The line went quiet as he contemplated her refusal. “I see,” he said, sounding depressed. “Gracie, listen, I hate to be a pest but I’d like to talk to you if we can manage it.”
Gracie. From the time she was in grade school, Grace had detested that nickname. She gritted her teeth. Stan hadn’t been in touch since that one dinner. Now this. She couldn’t even guess what he wanted.
“Why don’t you tell me what you need to see me about?”
He hesitated. “It’s better if I do it in person. Is there anyplace we can meet? Drinks? Coffee? You say when and where, and I’ll be there.” His tone took on a pleading quality. Grace knew that Stan’s second marriage had recently failed; he still seemed to be shaken. She sympathized, but she didn’t want to get involved with him.
“It won’t take much of your time, I promise.”
She hesitated, fearing that he’d hound her until she gave in. “I plan to be at the Farmers’ Market in the morning.”
“Perfect.” He leaped on the suggestion. “I’ll see you there. What time?”
“It opens at nine.”
“Make it later. Nine’s a little early for me.”
So now he expected her to change her Saturday schedule to suit his? What sympathy she felt for him quickly evaporated. “I’ll be there at nine, Stan. If I see you then, that’ll be fine and if I don’t, I don’t.”
“All right, all right. I’ll get there as close to nine as I can. Just remember I’m coming over from Seattle.”
She’d forgotten that, but decided it didn’t matter; he was the one who considered it so important that they meet.
Saturday morning, Grace loaded Buttercup into her car and drove to the Farmers’ Market. Buttercup was a well-behaved dog who loved being around people. The animal shelter had set up an adoption center in the market. Every Saturday the shelter brought down homeless cats and kittens; once a month, Grace took her turn running their booth, which was popular with children and adults alike.
Buttercup strained against her leash in a hurry to view the kittens, and Grace sharply commanded her to heel. She’d been thinking about adopting a cat herself, since she felt bad about leaving Buttercup alone all day and a cat would be company for her.
“Mom.”
Grace turned to find Maryellen pushing Katie in her stroller. “I wondered if I’d see you here.” The back section of the stroller was already full.
Grace bent down and kissed Katie, who gurgled and waved her arms. Maryellen positively glowed with happiness, and Grace was delighted. Maryellen was more confident and relaxed, more carefree somehow, than she’d ever been. And—equally important—Katie would have the benefit of growing up with two parents.
“You’re out and about early,” she said conversationally.
“Jon’s working and won’t be home until late afternoon.”
That meant her son-in-law was somewhere in western Washington photographing trees or birds. Or something.
“I love married life,” Maryellen burst out. “Oh, Mom, how could I have been so foolish? Jon is a wonderful husband and father.”
“Honey, I’m thrilled for you.”
“I’d better get back to the house. I bought three pounds of fresh clams and I need to get them into the refrigerator.”
“I didn’t think you liked clams.”
“I don’t, but Jon does.”
It seemed to Grace that if Jon indulged Maryellen, as she often claimed, her daughter catered to Jon just as much.
Grace bought a pound of clams herself and a jar of marmalade from Carol, the lady who sold homemade jelly. She glanced around and didn’t see Stan and figured that was for the best. After strolling down the other aisles, she made her way toward the parking lot.
“Grace,” Stan called, waving vigorously. He stood on the marina walkway. “Over here.”
With Buttercup trotting beside her, Grace walked to the marina area.
“Seth suggested I sleep in his boat,” Stan explained. He looked like he was ready for a tennis date, wearing white shorts and a white cable-knit sweater with a red-and-blue border.
“How’s it going?” he asked, striking a relaxed pose, studying her as if he wasn’t quite sure where to start.
“Good.” She didn’t elaborate, preferring to skip the small talk. “What can I do for you?”
His smile was strained. “You know, since Marge and I split and Olivia married that newsman, I’ve been at loose ends.”
Grace didn’t like the sound of this. She wondered if he was leading up to asking her out again, and if that was the case, she simply wasn’t interested. She had to tell him before he went any further.
“Stan, I realize you must be lonely—”
“Lonely,” he repeated and shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “No, no, it isn’t that. I heard about the Dog and Bachelor Auction.”
It took Grace a moment to put two and two together—and then she upbraided herself for being so dense.
“I’d like to volunteer to be one of the bachelors,” Stan said eagerly.
She should’ve known. Stan had always enjoyed being the center of attention. The idea of women bidding on him…That would be the ultimate. In all fairness, he’d do a good job as someone’s date for an evening, provided whoever won him knew what to expect.
“It’s for charity, right?”
“To raise funds for the animal shelter,” she told him.
“Well, you know how I feel about animals.” He nodded sagely and she nodded, too, although she’d never noticed any particular liking for animals. “I’m willing to do my part,” he went on, “and since I’m available, well, why not?” He cast her a practiced smile. “I imagine I could bring in a few dollars for a worthy cause.”
“You don’t live in Cedar Cove, remember?”
“You’re right, but I did at one time and people here know me. Really, volunteering is the least I can do to help out, and I understand you’re the person to talk to.”
“Actually, two other women are gathering bachelors’ names, but I’d be happy to suggest yours.
Stan grinned. “Thanks.” Gratitude radiated from him. “I knew I could count on you.”
Buttercup wagged her tail and looked up, anticipating Stan’s attention. However the animal lover didn’t so much as glance in the dog’s direction.
“Have you already been to the market?” Stan asked.
The bags in her hands should be evidence that she had.
“How about if I buy you a cup of coffee and you can fill me in on the details about the auction? Maybe you could help me come up with a strategy.”
“A…strategy?”
“Yeah, you know. How to get the ladies to bid on me. Just how many women are expected?”
“I don’t know. The tickets haven’t gone on sale yet.”
“I just had a thought.” He straightened, seeming pleased with himself. “I imagine that if the women in town knew exactly who was up for auction, the Animal Shelter would sell more tickets, right?”
Grace wasn’t sure about that. “I suppose.”
“What if you printed the names of the bachelors directly on the tickets? That might generate even more interest, don’t you think?”
Stan was certainly full of ideas. “I’ll make that suggestion, too,” she murmured.
“Good.” His eyes brightened and Grace could see he was quite taken with this bachelor auction. During their one and only dinner date, Stan had practically been crying in his soup, wallowing in self-pity. He’d regrouped fast enough, she thought wryly.
“I’ll do what I can to make sure your name’s added to the list,” she said, eager to leave for home.
“Thanks, Gracie. I appreciate the fact that you’re such a good friend.”
Grace didn’t consider herself that much of a friend, but she let the comment—and the nickname—slide. She directed Buttercup toward the parking lot behind the library, where she’d left her car.
“Nice seeing you again, Grace.”<
br />
“You, 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.
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.”
“Where?”
“That’s just it,” Peggy said, and her face darkened with concern. “She doesn’t know. She’s sold everything she can. Hollie says that Hannah’s running away from her pain—that she’ll carry it with her wherever she goes.”
Bob nodded. “Hollie’s right. I’m not sure leaving California’s a good idea for Hannah. She might regret it later, selling things she’ll wish she’d kept.”
“That’s what I told her, but she said it was too late. What she didn’t sell she gave away.”
Bob’s own concern grew. His unease didn’t revolve solely ar
ound Hannah, either. She might inadvertently have sold something that would help solve this mystery.
“That’s not all,” Peggy said. “I got the impression that she’s going to travel aimlessly around the country until she finds a place that…feels comfortable. That’s how she put it.”
Bob sat back in his chair and mulled this over. The young woman was vulnerable. Wandering from place to place wasn’t what he’d want for his own daughter. “What about family? Surely she’s got aunts and uncles and cousins?”
“Apparently she doesn’t have anyone close.”
“I see.” Bob sipped his tea.
“I asked her to call us from time to time.”
“Good.”
“But I don’t know if she will. She sounded so confused.”
Bob considered what he knew about Hannah for a moment and felt a pang of sympathy. “Did you ask if there’s a way for us to keep in touch with her?”
Peggy nodded. “She has a cell phone and she gave me the number. The thing is, Bob, how involved do we want to get in her life?” Her gaze held his and he understood his wife’s question. She felt a certain responsibility to Hannah. After all, it was in their home that her father had died. And yet—did they want to take on the young woman’s problems? That could be more than he and Peggy were really equipped to handle.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Me neither.”
“So, what do you think we should do?” Bob asked. He trusted Peggy’s intuition. Hannah aside, Max Russell’s death was an uncomfortable subject. It brought up too many unpleasant memories for him and his wife, memories Bob preferred to leave buried.
“I’m not sure, but I do feel badly for her.”
Bob agreed. It was hard enough succeeding in the world with parents, and usually much harder without. His own children had faltered, but with love and patience had eventually found their way. No thanks to the example he’d set in their early years, Bob admitted. Perhaps this opportunity to help Hannah was also a chance to make up for his missteps twenty-five years ago.
“We should phone her at least once a week,” he said decisively. It didn’t mean they had to become parent-substitutes, just friends….
Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series Page 101
