8 Sandpiper Way

by Debbie Macomber

  Shaw raised his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” She wasn’t going to let him sidestep the question. “You wouldn’t have drawn it if you weren’t feeling something.”

  “Anger, all right?” he said with barely controlled emotion. “My mother told me she didn’t want me drawing those kinds of pictures in the house. That made me mad. I hate being censored, as if I’m only allowed to have the thoughts and emotions she thinks are okay.”

  “I feel it,” she murmured, studying the picture again.

  “You feel what?”

  She raised her head, meeting his gaze. “Your anger.”

  He frowned.

  “That’s the true sign of an artist. If I can feel what you did while you were creating this sketch, then it’s good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’ve got to believe in yourself, Shaw. No one else will if you don’t.” It was as simple to Tanni as that. She and her father had often discussed art, even though he wasn’t the artist; her mother was. He’d told her that craft and technique were important but they were a means to an end, which was the expression of emotion. It could be a reaction to something outside the artist, but it had to express what the artist felt about the scene or person or situation.

  “Did you feel the peace?” he asked eagerly, turning the page back to the yellow tulips.

  She stared at the tulip picture a long time and then answered truthfully. “Not really.”

  It obviously wasn’t the response he’d expected. For a few seconds, it looked as if he was going to grab the sketchbook and shove it in his backpack. A moment later, he asked, “Why not?”

  “You didn’t have any real feelings when you painted that.”

  “I did so!”

  “No, you were too concerned about color and shadowing to recognize your feelings about what you were seeing.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know I’d have to get all touchy-feely to be an artist.”

  “Art is feelings,” Tanni said. “That’s what it is to me, at any rate.” Her sketches in the past year were the out-pouring of her emotions after losing her dad. Her classroom scribblings were about her thoughts and feelings. Wasn’t that the point? As her dad had said, any great piece of art made you feel. It used to annoy her when he used her mother’s quilts and fabric collages as an example, but okay. She knew what he meant.

  Shortly after her father’s funeral, her mother had escaped into her workroom and hadn’t come out for days. Tanni knew her mother must have slept some and eaten, too, but she never saw her do either. When Shirley finally emerged, she’d constructed a huge fabric fire-breathing dragon that Tanni had to admit was an incredible piece of art. No one needed to explain to her that the dragon was death. After her creative frenzy, her mother was better—more herself, less frantic. The dragon still hung in her workroom. Few people saw it and Tanni suspected the new owner of the Harbor Street Gallery would love to have it on display if her mother would agree. She wouldn’t—at least, not yet.

  “The emotion is what makes your art so good then,” Shaw commented.

  “I guess.”

  “Do you ever draw people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It’s hard, you know.”

  She did. “Is that what you want to draw?”

  Shaw leaned back in his chair. “I think so.”

  That sounded bogus to her. “You think so? You mean, you’re not sure?”

  “Okay, yes. I want to draw people.” He made it seem like a big confession.

  “You didn’t show me any of those pictures.”

  “No, I—”

  “Why not?” Although she asked the question, she already knew. Shaw was afraid her criticism would rob him of the joy he derived from his portrait work.

  “Show me one,” she said.

  He straightened. “I didn’t bring any.”

  “Yes, you did, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  He blinked as if he couldn’t believe she’d read him so easily.

  “Let me see.” Tanni wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  Shaw stared down at the table. “It’s no good. I did it fast and—”

  “I don’t care. I want to see it. Besides, you asked me to look at your art. That’s why I’m here, remember?”

  His hand hovered protectively over his backpack.

  “Did you feel anything while the pencil was in your hand?”

  A hint of what could’ve been a smile flickered in his eyes. “Yeah, I felt something.”

  “That’s great.” She waited and when he continued to sit there in silence, she said, “So, are you going to show it to me or not?” She was getting impatient. Either he showed her his real work or she was out of there.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Shaw reached inside his bag and withdrew a second sketchbook. He hesitated before he slid it across the table.

  Tanni opened it. When her eyes fell on the picture, her breath froze in her lungs.

  “It’s me.”

  “Yeah…I know.” He spoke in a low, halting voice.

  “Tonight, while I was at the bonfire.”

  “Yeah.”

  In a few quick lines Shaw had captured her defiance and isolation, her anger and pain. Her long straight hair was flung about her face by the wind, half-covering her mouth and her chin. Her posture revealed a combativeness, a sense of lonely struggle. In those simple, economical lines Shaw had revealed her. He’d drawn the essence of her, Tanni Bliss, as she was right now.

  Her throat thickened with tears.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  She couldn’t answer him.

  “I told you it was no good.”

  “Wrong,” she whispered, despite the lump in her throat. “It’s some of the best portrait work I’ve seen.”

  Shaw stared at her intently. “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

  She shook her head, regaining her composure. “Nothing I ever did was this good. Besides, I’d never tell you something was good if it wasn’t.”

  She could see that pleased him. “Maybe we could get together again,” he suggested.

  Tanni nodded. “I’d like that.”

  “When?”

  “Anytime,” she said softly.

  “Tomorrow? Oh, forget that, it’s Thanksgiving and you’re probably tied up with family and stuff.”

  “What time?” She didn’t care what day it was; she wanted to be with Shaw.

  “You can get away?”

  She nodded again.

  “Five?”

  “I’ll meet you here at five,” she promised.

  Shaw stretched his hand across the table and clasped hers. He held on tightly, intertwining her fingers with his own. Perhaps, Tanni thought, she’d found a friend, after all.

  Chapter Four

  Early Thanksgiving morning, Emily Flemming tiptoed into the kitchen, moving as quietly as possible. She didn’t want to disturb her sleeping husband or the boys. As was their tradition, her parents had driven over from Spokane to spend the holiday with her family. She could hear her father snoring in the back bedroom, the sound comforting as she made a pot of coffee.

  Soon the house would be bustling with activity. Dave and her father would be watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on television, while the boys raced around the house and Emily and her mother worked in the kitchen, preparing the twenty-two-pound turkey for the oven. Most likely these few moments of peace were all she’d get. If she was going to pull off today’s dinner without her mother suspecting anything was awry, then Emily would need this time.

  She’d always been close to her mother, and it wouldn’t be easy to fool Barbara Lewis. Emily sat at the kitchen table, taking deep calming breaths, trying to control her emotions. Her unopened Bible rested in front of her. She’d begun reading it every morning, seeking and finding solace in Psalms.

  The coffeepot gave one last sizzling refrain. She got up and had just reached inside the cupboard for a mug when her
mother strolled into the kitchen.

  Barbara tied her long housecoat at the waist and covered a yawn. “I thought I heard you up and about. My goodness, what time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s early, Mom.”

  Barbara frowned at the oven clock. “It isn’t even five!”

  “I know.” As it was, Emily had awakened before three, tossing and turning before giving up any hope of going back to sleep.

  Her mother sat down. “The coffee smells great. Is it ready?”

  “It is.” Emily poured a second mug, added cream to both, and brought them to the table, joining her mother.

  After a few sips, Barbara looked directly at Emily, who tried to meet her eyes but couldn’t.

  “Something on your mind, Em?” her mother said, eyebrows raised.

  Hoping to distract Barbara, she murmured, “I was reviewing our menu. I was thinking we should make a double batch of stuffing this year. Everyone loves leftovers.”

  “We could.”

  “I made the cranberry salad yesterday before you arrived.” The salad, which was more of a dessert, was a longtime family favorite and served only at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Cranberries, gelatin and whipped topping were stirred together and placed in the freezer.

  Seeing that her mother was about to speak, Emily interjected. “Instead of Brussels sprouts this year, I thought I’d make a broccoli casserole. I found a recipe on the Internet that looks absolutely delicious.”

  “Em…”

  “By my calculations, we should get the turkey in the oven around eight if we want to have dinner on the table by four this afternoon.” Emily knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you or are you going to make me guess?” her mother asked.

  Emily closed her eyes, then abandoned the pretense and buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t someone who easily gave way to emotion. If she had been, the tears would’ve flowed nonstop.

  Her mother rested her hand on Emily’s forearm. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she whispered brokenly.

  “I knew the minute I walked into the house that things weren’t right. Is it to do with the boys?”

  Emily shook her head. “No, they’re fine.” She thanked God for that.

  “Dave?” Her mother sounded hesitant, as if she didn’t really believe there could possibly be a problem. Everyone knew Dave Flemming was a good man. He was everything Emily had ever dreamed of finding in a husband—loving, responsible, caring, gentle and so much more. She’d fallen in love with him while they were in college, and her love had grown and matured in the years since. Not once had she even considered looking at another man. She’d been so sure he loved her just as much until recent events gave her cause to wonder.

  “He’s working too hard, isn’t he?” Barbara asked.

  Emily swallowed. She couldn’t deny that, although not for the reasons her mother assumed. “He’s gone a lot, yes.”

  “It’s all those committee meetings, isn’t it?” Barbara pursed her lips. “Church duties can steal away family time if he lets them. He needs to take a stand.”

  Emily straightened. “I don’t think that’s it. I…” She could barely utter the words. “I believe…I have reason to think that Dave—” she paused, hardly able to continue “—that he might be involved with another woman.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened in shock before she categorically denied the possibility. “Not Dave, Em. He’s simply not the type. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “I used to assume that, too,” Emily said flatly. “Do you honestly think this is something I want to believe?”

  “Well…no.” Her mother was suddenly speechless, and for Barbara Lewis, that was unusual indeed.

  “The evidence had to practically hit me over the head before I recognized it for what it was,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  Emily shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” She’d racked her mind in a futile effort to figure out who it could be. The only person she could remember him spending a lot of time with in the past year was Martha Evans. She was the elderly widow who’d died in September. Dave had gone to visit her every week. Visiting the sick and bedridden was one of his pastoral duties, of course, but he’d told her Martha was a friend, that they’d grown especially close.

  Now that she thought about it, perhaps he hadn’t been with Martha all those times. Visiting Martha might’ve been a convenient excuse Dave had given her and others. Maybe he’d spent those afternoons—not to mention all the evenings he’d come home late—with someone else.

  “The truth is I have no idea who it might be,” Emily confessed miserably, remembering the woman’s voice on the phone Monday night.

  “Wait.” Her mother raised one hand, her expression thoughtful. “I’m getting ahead of myself. In the first place, what makes you think Dave’s involved with anyone?”

  “He lied to me,” she whispered, keeping her voice low for fear another early riser might overhear.

  “Out and out lied?” her mother asked.

  Emily considered this. “I suppose it was more a sin of omission.” She explained about her chance meeting with the Beldons, when she’d learned that Dave was no longer meeting Bob for their regular golf game. “There’s plenty of other evidence, too,” she added sadly.

  “Such as?”

  “We don’t…we haven’t…” It was more than a little embarrassing to discuss her sex life with her mother. “We—you know…haven’t…in over a month.” Prior to this point, they’d enjoyed a satisfying sexual relationship. Emily missed her husband in every way. On the few nights he was home early, Dave was often asleep by the time she got into bed. The nights she went to bed first, he crept silently into the room and slid between the sheets, doing his best not to wake her. Only Emily wasn’t asleep. It troubled her to realize that if he had reached for her, she didn’t know how she would’ve responded.

  “He isn’t as interested in you physically as he once was. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  With her cheeks warming, she nodded.

  “Have you checked credit card receipts?” her mother suggested.

  “No!” First of all, it hadn’t occurred to Emily, and secondly, she might have ended up with information she didn’t want, information she wasn’t ready to face.

  “Em, it seems to me that you’ve blown a few minor details out of proportion,” Barbara continued. “That’s what happens when you keep your doubts buried. Ask him. Dave is your husband. He’ll probably be shocked when he finds out you think he’s got a woman on the side.”

  “He’ll say it isn’t true, of course. What good would it do to ask?”

  “It’ll clear the air. And his reaction will tell you if you actually have reason to worry.”

  Emily had given the subject a great deal of thought. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, confront Dave. If she was right, he’d only deny it—and if she was wrong, her husband would be deeply hurt that she’d accused him of such a fundamental betrayal. As far as she was concerned, it was a lose-lose proposition.

  “My guess is that you’ve allowed your suspicions to build up,” Barbara said. “A few unrelated events don’t necessarily equal an affair.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “I know Dave. It just isn’t in him to do this.”

  Emily so badly wanted to believe that, and yet…

  “Dave is a terrible liar,” her mother went on. “If something’s going on, I’m sure I’ll pick up on it.”

  Emily grinned. True enough, her mother had a nose for anything suspicious. Emily and her brother had gotten away with very little while living under their mother’s watchful eye. “I certainly never managed to hide anything from you.”

  “Darn right.” Barbara smiled back. “Now put this out of your mind—at least for today.”

  “I’ll try,” Emily promised. />
  “You have a lot for which to be grateful,” her mother said. “This is your first Thanksgiving in your beautiful new home, and you have every reason to feel loved and cherished by your family. Don’t allow your suspicions to ruin Thanksgiving.”

  Emily had to agree. Still…“You’ll tell me if you think something’s wrong with Dave?” she pressed.

  “Of course, but I’m positive you’re imagining it. A week from now, you’ll be phoning me, embarrassed you’d ever suspected Dave of anything so out-of-character.”

  For the rest of the day, Emily did as her mother had suggested and tried to put the doubts and fears completely out of her mind.

  Just after two, Barbara helped her set the table. The formal dining room was one of Emily’s favorite things about this new house. She’d always wanted one. For the first time since she’d been cooking the family’s Thanksgiving dinner, they’d be able to eat someplace besides the kitchen.

  She’d worked hard to make the dining room as festive as she could. The mahogany table, chairs and matching hutch came from a second-hand store and had been a real bargain. Emily had loved the dining set the moment she saw it. She’d shown it to Dave, although even second-hand, the price was well out of their range. Later—to her surprise and delight—it had been delivered to the house. Dave told her he’d talked to the dealer, who’d agreed to sell it to them at almost half the asking price.

  Looking at it now, she still felt thrilled. She’d used a dark green linen tablecloth and spread an array of colorful maple leaves all around it. Then she’d created a cornucopia for a centerpiece, filling it with yellow, green and orange gourds, as well as miniature pumpkins. Lighted pale green candles provided the final touch.

  The table hit exactly the right festive note, she thought. It could’ve appeared in one of those glossy home magazines—and she should know because they were one of the few extravagances she allowed herself. The china had been a wedding gift and was only used once or twice a year, so arranging it on a real dining room table was a special treat.

  As she stood back to examine her handiwork, Dave stepped up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You did a beautiful job,” he said, kissing her affectionately.