74 Seaside Avenue. Debbie Macomber
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give you a call later,” his daughter said as she walked to the front door.
“Okay.” Troy stood on the porch and watched her pull out of the driveway. He felt so drained, it took an inordinate amount of energy to step back and close the door.
The house had never seemed quieter. Standing by the threshold, he was astonished by the total lack of sound. Silence reverberated around him. Generally he turned on the radio for company, or if he was desperate, the television. But tonight, even that seemed to require more ambition than he could muster.
As he went back into the bedroom with Sandy’s clothes strewn about, Grace Sherman drifted into his mind. Grace Harding now, since she’d married Cliff.
Funny that he’d think about one of his high-school friends at a time like this. And yet, it made sense. What came to mind was an incident shortly after Dan’s disappearance. Hard to believe that had been six years ago. Dan Sherman was found dead a year later.
Troy never knew exactly what had driven the other man into his own private hell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know either, although he suspected it had something to do with Dan’s experience in Vietnam. The war had left Dan permanently damaged in some way. Not in body but in mind, in spirit. He’d become reclusive, unfriendly, refusing to share his memories and fears even with other Vietnam vets like Bob Beldon.
When Dan disappeared, Troy had taken the missing-persons report. Several months later, he’d been called by a neighbor, who was concerned about Grace. In her pain and anger, she’d tossed Dan’s clothing onto the front yard of their home on Rosewood Lane.
Now, standing in his own room surrounded by Sandy’s things, Troy remembered the sight of Dan’s clothes scattered on the grass—and he understood the powerful emotions that had led Grace to explode in such an uncharacteristic display. A part of him didn’t want to deal with the residual effects of Sandy’s life. Just limping from one day to the next was painful enough.
His gaze fell on the pink sweater Megan had so recently shown him. He picked it up and buried his nose in the soft wool. There was still a hint of his wife’s favorite perfume and he breathed it in, deeply, greedily. She’d worn this sweater at Easter last year. Troy had pushed her wheelchair to the open-air church services overlooking the cove. Sandy had always been a morning person, even toward the end. He used to tease her that she’d been born with a happy gene.
Her smile was one of the things he’d loved most about her. No matter how much he growled or muttered in the mornings, she’d respond cheerfully, often making him laugh. He closed his eyes as the pain cut through him. Never again would he see Sandy’s smile or hear her joyful voice.
With a heavy heart, he carefully folded the pink sweater and placed it inside the box. He wasn’t ready to see someone else wearing his wife’s clothes. Since they lived in a small town, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Most likely when he was least expecting it or least prepared to deal with it. Troy would turn a corner and run into another woman wearing Sandy’s favorite dress. He didn’t know how he’d react to that. The mere thought twisted his gut.
The phone rang in the distance, and for half a second he was tempted just to let the caller leave a message—or not. But too many years as a cop had made it impossible to ignore a ringing phone.
To Troy’s surprise it was his daughter.
“Dad,” she said, “you’re right. Keep Mom’s things for now. Keep everything.”
Troy could tell Megan had been crying.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Meggie.”
“If you want, I’ll come back tomorrow and finish packing it all up.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Hard as that would be, he was better able to deal with this one last task than his daughter. Megan’s composure had shattered, while he moved through his days in a state of numbness that masked the pain.
Three
Barbecued chicken, a green salad, garlic bread—a perfect dinner for a perfect summer day. With mixed berries and ice cream for dessert. Justine Gunderson enjoyed making her leisurely preparations for tonight’s meal.
She pulled the covered bowl of chicken breasts out of the refrigerator. She flipped them in their soy-and-honey marinade, then set the container back inside. Like many of her favorite recipes, this one had come from her grandmother, Charlotte Jefferson Rhodes.
Leif, her almost-five-year-old son, was playing in the backyard with his dog. Penny, a cocker spaniel-poodle mix, chased after the boy, barking excitedly. The pure joy of the moment made Justine smile as she stepped through the patio doors. Seth would be home soon and he’d barbecue the chicken while she put the finishing touches on the salad. Leif would start setting the outdoor table, since he loved arranging the napkins and colorful place mats.
As this little domestic scene played out in her mind, she felt a sense of tranquility. Even now, all these months after the fire that had destroyed their restaurant, Justine was unaccustomed to the three of them having an uninterrupted evening together.
So much of her life—their lives—had been consumed by The Lighthouse. The restaurant had completely absorbed their time and energy. Until the fire, Justine and Seth rarely saw each other. Everything was always done in a rush as they divided the duties involved in running the restaurant, taking care of the house and, most important of all, raising their son. Thankfully, they’d reached a compromise concerning the new restaurant they planned to open.
“Mommy, look!” Leif shouted, throwing a stick for Penny.
The dog instantly leaped forward, racing after the stick. She picked it up, then crouched a few feet away, tail wagging frantically, and challenged the boy to grab the stick.
“Penny, bring it to Leif,” Justine called out.
“She’s as stubborn as every other female in this house,” Seth said from behind Justine. “Well, the only other female.” He slid his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her neck. Leaning into her husband, Justine tucked her hands around his and closed her eyes, reveling in the moment.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.
“Daddy, Daddy!” Leif shouted, dashing across the freshly cut lawn.
Seth scooped his son into his arms and lifted him high over his head. “I see you’re training Penny to play catch.”
“She won’t give me the stick.”
“She’ll learn,” Seth told him. “Come on, we’ll both work with her.”
While Seth and Leif played with Penny, Justine went into the house to pour her husband a cold drink. The doorbell rang; abandoning the glass of iced tea, Justine hurried to answer it.
Her grandmother stood there, clutching the huge purse Leif called her “granny bag.” Among other things, it contained her current knitting project, a roll of mints, a comb and a notebook—but no cellphone or credit cards. Delighted to see her, Justine threw both arms around Charlotte in a tight hug.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming by like this,” Charlotte said as Justine led her into the house. “I was in the neighborhood—well, relatively speaking. Olivia said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Grandma, you’re welcome anytime, you know that!”
“Well, normally I wouldn’t stop in without warning, but I was chatting with your mother this afternoon and she said you wanted to ask me about recipes.”
“I do.” Justine slipped her hand in Charlotte’s and they moved into the kitchen.
“I was just getting Seth a glass of iced tea,” Justine said. “Can I get one for you, too?”
“Please.” Charlotte set her large bag on an empty chair and sat down. These days, it was unusual to find her without Ben, her husband of three years.