.
Back at her small apartment, Cecilia tried to do her English homework but her mind repeatedly wandered away from the English Romantic poets and down paths she’d prefer to avoid.
When the phone rang, she was jolted by the sudden noise. With an exaggerated sigh, she picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” she said in a dull voice.
“Hi,” came a cheerful woman’s voice. “You don’t know me, but I figured it was time I introduced myself. I’m Cathy Lackey.”
“Who?”
“Cathy Lackey, Andrew’s wife.”
Ian’s friend. “They’re deployed, aren’t they?”
“Three days ago. Ian didn’t phone?”
“No.” She tried to sound unconcerned, despite the pain it’d caused her.
“That coward! I’d like to give him a swift kick in the behind,” Cathy muttered.
For the first time all day, Cecilia grinned. “You and me both.”
“Listen, I realize we aren’t even acquainted yet, but I’d like it if we could be friends. Andrew and Ian are such good buddies and…well, we were only stationed here a few weeks ago, and I haven’t met very many people.”
“I don’t know a lot of people my age, either.” Not unless she counted the women she worked with, and Cecilia had never truly fit in with the group at The Captain’s Galley. Because she tended to be quiet and withdrawn, and her childhood had been so chaotic, she’d always had trouble making friends. “But sure,” she added, “let’s get together sometime.”
Cathy would be able to tell her about Ian, too; that thought didn’t escape her.
“Great!” Cathy seemed pleased. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
It was one of those rare Saturday nights that Cecilia didn’t have to work. “What do you have in mind?”
“I was thinking we could rent a movie and make popcorn.”
That was about all Cecilia could afford. “I’d like that. Do you want to come here or should I drive over to your place?”
“I’ll join you, if that’s all right?”
“Sure.” Cecilia glanced around the apartment to be sure it was clean. She’d run the vacuum and straighten her books and papers; other than that, it was acceptable.
“Can you drive me back later?”
“No problem,” Cecilia said. “Do you need a ride over here, too?”
“No, I’ve got Ian’s car.”
The words struck her like a lightning bolt. Before she could react, Cathy was asking, “Is six too early?”
“It’s fine,” she managed. “But—”
“I’ll give you the keys and the insurance papers and everything then,” Cathy continued.
“The…what?”
“For Ian’s car. He was supposed to call you, but when I didn’t hear from you, I figured he’d lost his nerve. Men!” Cathy giggled and Cecilia found herself frowning, hardly making sense of all this.
“You mean he said I should use his car?”
“He insisted on it,” Cathy assured her.
Cecilia wanted to believe it, but wondered if she should. He’d sucker-punched her once already and she wasn’t up to another round. “Was this before or after he went into the hospital?” she asked.
“After,” Cathy said. “He gave me the keys himself and asked me to make sure you got the car.”
“Oh,” Cecilia said softly, and exhaled a long, slow breath. Despite her refusal to accept the use of his vehicle, he wanted her to drive it anyway. He did care. He did.
“I’ll see you at six. And I’ll get a video on the way—a comedy all right? What about Notting Hill? Have you seen it?”
“No, I never did,” Cecilia said. “And I’d love to.”
This latest recipe Charlotte had picked up—chocolate-chip pecan pie—was the best. She’d got it at the funeral for her next-door neighbor’s elderly father. There’d been a good turnout, but that wasn’t surprising since Herbert had lived in Cedar Cove for eighty-one years. The pie would make a perfect Easter dinner dessert. She’d bake her usual coconut cake, too. Her family would demand that, although she was certain Olivia and Justine didn’t really understand how much work went into that darn cake.
Charlotte believed in doing things the old-fashioned way. She wouldn’t use a cake mix if her life depended on it. Oh no, she baked from scratch, just like her mother had. And her grandmother. The coconut cake took three days and started with fresh coconut, but the result was worth all the effort. Tradition had a strong hold on her.
Thursday morning, as was her habit, she went to the Senior Center and visited with her knitting group. Her dearest friends sat around the large table, each working on her current project. Some knitted for their grandchildren, and others worked on projects for foster children or for charity. There was nothing more comforting than a sweater or blanket created with loving hands and a loving heart.
“Hello, Charlotte,” Evelyn greeted her. She was almost finished with the afghan she was knitting for her daughter. The pattern was a lovely one and it had already been completed by several others in the group.
“Have you seen Jack Griffin lately?” Evelyn asked. Despite reassurances, she continued to have her suspicions regarding The Chronicle’s editor. Evelyn was like that—especially after she’d learned how to log on to the Internet. She had doubts about practically everyone, and for the most part Charlotte chose to overlook her friend’s lack of faith in others.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Charlotte said conversationally. She’d been putting in a lot of extra hours on the Seniors’ Page and was pleased with her efforts. Jack had liked her ideas and suggested she write a weekly column for the paper. At first Charlotte had balked. She wasn’t much of a writer, and she hadn’t thought she’d find enough news or ideas to fill a weekly column. But Jack had such confidence in her she’d decided to give it a try. Her first column had appeared on the Seniors’ Page the week before and had included a recipe, some local history and a few recommendations, gleaned from Olivia’s friend Grace, of new books available from the library.
“I tried your recipe,” Helen told her, needles flying. She was working on a sweater for her fifteen-year-old granddaughter.
“The cheddar biscuits?” When it came to recipes, Charlotte was already three months ahead. Never lacking for new ones, she’d found it difficult to decide which to print first. “Oh, ladies, just wait until I tell you about the chocolate-chip pecan pie I tasted this week.”
