The Apartment

by Debbie Macomber

  A classic story from #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Debbie Macomber about mothers, daughters and falling in love…

  Hilary Sullivan’s new apartment is the first place she’s ever had on her own. She left San Francisco to live and work in Portland—and to get away from her much-loved but overprotective mother. Hilary’s twenty-four, after all! But she soon discovers that the apartment comes with an unexpected roommate—Sean Cochran, a good-looking pilot who’s just left the army and shows up at the place he thinks he’s rented!

  First published in 1993

  ALSO BY DEBBIE MACOMBER

  Blossom Street Books

  The Shop on Blossom Street

  A Good Yarn

  Susannah’s Garden

  Back on Blossom Street

  Twenty Wishes

  Summer on Blossom Street

  Hannah’s List

  The Twenty-First Wish: A novella

  A Turn in the Road

  Cedar Cove Books

  16 Lighthouse Road

  204 Rosewood Lane

  311 Pelican Court

  44 Cranberry Point

  50 Harbor Street

  6 Rainier Drive

  74 Seaside Avenue

  8 Sandpiper Way

  92 Pacific Boulevard

  1022 Evergreen Place

  A Cedar Cove Christmas (5-B Poppy Lane and Christmas in Cedar Cove)

  1105 Yakima Street

  1225 Christmas Tree Lane

  Dakota Series

  Dakota Born

  Dakota Home

  Always Dakota

  Buffalo Valley

  The Manning Brides

  Marriage of Inconvenience

  Stand-In Wife

  Bride on the Loose

  Same Time, Next Year

  Heart of Texas Books

  Lonesome Cowboy

  Texas Two-Step

  Caroline’s Child

  Dr. Texas

  Nell’s Cowboy

  Lone Star Baby

  Promise, Texas

  Return to Promise

  Navy Books

  Navy Wife

  Navy Blues

  Navy Brat

  Navy Woman

  Navy Baby

  Navy Husband

  Midnight Sons Books

  Brides for Brothers

  The Marriage Risk

  Daddy’s Little Helper

  Because of the Baby

  Falling for Him

  Ending in Marriage

  Midnight Sons and Daughters

  Orchard Valley Books

  Valerie

  Stephanie

  Norah

  From This Day Forward Books

  Groom Wanted

  Bride Wanted

  Marriage Wanted

  Christmas Books

  Shirley, Goodness and Mercy

  Those Christmas Angels

  Where Angels Go

  Call Me Mrs. Miracle

  Can This Be Christmas?

  The Christmas Basket

  The Snow Bride

  There’s Something About Christmas

  The Perfect Christmas

  Cookbooks

  Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove Cookbook

  Debbie Macomber’s Christmas Cookbook

  The Apartment

  Debbie Macomber

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  CHAPTER ONE

  Freedom. Hilary Wadsworth savored the sweetest of nectars. She was becoming fanciful, she decided, giddy with exhilaration.

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” she shouted into the wind as she traveled across the Golden Gate Bridge, laughing without reason. The top was down on her red convertible, her hair was whipping across her face, and she wasn’t the least bit concerned what the wild breeze was doing to her hair, her skin, her eyes and every other concern her mother had listed.

  Louise Wadsworth, her devoted, sweet mother, had been shocked when Hilary had purchased her first car. It was unsafe, a death trap. The damning rays of the sun would destroy her peaches-and-cream complexion. People would stare at her. The list seemed endless. Hilary had listened with the patience of Job, then promptly explained she’d accepted a position with the Portland Symphony and packed her bags.

  She was on her own. For the first time in her twenty-three years she was out of her mother’s clutches. For once, there wouldn’t be someone looking over her shoulder, commenting on everything she said and did. For once, Hilary could see who she wanted, when she wanted, without censure or disapproval. She could wear white shoes after Labor Day and black ones after Easter. No longer would she be constrained by convention and her mother’s outlandish, outdated rules.

  Hilary had her own apartment, her own job, and neither was connected to her domineering mother.

  By the time Hilary arrived in Portland, Oregon, a day later, she experienced the first twinge of conscience. Her mother meant well. Her concerns had been prompted by a deep, bonding love.

  Hilary hesitated as she unloaded the car, knowing Louise was waiting to hear from her, but she refused to give in easily. Louise Wadsworth would make a nuisance of herself if Hilary permitted it.

  She hesitated. It wasn’t as though she could completely ignore her own mother from here on out. Feeling a little foolish that such a small decision should be so difficult, she carted the last of the bags into the duplex and reached for the telephone.

  “I’ve arrived safe and sound,” she announced into the receiver.

  “Oh, Hilary, darling, I was so worried about you. Did Mr. and Mrs. Greer—”

  “Mother, I’ve already explained that the Greers will be gone for six weeks.” Apparently her mother assumed the owner of the duplex would be babysitting her.

  “But, Hilary…”

  “Mother, please, I’m completely and totally on my own.”

  “Why couldn’t you have found employment closer to home? Is that so much to ask?”

  “Mother…” Hilary expelled a small, but not discourteous sigh. “I don’t mean to hurt you, but it’s time I left home. It’s better for us both.” Portland was perfect. Just far enough from San Francisco to prevent her mother from popping in unexpectedly and smothering her with gifts and advice. But close enough to plan occasional visits.

  “It’s just that I’m going to miss you so much.” Resignation echoed in the elder Wadsworth’s voice. “You’ll call home often, won’t you?”

  “Of course…” Hilary found herself agreeing without thinking. “Once a week.”

  Louise’s hesitation made her disappointment obvious. Hilary was certain her mother expected her to phone at least once a day. “I…love you, Hilary.”

  “I know, Mom. I love you, too.”

  They spoke for a few minutes longer before Hilary ended the call. She stood in the middle of her new kitchen and breathed in the magical feeling of independence. It was all she could do not to spread her arms out at her sides, whirl around and break into the chorus from “The Sound of Music.”

  Everything had fallen into place for her like marching tin soldiers. After several fruitless months of waiting for a flute position with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, Hilary had heard of an opening in Portland. It seemed like a lark to apply, but encouraged by friends and her own growing sense of discontent, she’d flown north for the audition. From the first, her mother had a list of objections which Hilary ignored.

  The tryout had gone exceptionally well. Hilary had played a selection from Mozart’s Concerto
in G Major in the first round with other flutists. Later she’d been called back and asked to perform several sections of Debussy’s Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun. After what seemed like an interminable wait, she’d been offered the position.

  With the help of the orchestra director, Hilary was able to find part-time employment at a music store to supplement the meager income she’d collect from the symphony. Although she received an adequate income from a trust account, she felt it was important to live entirely on what she earned herself. It was a matter of pride. A trait—she hated to admit this—that she’d learned from her mother. One that had been drilled into her since birth.

  By the time she arrived back in San Francisco, Hilary had already made arrangements for the interest on her trust fund to be reinvested. She would burn her bridges behind her when she moved. The only way to travel was forward. Her goal, her purpose, was to become totally independent of her family, to support herself.

  Being accepted with the Portland Symphony had been the first step in this bid for freedom. If she was going to be completely on her own, then she would need to make her own decisions. Within a few hours of accepting the job, she rented a small two-bedroom apartment. The owner, a retired couple, lived in one half of the duplex and rented out the second half.

  Hilary had expected a full-fledged battle with her mother over the impending move. She’d gotten one, which had ended with her mother in tears and Hilary more determined than ever to move away. Her mother was suffocating her. Louise was ruling Hilary’s life, and if Hilary didn’t leave soon, she was convinced she was going to shrivel up and die.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if her father were still alive. Hilary had been thirteen when her wonderful, fun-loving father had been killed in a car crash. The freak accident had sent Hilary and her mother’s comfortable world into chaos.

  Her mother had never been the same and neither had Hilary. Louise seemed to live in constant fear that something would happen to Hilary, too. For years, Hilary had tolerated her mother’s protectiveness. She’d always been a quiet, unassuming daughter. The good daughter. Introspective, intelligent and talented. It had taken her years to come up with enough courage to break free. She was free now—and the air had never smelled sweeter.

  It took several hours to unpack. The apartment was ideal, and she loved it more now than when she’d first seen it. She took the larger bedroom as her own, grateful for the second room, which she intended to set up for practice.

  As third-chair flutist she’d need to rehearse for two to five hours a day. Not that she begrudged the time. Music was the one true love of her life. Her means of escape.

  Hilary had dated over the years, but had never been involved in a serious relationship. Unless she counted William, which she refused to do. There was only herself to blame for the lack of romantic interests in her life. Hilary didn’t understand men. She’d lived so long without one that she felt awkward and ill at ease with them.

  She was attractive enough, she supposed, both slender and delicate. She’d inherited her father’s dark good looks, his coloring and her mother’s beautiful gray-blue eyes. In the last few months she’d turned down several dates because she strongly suspected her mother had arranged them. If and when she found a man, she preferred to do so on her own.

  Although Hilary was exhausted by the time she finished unpacking, she cooked herself dinner, a small spinach quiche which she had with a glass of white wine and fresh slices of pear.

  Then she lingered for a full forty minutes in a tub of hot water while her radio sounded the strains of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. This was heaven, she decided.

  She’d best relax now, since the following day would be exceptionally full. In the morning she started her job at the music shop and later that afternoon she was scheduled to meet with the full symphony for practice.

  If she anticipated trouble sleeping, Hilary was wrong. Her eyes drifted shut the moment her head hit the pillow, and dreams weren’t far behind. She was about to begin the grandest adventure of her life.

  She was on her own. In her own home. Out from under the thumb of her loving, domineering mother.

  An odd sound drifted toward Hilary. It came from the living room, or it seemed to. It was as if someone had dropped something heavy, which of course was ridiculous, since she was alone.

  She wasn’t concerned, especially when she didn’t hear anything else. Sounds carried easily in the still of the night. Half listening, she decided it was either her imagination or the apartment settling, welcoming her to her new home….

  * * *

  Sean Cochran stood in the living room of the duplex, his camouflage duffel bag on the floor before him. He was exhausted to the bone. The flight out of Boston had been delayed by nearly two hours, which meant he’d missed his connecting flight in Chicago. All in all, he’d had a long day.

  Luckily Dave, a buddy from his last deployment, had been able to pick him up at the airport. He was sorry to have missed meeting Allen Greer. The man he’d rented the duplex from had been both friendly and helpful.

  It was going to be a hassle to be without wheels, but the army would deliver his own car within the next week. Sean didn’t know who was parking in his space now, but he’d make sure whoever it was didn’t do it again anytime soon. Not that it was likely anyone would argue with him. At six-three and a solid two hundred pounds, his brawn intimidated most.

  The army was behind him now, Sean mused, experiencing a brief sense of loss. Out of habit he walked to the refrigerator.

  He was hungry and tired, a nasty combination. He’d intended to pick up something to eat at the airport before Dave arrived, but there hadn’t been time. He didn’t know what he was hoping to find in the refrigerator. A miracle?

  That was exactly what happened. The refrigerator was stocked with several items, including a slice of quiche, a small bottle of French wine and a carton of milk.

  Before the landlords left, the landlady must have brought him over something to eat. It was certainly patriotic of her. Unnecessary, but kind, and he appreciated it.

  Had Mrs. Greer ever met him, she’d have known a slice of quiche wouldn’t come anywhere close to filling him. Nor did he enjoy delicately flavored French wines. If he was going to drink anything alcoholic, it’d be a beer. Preferably dark ale.

  Standing in front of the open refrigerator, Sean reached for the thin slice of pie and ate it in four bites. He toyed with the idea of drinking the wine, then decided against it and downed the milk directly out of the carton.

  He had to hand it to the landlady, she was one hell of a cook. The quiche was excellent. He’d gladly have eaten more.

  The kitchen clock told Sean it was nearly eleven, which was two East Coast time. He was exhausted. Too exhausted to hassle whoever had taken his parking space. Too exhausted to worry about scrounging up anything to eat. All he wanted was a bed.

  Without bothering to take his duffel bag with him, he wandered down the hall and took the first bedroom on the left. He didn’t even bother to turn on the light.

  He undressed and turned back the covers, grateful to find the bed made. In the morning there’d be plenty of time to sort out the changes in his life. He’d come two thousand miles for a fresh start. He wasn’t in the Special Forces, wasn’t one of the army’s elite Green Berets anymore. Nor would he continue in his role as a well-trained advisor.

  The army was making deep cuts these days. He’d once thought the military would be his career, but when the opportunity came for him to reenlist, Sean declined. The way things looked, there would be little room for advancement.

  Dave Krier had assured Sean there was ample opportunity for a helicopter pilot in the Portland area. It was the most promising offer Sean had, so he’d decided to accept his friend’s proposition.

  Dave had helped him make the arrangements on the West Coast. He’d found the apartment and given Sean’s deposit to Allen Greer. The setup sounded ideal. An elderly couple who often traveled in their
motor home and rented out one half of their duplex. Sean liked the idea of his landlords being away a good portion of the time. He liked his privacy.

  Sleep came to him as a welcome friend. He had a good feeling about all this. Leaving the army could well have been the best move he’d made in several years.

  Like most everything else in life, time would tell.

  * * *

  Hilary woke early, stirring just after dawn. The days were growing longer, Portland’s famous roses were budding, and the warm scent of spring perfumed the air.

  Dressed in her thin robe, she wandered into the kitchen to make herself a latte. The espresso machine had been a going-away present from her mother. Hilary couldn’t help but feel a small stab of guilt at the thought, then resolutely turned her mind to heating the milk.

  Once the drink was complete, she took a tentative sip and placed the milk carton back inside the refrigerator. It was then that she noticed the empty plate. She hesitated. Now that she thought about it, the milk was half gone, too.

  What in heaven’s name happened to her leftover quiche? Who’d drunk her milk?

  Frowning and confused, she closed the door and turned around. The noise. She remembered hearing something odd the night before, but had been too exhausted to get up and investigate.

  Obviously some…cat burglar had broken into her home and eaten her quiche and drunk her milk.

  Her heart started to pound heavily against her ribs as she glanced about the room, seeking out evidence. Nothing else seemed to be amiss.

  Walking into the living room, she stopped abruptly at the sight of a large…sandbag. At least, it looked like a sandbag, although she’d always thought they were made of burlap. This one seemed to be constructed out of some jungle fabric.

  In his haste to escape, the cat burglar had apparently left it behind.

  Although she was more than a little frightened, she refused to phone the police the first full day she was on her own. It made sense for her to check out the bag first before leaping to conclusions.

  “Come on,” she said aloud, groping for the necessary fortitude. “It can’t be that bad. What’s there to scare you?”

  With slow, easy steps, she walked around the counter and into the living room. The bag rested just inside the door. On closer examination, Hilary realized this wasn’t a sandbag after all. More than likely, whoever had broken into her home had left behind a bag of stolen goods.