44 Cranberry Point. Debbie Macomber
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too, Stan.”
“Oh, Grace.” He jogged the few steps over to her. “When you mention the idea about printing the names…”
“Yes?”
“Be sure and tell them it came from me.”
“Of course.” She ordered Buttercup to sit and dropped the leash for a moment so she could shift the heavy bags from one hand to the other.
“And seeing that it was my idea-” he paused and laughed playfully “-I think it’s only fair that my name be one of those on the list.”
“I’ll make sure that’s understood.”
“Great.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and briefly hugged her.
As if the thought had suddenly struck him, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Not a thing,” she assured him, surprised he’d asked.
“You’re sure.” His hands lingered on her shoulders.
“Positive.”
Just then, behind Stan, Grace caught sight of a male figure in a cowboy hat. No, please no, she prayed silently, don’t let that be Cliff. Her one fear was that he’d heard about her dinner date with Stan and would think she was foolish enough to get involved in a relationship with Olivia’s ex-husband.
Stan muttered something about needing to meet a friend. Before she could stop him, he gave her another quick hug and was gone.
Grace’s gaze remained fixed on the man with the Stetson. When Stan freed her and left, he no longer obscured her line of vision. Sure enough, it was Cliff. He stood staring at her and even from this distance, she could see him frowning.
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t the way it looked. She wasn’t involved with Stan. Nor did she want to be.
After a suspended moment, Cliff acknowledged her by touching the brim of his hat. Almost immediately, he turned away.
She wanted to rush over to him and explain, but feared she’d do more harm than good. With a heavy heart, Grace headed home.
Chapter Eleven
The board meeting over, Bob Beldon left the community theater, situated just off Heron Street. He’d been active in theater since his high-school days; drama class had been his favorite and he’d starred in a number of school productions. If not for Vietnam and everything that happened afterward, he might have considered a career on the stage.
These days he got what he called his “theater fix” by participating in local productions. Currently he served on the board of directors and the group had discussed a number of potential plays for next year’s season.
Bob was still thinking about the merits of Our Town vs. The Matchmaker as he drove down the winding road that led to Cranberry Point. The name of the road always amused him. As far as he knew, there weren’t any cranberries growing in the area. There were cranberry bogs in Washington State, but none in or near Cedar Cove. Whistling “Hello, Dolly,” he continued driving, free for the moment of the burdens that oppressed him. This was what he loved about the theater. He could immerse himself in a role-in the whole process of staging a play-and put aside his troubles. His friends in AA might call it denial, but the theater gave him a ready excuse.
Knowing Peggy, she’d have dinner started. Since it was Monday, he guessed she’d probably prepared either stuffed green peppers or her fabulous meat loaf. Either meal suited him just fine.
Still whistling as he pulled into the driveway, he found his wife watering her herb garden. Any time of year, her gardens were something to behold. The name of their B and B, Thyme and Tide, had come from both their proximity to the sea and Peggy’s herbs. And of course the old saying about time and tide waiting for no man…
Speaking of time, without guests, they both had plenty of that on their hands. Money was tight, but Peggy was as skilled at budgeting as she was at every other household task. Bob couldn’t imagine how they’d manage their money situation otherwise, but thankfully Peggy had it all figured out.
He drove into the garage and then walked out to greet Peggy. Garden hose in hand, she smiled as he approached. The sun was still high, although it was almost six o’clock. According to the calendar, summer would officially arrive later in the month, but as usual it would take another six weeks to show up in the Pacific Northwest. August and September were almost always spectacular. Bob had to remind himself of that in February and March, when the constant drizzle dragged down his normally good spirits.
“Hi, honey,” Bob said. He stood at the edge of her garden. The fennel bulbs were flowering, and the parsley and cilantro were just peeking up from the dark, rich soil. “What’s for dinner?”
“Meat loaf. How’d the meeting go?”
“Just great.” He couldn’t contain his smile.
“What’s that grin about? Are you keeping something from me?” She jokingly aimed the hose in his direction.
“Not a thing.” He chuckled, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just thinking we’d probably have meat loaf tonight, is all.”
Peggy walked over to the side of the house and turned off the water. “I’m about finished here.”
Bob nodded.
“If you’ve got a moment, I’d like to talk.”
He hesitated. When Peggy asked to speak to him in that formal way, it generally wasn’t about anything pleasant.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not really.”
She seemed rather closemouthed about it, which wasn’t good. Now that he studied her, Bob realized he should have seen the signs earlier. Peggy was a talker, a natural conversationalist. She could-and did-talk to anyone about anything. Many of their guests were repeat customers Peggy now counted as friends.
Bob followed her into the mudroom off the kitchen. Peggy changed out of her rubber shoes and methodically put her gardening supplies on the shelf. The contrast between her highly organized work areas and his-well, sometimes it embarrassed him a little. He could be such a slob, he thought ruefully, and yet Peggy was so tolerant of his carelessness, for which he could only be grateful.
“What’s going on?” he asked as they entered the kitchen.
Peggy automatically poured them each a cup of tea and set the mugs on the table. “I got a phone call from Hannah Russell this afternoon.”
Bob felt the sudden need to sit down. He yanked out the chair and sat, reaching for his tea.
“I’m so worried,” Peggy said, sitting across from him.
That got Bob’s attention. “About what?” They’d been caught up in this nightmare for so long that he’d grown accustomed to the tension. It had become part of his reality and there was nothing to do but stand firm in the face of each new shock.
“Hannah,” Peggy continued as if it should be obvious. “Her mother and father are both gone. She’s like a lost soul. She’s foundering, Bob.” She paused for a moment. “I talked to Hollie today, and she said that in her opinion, Hannah needs a sense of security. I agree with her.”
“I suppose that’s only natural when someone loses both parents in such a short time.” Bob envied the closeness between his wife and daughter. He knew that during his drinking years, he’d lost an important part of his children’s lives.
Peggy’s hands tightened around her mug. “Hannah phoned to thank me for my letter.”
Bob had forgotten that Peggy had written the girl. It was just the sort of thoughtful thing she’d do.
“She wanted to tell me she’s moving.”