Читать книгу Ultimate Cedar Cove Collection - Debbie Macomber - Страница 45

Fourteen

Grace couldn’t afford a single night in a luxury hotel in downtown Seattle, much less two, but she booked the weekend anyway, using a discount coupon. Next she went to see Maryellen at the gallery. Her oldest daughter had been avoiding her since Christmas. Grace wasn’t putting up with any more of that.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said, grateful that Maryellen was alone in the gallery.

Maryellen looked slightly apprehensive, and Grace knew she was searching for an excuse to cut this visit short. “Hi, Mother.” She acknowledged her with a brief nod. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I’ve come with an olive branch.”

Her daughter regarded her warily. “Why is that? Have we argued?”

“Not exactly, but lately whenever we’ve been together, I’ve tried to ferret out information about the baby’s father and your plans. That was a mistake.” Maryellen had refused to answer any of her questions, and Grace suspected that whoever had fathered her daughter’s child wasn’t yet aware of the fact. Her biggest fear was that he was a married man. Maryellen’s reaction to her probing led her to suppose exactly that.

Maryellen smiled. She wasn’t as pale as she’d been a month ago and anyone looking at her likely wouldn’t guess that she was pregnant. But Grace saw it in a hundred different ways and was amazed that she’d somehow missed her daughter’s first pregnancy. Other than that one brief reference, Maryellen hadn’t mentioned it again. At times Grace wondered if she’d imagined it.

“I got us a hotel room in Seattle,” Grace said, explaining the reason for her visit.

“A hotel room? What for?”

“Our first and—hopefully annual—mother-daughter getaway weekend.”

Maryellen raised her eyebrows. “And Kelly’s coming?”

“I hope so.” Grace knew her daughters weren’t exactly on the best of terms. Kelly felt hurt and angry that Maryellen hadn’t told her about the baby. Grace made it a practice not to get caught in the middle of their disagreements, but right now that was difficult because Kelly was angry with her, too.

Kelly had always championed Dan. She felt betrayed by her father—and now Grace was dating Cliff Harding, which she viewed as yet another betrayal. Maryellen’s decision to keep her pregnancy a secret had been the final offense in Kelly’s eyes.

“If Kelly agrees to this, then I will, too,” Maryellen told her.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

That evening she called her younger daughter. It was no easy task convincing Kelly to escape to Seattle for a weekend, but Paul encouraged her. Her husband, knowing Kelly was miserable, insisted this would be a bonding time for him and their son.

In the end, much to Grace’s delight, Kelly agreed.

Friday evening, the three of them took the Bremerton ferry into Seattle and got a taxi at the waterfront. The young driver, clearly a recent immigrant, leapt out of the cab and opened the door for them, then hurried around to the driver’s seat.

This was an adventure for Grace, and she was determined to spend a memorable weekend with her two beautiful daughters. “It’s a pleasure to have such a gentlemanly driver,” Grace told him, her spirits high.

“Thank you, Mrs.,” he returned as he drove away from the dock. His English was broken but they all made an effort to understand his comments and questions about the city. He headed to the hotel on Fourth Avenue and pulled alongside the curb, where the doorman stepped forward to open the car door.

Grace paid the driver and added a healthy tip. “Welcome to America,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said and bowed his head. “God bless America.”

“God bless America,” she repeated.

The hotel lobby was plush and expansive, with a huge marble pedestal in the center boasting the biggest floral arrangement Grace had ever seen. They walked leisurely to the registration desk and checked in; Grace managed not to wince when she handed over her VISA card. A few minutes later they were escorted to their room by the bellman.

After Kelly had phoned to check on Tyler, she relaxed. This was the first time she’d been away from her son for more than a few hours and she missed her baby.

Sitting on one of the queen-size beds, her youngest daughter wrapped her arms around her knees. “Do you have names picked out yet?” she asked her sister.

There was a tense moment before Maryellen answered. “Not really… Actually, I’m hoping for a girl and if the baby does happen to be one, I was thinking of naming her Catherine Grace.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

Grace felt tears prick her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away, not wanting to subdue the evening’s mood by getting sentimental and weepy. She so longed for this weekend to be perfect. She wanted to laugh with her daughters, to talk and reclaim the closeness they’d once shared.

When Dan disappeared, the three women had lost more than a husband and father; their sense of family and security had been damaged. For herself, Grace needed answers but at this point it didn’t matter what those answers were.

In the meantime, it was as if they were holding their collective breath. They’d been left suspended between what they knew and what they didn’t. There were no answers to account for Dan’s disappearance—just doubts and questions. Because of this, a rift had slowly developed between them. It was that rift Grace was trying to heal.

They woke early the next morning, eager to explore and play tourist. They started with the Pike Place Market, eating hot rolls and drinking exotic blends of coffee on the street. They walked between long stalls, laden with every kind of fruit and vegetable. Grace liked the seafood stands the best. Fish, crab, shrimp, clams and scallops were displayed on beds of crushed ice. They cheered with the rest of the crowd as the fishmongers tossed large salmon to one another.

They ate lunch on the waterfront under gray, overcast skies. Next they toured the Seattle Aquarium and saw the Imax film of the eruption of Mt. Saint Helens, a tourist favorite. By the end of the day, they were giddy with exhaustion. No one was eager to go out again, so they ordered pizza, which was delivered to their hotel room. They sat on the beds, ate with their hands and laughed over paying an outrageous three dollars for a single can of soda out of the room’s mini¬ bar.

Despite being tired, they stayed up, dressed in their pajamas and robes, and talked away the night. Each avoided the subject of Dan and all the conjecture that surrounded his disappearance. Nor did they discuss Maryellen’s pregnancy, other than to come up with possible boys’ names. Yet both subjects were very much on their minds. Like Grace, neither of her daughters was willing to risk the fragile peace they’d discovered.

Sunday when they checked out of the hotel, Grace was tired, and more than a little regretful that their time had come to an end. Yet she was exhilarated to have shared this special weekend with her daughters. It was everything she’d hoped it would be.

“Let’s do this again,” she said as they sat in the ferry terminal and waited to walk onto the boat.

“It won’t be as easy next year,” Maryellen said. “Not for me, at any rate. I’ll have the baby.”

“Bring her,” Kelly insisted.

“Her?” Maryellen joked. “You sound very sure that I’m going to have a daughter.”

“It’s a girl,” Kelly said confidently.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I just do.” She crossed her arms and stretched out her legs, leaning back against the hard wooden bench. “In my heart, I knew Tyler was a boy long before he was born and I have the strongest feeling that you’re going to get your little Catherine Grace.”

Grace had no idea whether her daughter was guessing or if she did indeed “have a feeling.” In any event, she figured Kelly had a fifty percent chance of being right. Most importantly, she saw her daughters laughing and joking together when only a few days ago she’d thought that might never happen again.

When she’d booked the hotel, Grace’s rational self had said she couldn’t afford this; now she knew it had been worth every penny.

Roy McAfee looked away from the computer screen and glanced down at the Sherman file on his desk, a file that grew thicker by the week. Months earlier, Grace Sherman had hired him to discover what he could about her missing husband. So far he’d struck out. He’d come across a number of potential clues, but they’d all gone nowhere. Roy took this case personally and felt decidedly frustrated by his lack of success.

After twenty years on the Seattle police force, Roy had reached the rank of detective. Following a back injury he’d sustained from tackling a suspect, he accepted early retirement. Timing was good; both their sons had graduated from college and were on their own.

He and Corrie had moved to Cedar Cove, where the cost of living wasn’t as prohibitive and property values remained reasonable. Roy had expected to settle happily into early retirement.

What Roy hadn’t expected was how quickly he’d grow bored with sitting around the house. Within eighteen months of moving to Cedar Cove, he’d started a new business—as a private investigator. Corrie had been around police work her entire life, and she took on the task of being his assistant and secretary.

When he hung out his shingle, Roy had assumed he’d be getting mainly employee background checks and insurance cases, but the surprising variety of business that came his way made life interesting. His most puzzling and difficult case was the disappearance of Dan Sherman. The man had vanished so completely that if Roy didn’t know better, he might suspect Dan had become part of the Witness Protection Program.

Corrie walked into the office and brought him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She nodded at the computer screen. “Dan Sherman?”

Roy shrugged. Corrie didn’t say it, but they both knew he just couldn’t leave that one alone. The hours he put in these days were without compensation. Grace had given him a budget and the money ran out before he’d found answers.

“Troy Davis phoned,” Corrie told him. “He made an appointment for this afternoon.”

Now, this was interesting. The local sheriff was only a nodding acquaintance. Roy had spoken to him a few times and their paths had occasionally crossed. Roy liked Davis well enough, but the sheriff didn’t seem quite as sure of him. Reserving his opinion, Roy supposed, pending more evidence.

“Did he say what he wanted?” he asked.

Corrie shook her head. “Not really, just that he might have a bit of work for you.”

At three o’clock exactly, Troy arrived and Corrie ushered him into Roy’s office. Roy stood up to greet the sheriff, who was an inch or two taller than his own six-foot height and had a bit of a paunch. Too many hours spent behind a desk, no doubt. They exchanged handshakes and then both sat down.

Troy crossed his leg over his knee, drew a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and poked it into the corner of his mouth. He waited a moment, then asked, “Do you remember a while back there was a death out at the Thyme and Tide? The Beldons’ bed-and-breakfast.”

Roy did recall reading about it. The story was almost a classic. A stranger who’d appeared in the middle of a stormy night and booked a room, was found dead in the morning. No apparent cause. After the initial front-page article in The Cedar Cove Chronicle Roy hadn’t heard any more about the mysterious stranger, although he recalled one additional detail. The article had stated that the man carried false identification—a driver’s license that said he was James Whitcomb from somewhere in Florida.

“We still don’t have a name for that John Doe.” Troy frowned. “For a while, Joe Mitchell thought we might’ve stumbled across Dan Sherman.”

“Dan? Surely someone would’ve recognized him.”

“Our John Doe had undergone extensive cosmetic surgery. He’s about the same build and coloring as Dan, which was why we brought Grace in to take a look at him. I felt bad about that. It was pretty traumatic for her, but she’s a strong woman. I admire that in her.”

“So it wasn’t Dan.” Roy figured he might as well state the obvious.

“Naw.” Troy’s gruff response lacked humor. He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “That would’ve been too easy.”

“What did the John Doe’s fingerprints tell you?”

Troy dropped his leg and leaned forward. “Unfortunately not a damn thing. He didn’t have any. Apparently he lost them in the same accident that resulted in the plastic surgery.”

“Just bad luck? Or do you think he might’ve had them removed on purpose?” That was another possibility, although in the age of DNA, not as likely. But then, DNA technology was relatively new.

Troy raised his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that his ID was false. He comes into town, stays at a bed-and-breakfast, and then turns up dead. Autopsy hasn’t determined anything conclusive. It isn’t your usual run-of-the-mill scenario.”

Now Roy was the one frowning. “Do you think he might be part of the Witness Protection Program?” Funny how he’d been entertaining that very notion regarding Dan Sherman a few hours earlier.

“I thought of that myself. There’s only one way to find out, so I contacted the local FBI.”

“They were willing to help?”

He nodded. “I gave them everything we had and they got back to me a week ago and said not.”

So much for that possibility.

“What about the vehicle?”

“A rental.”

“Has Mitchell got any ideas, at least, about the cause of death?”

Troy bit down on the toothpick. “Like I said, nothing in this case is coming easy. Frankly, we don’t know. From everything Bob and Peggy told us, he looked perfectly healthy when he went to bed. Bob said he seemed anxious to get to his room, but Peggy attributed that to tiredness. It was late.”

“So what does Mitchell think?”

“He can’t pinpoint anything out of the ordinary. He’s ruled out just about everything. It wasn’t his heart. Not all the toxicology reports are back, but it wasn’t any of the common poisons. Basically, we just don’t know what killed him. Seems he was healthy one minute and dead the next.”

“Time of death?”

“According to Joe, it looks like he died in his sleep shortly after he arrived at the Beldons’ place.”

Roy had to admit to being more than curious now; this case was downright fascinating. “I don’t think you made this appointment just to discuss ideas with me. How can I help you?”

Troy Davis removed the toothpick and discarded it in the garbage can next to Roy’s desk. “I can’t classify this as homicide, but nothing’s adding up here. He carried fake ID, but then a lot of people do.” He sighed loudly. “I don’t have the manpower to invest in this case. I was hoping to hire you as an independent contractor to help us identify our John Doe. And if you happen to come across any other information, so much the better. We’d be grateful to find out anything we could.”

“What else can you tell me?” Roy asked. He’d already made his decision—this was the kind of assignment he savored—but thought he should know exactly what he was up against before he said yes.

“Just that our John Doe was meticulous in everything he did. His stuff was neatly packed inside his bag. It looked like something out of a military school. His clothes are the highest quality, top-of-the-line. Expensive. His raincoat was some Italian brand I can’t even pronounce. Cost more than I make in a month.”

“What kind of car did he rent?”

“Funny thing—you’d expect a Lexus or something, considering the expensive clothes, but it was a Ford Taurus. Interesting, eh? You’d assume he could afford to rent whatever he wanted, but he chose about as inconspicuous a vehicle as you can get.”

That brought up another question. “What kind of cash did he have on him?” Roy asked.

“Just a couple hundred dollars. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Okay,” Roy said firmly. “Count me in.”

“Great.” Troy stood and offered Roy his hand. “If you’ll stop at the office, I’ll give you copies of our files, and you can go from there.”

Roy could hardly wait. As Troy left, Corrie hurried into the room, her eyes questioning. “He has a case for you?”

“Not just any case,” Roy said. He stood at the window, watching the sheriff step out of the building and head toward the parked patrol car. This John Doe was as intriguing as any case he’d ever handled.

Olivia had bran muffins baking in the oven—her mother’s recipe—and was singing along with a tape of the Broadway musical The King and I while she washed dishes. The doorbell rang, and she shook soapsuds off her hands as she went to answer it. She didn’t bother to turn down the volume.

Still humming, she opened the door to find Jack Griffin on the other side. He was hours early.

“Hello, young lovers, wherever you are,” she sang, pulling the door wider and motioning him in.

“Lovers? Did I hear someone mention the word lovers?” He wagged his eyebrows playfully and stepped into the house. The music swirled around them and taking Olivia by the waist he bent her dramatically over his arm, then brought her upright.

“Oh, my,” she said, playing along. “You do make my heart beat fast.”

Taking her by the shoulders, Jack faced her and his smile slowly faded. “I want you to go back to the word lovers.”

“It’s young lovers.”

“No,” he said, taking her fully into his arms now. “Forget young. The word is simply lovers, as in you and me.”

His eyes grew darker and more intense. Olivia realized this wasn’t a joke anymore but a question that Jack—her fun-loving, anything-for-a-laugh companion— was presenting to her. “I…” All of a sudden life seemed very complicated. Jack had phoned earlier in the day and suggested they get together; he wanted to talk. He’d sounded lighthearted for the first time in months. Olivia guessed that it had something to do with Eric. A few weeks ago, Jack had mentioned that his son had requested a job transfer and would be moving out shortly. He said he’d miss the boy, but he’d sounded pleased about Eric’s resolve and renewed energy—and no less pleased about having his house to himself again.

Before she was forced to reply, the timer on her oven rang, offering Olivia the perfect excuse to escape Jack and his question.

“The muffins,” she said, and hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed two crocheted potholders and pulled out the tin. She set the muffins on the counter to cool.

When she turned around, Jack stood in the entryway. His eyes met hers. “Eric’s moving out this weekend.”

“I thought that must be it.”

“I didn’t mean to start off with that question about us, but you presented the perfect opening when you waltzed up to the door singing about lovers.”

She’d been caught up in the song and hadn’t meant to suggest they fall into bed together.

“Olivia, listen,” Jack said, slowly advancing toward her. “I adore you.”

She felt the same way about him, but she also felt afraid. She hadn’t been with a man since her divorce, sixteen years before, and she trembled at the thought of sexual intimacy. Her hesitation frightened her, too; if she wasn’t ready after all these years, then she might never be. And yet she wanted passion and that kind of closeness.

Feeling as though it was now or never, she threw open her arms. “Kiss me, you fool,” she intoned dramatically. All at once, her life had become the lyrics to a Broadway musical—and she loved it.

Jack reached for her and their lips met in a wild and thoroughly passionate kiss. Her legs were shaky and her head was swimming. It’d been a long time since they’d kissed with such abandon, almost as if they both understood that true intimacy was irrevocable. Making love meant everything between them would change….

Jack shuddered as he wrapped her completely in his arms. The music had ended, so when his cell phone rang, it startled them both. He ignored it. Instead, he kissed her again, with the same frantic need as earlier. “Come to my house,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I changed the sheets this morning.”

“Jack!” This was supposed to be seductive?

“I’ve dreamed about us there, overlooking the Cove, making love.”

The phone rang five more times before it finally stopped.

The silence seemed louder than the ringing phone. Olivia took his face between her hands and gazed deeply into his eyes. “Does this have anything to do with Stan?” she asked, needing to know.

They’d argued over Stan, and in her opinion, Jack was being utterly unreasonable. He seemed to think Stan wanted her back—which would be news to Marge, who’d been married to him for more than fifteen years.

“No,” he said, kissing her. “It has to do with you and me. Leave Stan out of it.”

“Why now?”

“Why not now?” he countered.

She wasn’t sure how to reply. As she tried to think clearly, to emerge from the fog of kisses and music, the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell—again.

When she hurried to open the door she found Jack’s son, looking flustered, still leaning on the doorbell. “Dad?” he shouted urgently.

“Eric, what is it?” Jack asked, appearing behind Olivia.

“Shelly. She’s in labor. She doesn’t have anyone.”

“She phoned you?”

“No, a friend did. Her water broke last night and she’s about to deliver. Could be anytime now. Her friend couldn’t stay.” He paused. “I should be there, don’t you think? She might need me.”

“True,” Jack agreed.

“But she doesn’t want me around, at least that’s what she said the last time we spoke.” He splayed his fingers through his hair. “I should be there. I feel it.”

“Then go.”

“I’m packed up, ready to leave for Reno.”

“Yes, I know.”

Eric seemed to be asking something and Olivia knew what it was, even if Jack didn’t. “Do you want your father to go with you?”

“Would you, Dad?”

Olivia loved Jack even more for the way he responded. He hugged his son, cast Olivia an apologetic look and said, “Let’s go.” He turned back to her and stretched out his hand. “Want to tag along?”

She considered it for a moment, then decided against it. “You two go on. Call me when the babies are born.” Pleased that Jack had placed his son’s needs above his own, she took his hand in hers and gave him an encouraging squeeze.

Three hours later, her phone rang and it was Jack, calling from the hospital. “Identical twin boys,” he said triumphantly. “Eric stayed with Shelly, and she was happy he came to be with her. Both boys are strong and healthy.”

“Congratulations, Grandpa.”

“I am their grandfather,” he said. “Those babies are the spitting image of Eric. No one’s going to doubt who their father is again. Especially my son.”

“What’s he going to do about his job?” Eric had accepted the transfer and was expected to start at his new job in Reno in a week or so.

“I don’t know, that’s up to him. Fortunately he’s got a few days before he has to decide.”

Seth and Justine had decided to call their restaurant The Lighthouse. Justine liked the name because it reminded her of the home where she’d grown up, on Lighthouse Road. The lighthouse at the far end of the cove was one of the community’s most distinctive landmarks. Seth seconded the name because it underlined the fact that this was a seafood restaurant.

The idea of opening a restaurant had been in the back of his mind for years, but he loved fishing and the money was too good to turn down. Living aboard the sailboat, his expenses had been minimal and he’d invested wisely. After he’d married Justine, he realized that the long separations fishing demanded no longer appealed to him. Now, with a baby on the way, the time was right to start his new business.

His father agreed and offered to invest in the restaurant as a silent partner. It was a bold move on both their parts. Seth had done his research and was well aware that almost half of new restaurants failed in their first year. He was determined to minimize the risks, to do everything right. Menu, staff, prices, décor, promotion—he and Justine had thought everything through. Seth was a decent cook, but he didn’t have the expertise and knowledge that running a full kitchen would require. He advertised for kitchen staff and asked other restaurant owners for advice. He soon learned that Jon Bowman had an excellent reputation. When Jon applied for the position, of chef, Seth studied his resumé, then called and asked for an interview.

On the second Friday of March, Jon Bowman arrived, walking into the ongoing construction mess.

The renovations were only partially finished. A crew of carpenters were constructing new booths while electricians hung the light fixtures. The floors had been sanded and refinished, the walls had their first coat of paint and the windows had been replaced. Seth and Justine had decided to keep the original mahogany bar, which was a classic.

Seth led Jon into the room that would be his office and gestured toward the chair. “I like what you’ve done,” Jon said as he sat down. “When are you planning to open?”

“We’re hoping for the first week in May.”

Jon glanced over his shoulder as though to estimate how much still needed to be done. “Everything should be finished by then,” he said confidently.

“As you know, we’re looking for a chef. One who’ll oversee the menu and work with us closely as we grow.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’ve been cooking at André’s for the last three years. I created their menu, which has an emphasis on seafood.”

“And before then?” Seth had already reviewed the resumé, but he wanted to hear the details from Jon. He and Justine had made a point of visiting André’s twice to sample Jon’s signature dishes.

“I was at the VFW in Olympia. I have references if you want.” He handed Seth a single sheet of paper with a list of names and telephone numbers.

“Where did you get your training?” The resumé had been decidedly light on that kind of information.

He tensed a little, but that might have been Seth’s imagination. “Picked it up here and there. I don’t have a lot of formal education. I started out as a short-order cook for a breakfast place in Tacoma and worked my way up. It isn’t like I’m going to have my own TV show soon, if that’s the kind of chef you’re looking for.”

“It isn’t,” Seth assured him. He couldn’t afford a celebrity chef, anyway. He remained curious about Jon’s background, but didn’t press the issue. “I understand you’re also a photographer.”

Jon nodded. “I’m a damn good chef, but my passion is my camera.”

He didn’t hide his love for his work and that suited Seth.

“If you’re willing to give me a chance, you won’t be sorry,” Jon said fervently.

Every instinct Seth possessed told him to hire the man. “I’m going to start stocking the kitchen in a month’s time. Can you be ready by then?”

Jon nodded. They discussed wages, benefits, recipes and other details. When they’d finished, Seth took him around the restaurant and was pleased when Jon offered him design and decorating tips. He liked his ideas and shared them with Justine that evening.

“I had a feeling Jon Bowman was going to be the one,” she told him as Seth worked in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

“I did, too.”

Justine sat in their living room with her legs propped up to keep down the swelling in her ankles. At six months, the swelling was only slight, but still a concern. Seth had taken over the cooking and been inventive with eliminating salt.

“I feel like a walrus,” she complained, planting her hands on the small round bulge of her abdomen.

Seth leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed her neck. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured. “Not like a walrus at all—although they do have their charms.”

“Get serious, Seth.”

“I am serious.”

She turned her face to him and they kissed, and he realized—as he did every day—how much he loved his wife.

“Tell me what you know about Jon Bowman,” he said, a few minutes later as he dished up seafood fettuccine.

“Like what?”

“His background. Do you know anything about it?”

Justine needed to think. “Not much. He used to sell his pictures through the gallery on Harbor Street. Why?”

“He seemed a bit…edgy when I asked about it.”

“Where did he go to school?”

“He didn’t say, but I talked to two of his references. Both were managers at restaurants where he’s been employed and they sang his praises.”

“Have you ever seen his photographs?”

Justine moved toward the table, where Seth held out her chair. “Maryellen showed me a few of them before Christmas. They’re absolutely fabulous. You can feel the emotion and the beauty.”

“Hmm. Maybe we should buy a few. Hang them in the entrance. What do you think?”

“I think my brilliant husband has just had another wonderful idea.”

They smiled at each other, fully satisfied with their lives.