His stomach growled, reminding him that he should eat. But even the thought of a T-bone steak didn’t excite him. With no energy and no inspiration, he opened the bread drawer and pulled out the peanut butter and jelly. The bread was relatively fresh, and the peanut butter would provide some protein—something Sandy constantly used to harp on. Good enough. He’d make do with a sandwich.
Sandy would be horrified to see him eating over the kitchen sink. But that way, if the jelly dripped, he didn’t have to worry about wiping off the counter.
His wife had been a real stickler about sitting down for meals. He felt guilty as he wolfed down his dinner staring out the window into the backyard. When he’d finished, he chased the sandwich with a glass of milk. It smelled a little sour and he should probably check the expiry date. On second thought, better just to empty the rest of it down the drain.
Moving to the counter, he flipped up the lid of the garbage can—the “circular file,” as Sandy used to joke—and started sorting through the mail. As he’d suspected, the top three pieces were advertisements. Without reading any of the chance-of-a-lifetime offers, he flicked them into the garbage. The fourth piece was the water bill and the fifth was a card. Probably a belated sympathy card. They were still trickling in.
The return address read Seattle, but F. Beckwith wasn’t a name he recognized. A friend of Sandy’s? He stared at it for a moment and set it aside while he looked through the last few pieces. Then he picked up the envelope, tore it open and removed the card. His gaze immediately went to the signature.
Faith Beckwith.
Faith Beckwith? Troy didn’t know anyone named Beckwith. He’d known a Faith, but that was years ago. He glanced at the opposite side of the card and read,
Dear Troy,
I was so sorry to hear about your wife. How very special she must have been. I’ve almost forgiven her for stealing you away from me.
My husband died three years ago and I truly understand how difficult the adjustment can be.
Faith Beckwith was the married name of Faith Carroll, his high-school sweetheart. Faith had mailed him a sympathy card? He smiled and almost before he could rationalize what he was doing, Troy reached for the phone. Directory assistance gave him the Seattle number he sought and without hesitation he dialed it.
Not until it began to ring did he consider what he should say. He’d never been an impulsive man. But he didn’t need to think about what he was doing. Instinctively he knew this was right.
“Hello,” a soft female voice answered.
“Faith, this is Troy Davis.”
The line went silent, and Troy felt her shock.
“Troy, my heavens, is it really you?”
She sounded exactly the same as she had when they were high-school seniors. Back then, they’d talked on the phone for hours nearly every night. They’d been in love. The summer after their graduation, he’d gone into the service. Faith had seen him off with kisses and tears, promising to write every day, and in the beginning she had.
Then the correspondence had abruptly stopped. He still had no idea what had gone wrong. Soon afterward, a friend told him Faith was dating someone else. It’d hurt, the way she’d handled their breakup, but that was easy to forgive now. They’d both been so young. Besides, Troy wouldn’t have married Sandy if Faith hadn’t severed their relationship. And he couldn’t imagine his life without Sandy….
“I got your sympathy card,” he said, explaining the reason for his call. “How did you know?”
“My son lives in Cedar Cove,” Faith said. “I was visiting him and the grandkids, and I saw the Chronicle. I always read the obituaries and…”
“That’s where you read about Sandy?”
“It is. I’m really sorry about your loss, Troy. I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me. That’s why I didn’t mail the card right away.”
Troy didn’t know what else to say until he glanced down at the sympathy card and reread her short message. “What did you mean when you said Sandy stole me away?” His memory of their breakup was quite the opposite. Faith had dumped him.
Her laugh drifted over the phone. “Come on, Troy. You have to know you broke my heart.”
“What?” He shook his head in bewilderment. She couldn’t have forgotten the callous way she’d treated him. “As I recall, you’re the one who broke up with me.”
There was a silence. “How can you say that?” she said. “You quit writing to me.”
“I most certainly did not,” he returned. He’d always wondered what had happened and wasn’t too proud to admit she’d hurt him badly. But none of that was important anymore. Hadn’t been in years.
“Hold on,” Faith said. “One of us seems to have developed a selective memory.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Strangely, Troy found he was enjoying this. He knew beyond a doubt that the selective memory was Faith’s—but he was willing to forgive her.
“Yes,” she said, “and it’s not me.”
“Well, then,” he said, “let’s review the events of that summer.”
“Good idea,” she concurred. “Practically as soon as we graduated from high school, you went into basic training.”
“Right.” Troy was with her so far. “I remember clearly that you promised me your undying love when we said goodbye.”
“I did and I meant it.” She spoke without hesitation. “I wrote you every single day.”
“In the beginning.” He’d lived for Faith’s letters, and when she’d stopped writing he hadn’t known what to think.
“Every day,” she reiterated, “and then you stopped writing.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Troy grew quiet. “I didn’t stop writing you, Faith.”
“I didn’t stop writing you, either.”
“I phoned,” he said, “and your mother said you were out. Later, someone else told me you were seeing some other guy. I got the message.”
“I didn’t date anyone other than you until after I left for college that September.”
The silence seemed to hum between them.
“My mother,” she breathed slowly. “My mother was the one who took out the mail every day and collected it, too.”
“She didn’t like me?” Troy couldn’t remember Mrs. Carroll being particularly hostile toward him.
“She liked you fine, but she thought we were too young to be serious,” Faith said. “I made the mistake of telling her I hoped you’d give me an engagement ring for Christmas.”
The irony was, Troy had planned on doing exactly that.
“You mean to say you believed I’d just stopped writing?” Faith asked. “Without saying a word? You honestly believed I’d do that to you?”
“Well, yes,” Troy admitted. “Just like you believed I’d given up sending you letters.”
She hesitated, then reluctantly agreed. “Did you try to get in touch with me when you finished basic training?” she asked. “You came home on leave, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did,” Troy told her. “I went to your house—that was in late August—but by then you’d already left for college. I wanted to talk to you, but when I asked for your new address, your mother said it was probably best not to contact you.”
“My mother,” Faith groaned. “I never suspected she’d do anything like that.”
“I didn’t, either.”
They both seemed at a loss as to what to say next.
Finally she whispered, “You broke my heart.”
He hadn’t come out of the relationship unscathed, either. “You broke mine,” he told her.
Faith exhaled softly, then said, “It seems my mother has a great deal to answer for.”
“Is she still alive?” Troy didn’t figure there was much point in dwelling on the sins of the past.
“No. She died ten years ago.”
“Despite everything, our lives worked out well, didn’t they?” he said. “Maybe not the way we expected, but…”
/>
“Yes,” Faith said. “I met Carl at Central Washington and we got married in 1970.”
Funny little coincidences. “Sandy and I were married the same year. In June.”
“What day?”
“The twenty-third. What about you?”
“The twenty-third.”
This was too weird. They’d each been married on the same day and in the same year—to someone else.
“Children?” he asked.
“Two—a boy, Scott, and a girl, Jay Lynn. Scottie lives in Cedar Cove, like I said, and teaches at the high school. Jay Lynn’s married and the mother of two. She’s currently a stay-at-home mom. What about you?”
“One daughter, Megan. She works at the framing shop down by the waterfront.”
“Oh, my goodness! Scottie just had her frame a picture I gave him of his great-grandparents. It was taken in the 1930s on the family farm in Kansas.”
Their lives had intersected more than once. And in the last few years, she’d visited town to see her family; they could have run into each other at any time, yet never had.
“So you’re the sheriff these days,” Faith said.
“Yeah, Cedar Cove’s always been my home. I never wanted to live anywhere else. There aren’t that many of us from our graduating class around anymore.”
“I heard about Dan Sherman’s death,” Faith told him. “Poor Grace. Scottie called me when his body was discovered.”
“That was a rough one,” Troy said. He knew Dan but they’d never been close friends. “Grace is remarried—to a local rancher.” He paused. “You’d like Cliff. He’s a down-to-earth, no-nonsense kind of guy.”
“What about Olivia?”
As he recalled, Faith and Olivia had been fairly good friends in high school.
“I always meant to keep in touch with Olivia, but life sort of crowded in.”
“Olivia married a guy called Stan Lockhart when she graduated from college. They were divorced the year their son died.”
“I knew she’d become a judge but I hadn’t heard that she’d lost a child. Or that her marriage broke up.”
“It all happened more than twenty years ago now. You never attended any of the class reunions, did you?” He should know; he’d been to every one.
“No. What about you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Troy would’ve preferred to avoid them, but it was hard since he lived in town. And he’d been one of the senior class officers, so people expected him to plan the event. Against his will, he’d done it for most of the reunions, thanks mainly to Sandy and her organizational skills. His daughter had helped with the last reunion. He’d rather have stayed home.
“You were going to be a nurse, weren’t you?”
“I was…am,” she said, correcting herself. “Although I don’t work in the medical field now. I burned out about ten years ago.” She hesitated, as if uncertain she should continue. “I write a little but it’s no big deal. Articles about health, that sort of thing.”
“Really? I’m impressed.” Troy had never been good at putting his thoughts on paper. Other than crime reports, of course, and that was a matter of getting the facts and stating them clearly.
“Don’t be. I dabble at it.” He could almost see her shrug. “I guess it’s a way to use some of my medical background.”
They chatted for another few minutes and then there didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Troy searched for something to keep Faith on the line. All he knew was that he didn’t want to break the connection for fear it would be half a lifetime before they spoke again. If ever…
“How often do you get to Cedar Cove these days?”
“Not a lot. But Scottie’s been encouraging me to move back to town and I’m considering it.” She paused. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, “that we could get together the next time you do.”
“Okay,” she said immediately.
“We could have coffee and pie at the Pancake Palace.” They used to go there on dates, only it’d been a soda and fries.
“Not Coke and French fries?”
“You remember that, too?” he asked.
“Of course I do. We always shared both. I liked more salt than you did.”
“Do you know when you’ll be in town?” he pressed.
“I could come next Saturday,” she said, “if that’s convenient.”
It was convenient. In fact, it couldn’t have been better.
Nine
This was the last day of Anson Butler’s two-week leave from army training. In the morning he’d be flying to the east coast for advanced study in computer technology, working with army intelligence. Allison Cox was proud of him, proud of his success and determination. And she dreaded not being able to see him for another eight weeks.
Her parents had been wonderful to him. Together, as a family, they were sending Anson off with a big barbecue dinner. Even Eddie, her annoying younger brother, had helped decorate the patio with streamers and balloons. All their friends from school would be there, even the ones who’d believed Anson had been responsible for the fire that burned down The Lighthouse restaurant. He’d forgiven them, and if Anson could, then so could she.
Allison had baked a cake that afternoon and was putting the finishing touches on it—smoothing out the chocolate frosting, adding candied flowers. After that, she’d go and pick up Anson at his mother’s place.
“You invited Mrs. Butler, didn’t you?” her mother asked.
Allison nodded, although she knew even before issuing the invitation that Cherry Butler would refuse. The truth was, she’d never been much of a mother. “Cherry said she’d think about it.” Allison would definitely prefer it if his mother decided not to come. Cherry’s presence would be uncomfortable and, especially if she drank, she was almost guaranteed to embarrass her son.
The kitchen door opened and her father came in from the garage. “Looks like there’s a party going on here,” he teased.
“How’d it go with Allan Harris?” her mother asked, referring to a local attorney who’d asked to meet with him, despite the fact that this was Sunday afternoon.
Allison’s parents exchanged a brief kiss.
Her father started to loosen his tie. “Martha Evans died last night.”
Her mother’s face went soft with sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Rosie, she was more than ninety years old and ready to go.”
“You’re the executor of her estate?”
Zach nodded. “Allan asked me to notify Martha’s family, none of whom live in town. They’ll be making the funeral arrangements.”
Allison watched as her father sighed. “Martha’s lived on her own all these years. Pastor Flemming’s the one who found her body. He’d been going over there once or twice a week to check on her.”
“He’s a good man.”
Allison liked Pastor Flemming, too. Everyone did.
“Charlotte Rhodes has offered to organize the wake.”
“When will Martha’s family—”
Her mother didn’t get a chance to finish the question before Eddie shouted through the open sliding glass door. “Should I light the barbecue?”
“Not yet,” Zach answered. “I want to change clothes first.”
“Eddie!” Allison cried, irritated by her brother’s impatience. “I haven’t even gone to pick up Anson yet.”
“All right, all right. I was just trying to help.”
“We appreciate that, Eddie,” Rosie said, mixing chopped green pepper and tomatoes into the lettuce greens. She turned to Allison. “Perhaps you should drive to Anson’s now.”
“In a minute,” Allison said, arranging tiny silver pearls on the border of Anson’s cake.
“Be sure and let his mother know she’s welcome to join us.”
“I will,” Allison promised. With a last critical look at the cake, she collected her purse and the car keys and headed out the door.
Anson’s mother lived in a trailer court off Lighthouse Road. Allison remembered the first time she’d met Cherry Butler, who’d been if not hostile, certainly unwelcoming. Even she—his mother—had believed Anson was responsible for the fire.
Anson’s disappearance had been difficult for Allison. She hadn’t known where he was, whether he was safe, what he was doing. To learn that he’d enlisted in the army—well, that had come as a complete shock.
Allison pulled into the trailer park, following the dirt road to the last single-wide trailer at the back of the lot. When Anson didn’t step outside after a minute or so, she turned off the engine and climbed out.
Before she could walk up the three steps, the door opened and Cherry Butler stood in the entrance. She wore a short skirt and a skin-tight sweater. Her hair had been dyed coal-black. Leaning against the door jamb, she held a cigarette loosely in one hand and glared at Allison. Slowly she raised her cigarette to her crimson lips and inhaled.
“Anson’s not here,” she announced when she’d finished blowing the smoke upward.
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so worried.” Cherry seemed to enjoy her discomfort. “He’s with Shaw. He should be back any minute.”
Shaw was one of Anson’s best friends and her friend, too, and she realized that Anson would want some private time with his buddy before he left.
“He did it for you, you know.” Cherry puffed at her cigarette again. “I didn’t want my son in the military. He knows that. Some recruiter fed him a crock and he believed it. Now see what’s happened.”
“Anson told me he liked the military.”
“Sure he does. You’d like it, too, if you could hide away all safe and sound while the police are searching for you.”
Allison stared up at his mother and wished she knew what to say. A moment passed in awkward silence.
Then, gathering her courage, Allison resolved to speak her mind. “You’re Anson’s mother.” She took a step closer. “You should be proud of him, Mrs. Butler—”
Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series, Volume 2 Page 7
