1022 Evergreen Place. Debbie Macomber
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he looked through the gallery windows and caught a glimpse of the flickering lights of the shipyard across the cove. Down at the marina, sailboats bobbed on the gentle swell of the wake created by the Bremerton ferry. From there, his gaze moved toward the library. He’d read about the fundraiser but hadn’t thought much about it until Shirley said she had plans to go with her friend.
Doubt flickered in his mind. He couldn’t help wondering if what she’d said was true—if she really was at the fundraiser. The only way of confirming it was to show up there himself. He didn’t have any other plans, since he wasn’t willing to attend the theater on his own. So Will made the sudden decision to become a library supporter. He still found it uncomfortable to see Grace, but she needed to know he’d moved on, too, and there was no better way to prove it.
He shaved and splashed on a light dose of citrusy cologne, then put on a gray vest his mother had knit him on impossibly small needles. He couldn’t begin to imagine how many hours this had taken Charlotte. Will tended to wear it on special occasions and this evening, he felt, was special—an opportunity to make a real connection with Shirley.
With his hands in his pants pockets, Will walked casually down the hill to the library. Even before he reached the end of the block he could hear the music drifting up from the open library doors. Grace had brought in a chamber music group; this event was more formal and elegant than he’d assumed.
As he entered the library, the first person he saw was his sister, Olivia. Her husband, Jack Griffin, stood attentively by her side, and Will recognized the concern on his face. His sister was recovering from cancer. Just before Christmas they’d nearly lost her to a massive infection with temperatures high enough to make her delirious. The episode had shaken the entire family, as well as her many friends. Like Grace.
Will had viewed Olivia with fresh eyes after seeing her so ill. The surge of love and protectiveness he’d felt had taken him by surprise. He hadn’t realized how deeply he loved his little sister.
Will wasn’t aware that he was blocking the doorway until someone politely asked to step past.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he went farther into the room.
Waiters moved among the throng hoisting trays with champagne flutes and tiny hors d’oeuvres. It occurred to Will that he might need a ticket. He saw a woman at a table collecting money and hurried toward her. While he waited in line, he glanced around, hoping to find Shirley. A moment later he did. She stood talking to Grace; the woman beside her must be Miranda.
As if Shirley’s friend felt his gaze she turned in his direction. Her eyes locked on him and then ever so slowly narrowed. Will stared back.
Miranda said something to Shirley, who instantly looked at him. Then she nodded.
So Miranda had asked about him. That was interesting, he thought, as he surreptitiously observed Shirley’s friend. She stood nearly a head taller than Shirley. Will suspected Miranda was close to six feet; he was six-one. By contrast, Shirley was petite, delicate, fine-boned. Miranda was none of those things.
He paid for his ticket and decided to approach Shirley. Perhaps they could mingle for a while and then ditch her friend and go to dinner. He didn’t see any need to waste a beautiful evening. On his way over to Shirley, he grabbed a flute and took a sip. Not real champagne, but a decent sparkling wine, probably a California label.
Shirley gave a small wave and started toward him. Miranda came with her. Both women held half-full flutes that they balanced carefully as they walked.
“Will,” Shirley said, smiling up at him warmly. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Weren’t you going to the theater?”
“Last-minute change of plans,” he said, returning her smile. He flicked a glance at her friend.
As if suddenly realizing she needed to make introductions, Shirley said, “This is the friend I mentioned. Miranda Sullivan, Will Jefferson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Miranda said, sounding anything but.
Her attitude annoyed him. “Same here,” he responded, matching her tone. What was this woman’s problem, anyway? She seemed to disapprove of him for some reason, even though she knew next to nothing about him.
Shirley appeared to notice because she looked quickly from one to the other.
“I was just telling Miranda how grateful I am for all your help with Tanni and Shaw.”
He bowed his head. “I was happy to be of assistance. Shaw is a talented young artist who deserved a hand up.”
Miranda smiled cynically but didn’t comment.
“Speaking of Tanni, I see she came, after all,” Shirley said breathlessly. “If you’ll both excuse me for a moment, I think I should check on her.” She headed toward the door, leaving Will alone with Miranda.
He didn’t usually take an immediate dislike to anyone, especially a woman. He supposed he was reacting, at least partially, to her dislike of him. He couldn’t understand it, unless she’d heard rumors…. Perhaps his reputation had preceded him. However, he wasn’t particularly worried. Instead, he made up his mind to treat her as a challenge. She was Shirley’s friend, and if he could make her an ally, his chances with Shirley might improve.
“So you’re a good friend of Shirley’s?” he asked.
“A very good friend,” she told him, and brought the flute to her lips. “What makes you ask?”
She was direct and, as he’d guessed, didn’t seem too fond of him. Switching tactics, Will decided to be equally direct. “The look you gave me.”
Her dark eyebrows arched slightly. “I gave you a look?”
“Didn’t you?” he asked.
“No.”
He smiled softly and had to admit he was rather amused by this silly game. “Liar.”
She laughed. “The fact is, Mr. Jefferson, I don’t think I like you.”
He should’ve asked why, but the truth was, he didn’t really care. He met her eyes. “Actually, the feeling is mutual, but we do have one thing in common—our high regard for Shirley.”
Miranda answered with a short nod.
“So that gives us common ground, agreed?”
She studied the bubbly liquid in her glass. “Agreed,” she finally said.
“Don’t you feel it would be easier on Shirley if we made an effort to get along?”
This required more consideration on her part. “Perhaps.”
“On a different but related matter, I’m looking for someone who’s knowledgeable about the local art community to pitch in at the gallery when I need it.” He remembered what Shirley had told him about Miranda’s husband. “I gather from Shirley that you’re eminently qualified,” he said. A stretch, perhaps, but whatever worked … “Would you be willing to consider doing that?” He really could use the help, she could probably handle the work and, with her at the gallery, he might be able to gain information about Shirley. In fact, this idea might be impetuous but it was a stroke of genius.
“My husband was an artist,” she murmured.
“Hugh Sullivan, the landscape painter.” He made a mental note to do some quick research on Hugh.
She smiled, a smile he found a trifle condescending. “I’ll think about it, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Good.” He seemed to be winning her over and that pleased him. Now he had the larger task of working his way into Shirley Bliss’s affections.
With—he hoped—the blessing of her friend Miranda.
Four
Sunday afternoon—more glorious weather. As Mack worked in