Even before she could finish pouring their coffee, Dave asked her, “Are you happy?” His voice was urgent. Intense. The need to know seemed to burn inside him.
Dozens of possible questions had occurred to her, but this was one she hadn’t expected.
“Happy?” she repeated, facing him. Still not meeting his gaze, she carried two steaming mugs of coffee to the table and set them down. “Am I happy?” She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her faded jeans as she contemplated her response.
“I didn’t think it would take you this long to answer,” Dave said. His dark eyes studied her and he seemed disappointed in her hesitation.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be happy?” she asked, turning the question back on him. “I live in a beautiful house and I’m able to stay home with the boys the way we both wanted. My husband is madly in love with me, right?” she added, remembering his sermon from the Sunday before—and hoping she didn’t sound even slightly sarcastic. Without giving him the opportunity to answer, perhaps because she feared what he might say, she asked, “What about you, Dave? Are you happy?”
“Of course I am.” His reply was immediate and impassioned.
“Then I am, too.” Rather than join him at the table she started to load the dishwasher.
“Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
Reluctantly she did.
“You haven’t been sleeping well.”
So he’d noticed. She fell asleep easily enough, but an hour or two later she’d be wide awake. Then for the rest of the night she’d toss and turn, sleeping fitfully if at all. The scenarios that played out in her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest. Her husband might be in love with someone else. He might even be cheating on her.
Emily considered herself an emotionally strong woman, one who remained calm in a crisis. A woman others counted on for guidance and support. Yet when it came to confronting her husband with her suspicions, she was a coward.
“If there’s something bothering you, maybe I can help,” he said. She recognized his tone, that caring, concerned voice he so often used with others. Only she wasn’t just one of his parishioners, she was his wife!
“What could possibly be bothering me?” she asked airily. She didn’t expect him to answer.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Are the ladies from the missionary society making too many demands?”
“No.” The cookbook committee had wanted her to organize the entire project and she’d told them she simply didn’t have the time, which was true. Apparently there’d been more than a few ruffled feathers. The church family seemed to think that because Emily didn’t work outside the home, she should be at their beck and call, just like Dave. Emily had no intention of becoming an unpaid employee of the church and had made that clear when they accepted the assignment in Cedar Cove. Her role was to support Dave and mother their young sons.
“You’d tell me if you were upset, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, hoping the act of sipping coffee would hide her lie.
Mark stuck his head inside the kitchen. “Are you finished talking to Mom yet?” he asked his father. “I need help with my math.”
Dave looked at her.
“I’m fine,” she said emphatically.
He seemed to doubt her. She wasn’t expert at lying and hated the fact that she was afraid to voice her concerns. Dave took a sip of his coffee and stood. “All right, Mark, show me what’s giving you trouble.”
Emily watched her husband and son walk out of the kitchen and swallowed painfully. She’d been waiting for him to ask her a question like that. Are you happy? It was the perfect opportunity to address her suspicions—but she’d been too frightened to say anything.
The problem, she told herself, was that she wasn’t prepared. For her own protection, she needed facts and details before she confronted him. He needed to realize she wasn’t as naive as he obviously thought.
By nine that evening both boys were in bed and asleep. When Dave was home, getting her sons ready for the night was invariably a smooth, easy process. But anytime she was alone with them—which was most nights lately—they came up with a multitude of excuses to delay going to bed.
Half an hour later, she was in her sewing room, working on a quilt for Matthew. She ironed the fabric squares, pleased with her bargain. Always conscious of cost, she’d bought the material, a bright cotton print, on sale at The Quilted Giraffe. As she turned off the iron she heard Dave come in. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “Alone at last,” he whispered, kissing the side of her neck, his lips lingering there.
Emily smiled; she couldn’t resist. This was how they used to be, spontaneously affectionate and teasing, until…She wasn’t sure when things had begun to change. Earlier this year? “Oh, Dave, honestly.” She gave a small laugh.
“I love my wife,” he murmured.
She placed her hands on his, her fingers squeezing hard. “Do you, Dave?” She winced at the pleading quality that crept into her voice.
“With all my heart.” He dropped one final kiss on her neck, then walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I thought I’d work on Sunday’s sermon.”
“Oh.” He used to write his sermons at the church office. Emily waited until he’d left the sewing room before she turned from the ironing board and stood in the doorway. She watched Dave go down the hallway to his small den; without looking in her direction, he closed the door.
Until recently his door had always remained open. To the best of her knowledge he’d never done this before. Slowly, she returned to her quilting, but she could no longer concentrate. She wanted to know why her husband suddenly found it necessary to shut the door.
He must have a reason. Of course—he was probably making a phone call. One he didn’t want her to overhear. She waited an hour to be sure he was off the phone, then made an excuse to step into his office by bringing him a fresh cup of coffee.
She knocked on the door and walked inside before he could respond. As she’d expected, he sat at his desk with his Bible open and a yellow legal pad in front of him, making notes.
“I brought you coffee,” she said.
“How thoughtful. Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.” Setting it on the coaster, a ceramic tile Matthew had painted in first grade, Emily slipped out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her.
Inhaling a deep breath, she went to the kitchen phone and hit the redial button. It rang three times before a woman with a soft, husky, thoroughly sexy voice answered.
“Is that you again, Davey?”
Davey?
“Oops, sorry,” Emily said gruffly and replaced the receiver.
So she’d had him pegged, after all. Dave had placed a phone call to another woman. In their own home! He’d boldly contacted the woman who threatened to tear Emily’s marriage apart. Her trembling hand still clutched the receiver. Knowing she was right didn’t bring her any satisfaction—not that she’d thought it would.
Chapter Two
“Hi, Daddy.” A smiling Megan opened the front door and kissed Sheriff Troy Davis on the cheek.
“Hi, baby, how’re you feeling?” Troy followed his daughter into the kitchen, hoping his question didn’t sound too anxious. He couldn’t help it, though. Megan had recently been tested for multiple sclerosis, the same disease that had claimed his wife, Sandy, several months before. Their small family was close, and the mere thought that his daughter, Troy’s only child, would suffer the same debilitating disease as her mother terrified him. Megan had miscarried her first pregnancy a few months ago, and that loss, on top of her mother’s death, had devastated her. And now this constant threat…
“Would you stop,” Megan chided as she walked over to the stove and turned down the burner. Something smelled good—the aroma of a home-cooked meal tantalized him and he wondered what he’d make for his own dinner. Chili out of a can, probably.
If he still had any. “The tests showed nothing conclusive,” she was saying, “so there’s no reason to worry.”
Yet, Troy added to himself.
He didn’t want to smother her with unwanted concern and unwarranted fears, but he needed to know that she was successfully dealing with the possibility of MS, that she could cope with everything it meant. The medical world was divided as to whether or not multiple sclerosis was hereditary. So far, there was evidence supporting both beliefs.
To complicate matters, an absolute diagnosis was often difficult. In Megan’s case the results had been inconclusive just as she’d said. In one sense that felt like a reprieve; in another, it seemed as if they were still waiting for what appeared to be inevitable. He reminded himself not to borrow trouble. That expression echoed with a hint of foreboding, since it had been a favorite of Sandy’s.
Troy was proud of Megan’s newfound serenity, the way she calmly accepted the uncertainty of her situation. That was a hard-won acceptance, he knew, and he attributed a lot of it to her husband.
Thankfully, she’d chosen her life partner well. Craig was a quiet, good-humored man who loved Troy’s daughter and was completely devoted to her, the same way Troy had been to Sandy.
“I came over to ask what I can bring for Thanksgiving dinner,” Troy said. That was a convenient excuse to stop by without being too obvious about checking up on Megan—although Craig and Megan no doubt saw through him quickly enough.
“Hey, Troy.” Craig stepped into the kitchen, holding The Cedar Cove Chronicle in one hand. “Hard to believe Thanksgiving’s this week, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Look at this—more ads than news.”
Megan chuckled and waved them both out of the kitchen. “Quit whining, you two! Next thing I know, you’ll be complaining about how commercial Christmas is.”
“Christmas!” Craig groaned and winked at Troy.
Like her mother, Megan loved everything about Christmas. The leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner would hardly be put away before Megan would start decorating for the holidays. That involved Craig and Troy hanging strands of Christmas bulbs around the outside of the house and arranging the lighted deer in the front yard.
“Let me set a place for you,” Megan said, moving toward the cupboard. “We’re having porcupine meatballs and a green salad.”
Troy was tempted. The recipe—meatballs filled with rice and then cooked in tomato soup and served over mashed potatoes—was a family favorite from the time Megan had been a little girl. The salad he could take or leave.
“Thanks but no thanks, honey.” Despite the enticing smells, Troy had no intention of intruding on his daughter and her husband. “Like I said, I just came by to ask what I can contribute to Thursday’s dinner.”
Megan paused as though mentally reviewing the menu. “I think I’ve got everything under control,” she told him. “We’re having turkey, of course, and I’m using Mom’s rice-and-sausage recipe for the stuffing. Then I’m making a couple of salads and that sweet potato-and-dried-apricot recipe I tried last year that everyone liked so well.”
Last year.
Just twelve months earlier Sandy had been alive; she’d spent Thanksgiving with them. It seemed impossible that she was really gone. They’d brought her from the chronic care facility, setting her wheelchair at the table, helping her eat.
One year, and so much had changed. Troy had buried Sandy and then, a short while later, reconnected with Faith Beckwith. The thought of his high school girlfriend brought with it a rush of sadness. They’d become a couple again earlier that summer, he and Faith, and everything had looked promising—until Megan’s miscarriage.
When his daughter had learned Troy was dating someone, she’d been shocked. More than shocked. Hurt and angry. She knew nothing about Faith, not even her name, but in her emotionally volatile state, she couldn’t tolerate the idea of her father seeing another woman. Troy loved his daughter and couldn’t risk alienating her. The night she’d lost the baby, he’d been with Faith. Not wanting a call from Megan to interfere with his evening, he’d turned off his cell phone, an act he’d lived to regret again and again.
With the possibility that Megan might have MS, Troy had made the painful decision to sever his relationship with Faith. He missed her, missed their long telephone conversations, missed spending time with her. There was no alternative, though. Painful as it was to accept, Faith was out of his life.
Ironically, in a recent conversation Megan had implied that it was time he moved on with his life. Troy wished he could believe she meant it, but he was afraid to put too much credence in her words. Yes, she’d attained a new maturity and had reconciled herself to—maybe—living with MS. But her reaction when she’d found out he was seeing someone indicated all too clearly that his daughter was nowhere near ready for him to begin a new relationship. A woman in his life, a woman other than Sandy, seemed a betrayal of her mother’s memory. So, even though Megan was now saying what he wanted to hear, he’d reluctantly decided he couldn’t act on it.
However, whether she truly approved of the idea or not, Megan wasn’t the only one who’d mentioned that he should start dating. A deputy friend of his had suggested setting him up with his mother-in-law—Sally Something. Troy had absolutely no interest in a blind date. The only woman he wanted to see was Faith, and he’d ruined any chance of that.
“Last year,” Megan repeated slowly, breaking into his thoughts. “Mom was here…” The realization that Sandy had been with them for Thanksgiving had obviously just struck her. “Mom always loved the holidays, didn’t she?”
Troy nodded. Despite her physical limitations, Sandy had cherished family traditions and done her utmost to be part of them. He found comfort in the fact that his daughter was continuing where her mother had left off.
“You’re serving mashed potatoes and gravy, too, aren’t you?” He used the question as a diversionary tactic to turn their thoughts from Sandy.
“Of course!”
“What about pies?”
“Pumpkin and pecan. Oh, and I have a small surprise to go with dinner.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
Megan’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I have one jar of the sweet pickles Mom and I made the summer before last. I was saving them for a special occasion.”
Sandy hadn’t been able to do any of the work, but Megan had brought her mother from the care facility to Troy’s house. Together, they’d spent the day canning cucumbers, Sandy giving directions and advice, the two of them laughing often. That afternoon had been one of the best of the entire year for his wife. Sandy had treasured the time with Megan and loved being back in her own home, albeit briefly.
“Your mother will be with us, whether or not we have those sweet pickles,” Troy said.
“I know.” Megan shrugged helplessly. “It’s just that…”
Rather than watch his daughter get emotional, he said, “How about if I bring the dinner rolls on Thursday? And a bottle of wine.”
Megan seemed to struggle with her composure for a moment, then smiled. “Perfect.”
Troy left a few minutes later. The evening stretched before him, long and empty. Instead of going home immediately, he drove to the local Safeway store, still wearing his uniform. He needed a few groceries and since he was already there, he might as well pick up the wine and dinner rolls he’d promised Megan.
Troy reached for a cart and wheeled it toward the vegetable aisle, starting in the same part of the store Sandy always had. He wasn’t sure why he bothered to purchase anything fresh, because all it did was rot in his refrigerator. He was checking out the bananas when he saw her.
Faith.
He stopped abruptly and stared at her. It’d been two weeks since they’d spoken. That conversation had been among the most uncomfortable of his life. When she’d answered the phone, she’d been so excited to hear his voice. She’d told him her Seattle house had sold; before he could say anything else, she’d announced that she was m
oving to Cedar Cove. She’d said this with such joy and enthusiasm, expecting him to be just as pleased. And then he’d told her he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
Even now he could clearly recall her pain. It haunted his sleep. He remembered how calmly Faith had listened as he haltingly explained about Megan. She hadn’t raised her voice or argued. In the end, she’d wished him well.
At that moment, Faith glanced up and saw him standing not more than two feet away. Her reaction was the same as his—she went completely still as their eyes met over the large pile of bananas.
Troy was good at reading faces. Her initial reaction was shock, followed by a flicker of undiluted misery. Both emotions were quickly gone as she visibly took a breath and schooled her expression.
“Hello, Troy,” she said pleasantly.
“Faith.” He inclined his head slightly and wondered if she heard the regret in his voice.
Looking at her cart, he was surprised to see it filled with essential items—flour, sugar, coffee, milk, some fruit and vegetables. That suggested she was already living in Cedar Cove. He knew she’d sold her home, but he’d assumed it would be months before he’d see her again—months during which he could prepare for her presence in his town. He certainly wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready for a face-to-face encounter so soon after their break-up.
“You’ve left Seattle?” he asked.
“I told you my house sold.”
“Yes, you did, but…” He couldn’t make his tongue cooperate. He was about to argue, to tell her this wasn’t fair. However, when it came to being fair, he didn’t have a lot of ground to stand on. He’d treated her badly.
His reaction apparently made her want to explain. “One of the stipulations was that the closing would be before the end of November, preferably before Thanksgiving.”
“You mean you’re living in town now?”
“I…yes.” She seemed as uncomfortable as he was. “I just never thought I’d run into you so soon—my very first day. I’d hoped…” She let the rest fade.
Troy knew exactly what she meant. He’d hoped, too. Hoped they wouldn’t see each other for a long time, because the pain of losing her, the disappointment of it, would be hard to conceal. Especially since he’d brought it on himself.
8 Sandpiper Way Page 2
