204 Rosewood Lane

by Debbie Macomber

  “There must be something in the air, because I heard from my son today, as well,” she said casually. “James and Selina are coming for a visit next month.”

  “That’s great. I look forward to meeting them.”

  “I can hardly wait to hold Isabella. Do you realize she’s going to be a year old this month? I swear I don’t know where the past year went. She barely knows me and Stan.”

  At the mention of her ex, Jack tensed. “I suppose Stan will want to see James.”

  “Of course!” She straightened, hands on her hips, and glared at him in a way that made him want to squirm. “Don’t tell me you’re having another jealous fit?”

  “Who, me?” he asked, but the fact was that he didn’t like the idea of Stan being anywhere near Olivia. He could read her ex-husband more easily than a first-grade primer, and he didn’t like what he saw. Stan Lockhart might be married to another woman, but he definitely had interests outside the house. Stan didn’t like Jack hanging around Olivia, either. Naturally she didn’t see it. Although he’d never asked, Jack had the feeling Stan had done everything he could to discourage the relationship.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked, deciding to avoid the one subject that remained a sore spot.

  “I was thinking of making an Oriental chicken salad.”

  “That’s the one with the grapes and Chinese noodles I liked the last time?”

  “You’re easy to please,” she told him, smiling.

  How true that was. After years of scrounging on his own and eating far too many fast-food meals, Olivia’s cooking was a treat. Still, much as he enjoyed the food, it was Olivia he came to see, Olivia he longed to be with and Olivia he loved. He hadn’t actually told her how he felt. For a man who worked with words, Jack knew he was strangely inadequate at expressing his emotions. When it was a matter of political argument or moral persuasion, he could express his thoughts clearly and directly. But feelings…

  “You look preoccupied,” Olivia murmured, pulling off her gardening gloves.

  He shrugged as he followed her up the steps to the back porch, where she kept her gardening supplies, and then into the kitchen.

  “Anything special on your mind?”

  “Not really,” he said and realized he’d spoken too quickly.

  Olivia studied him a moment as she washed her hands. When she’d dried them, she opened the refrigerator and took out a large head of lettuce.

  “Anything I can do?” Jack asked, feeling like an unneeded accessory. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but he was afraid that making an announcement would be embarrassing or inappropriate; so he let it drop.

  “Nothing just now, thanks,” she answered.

  He walked into the living room, but for the life of him couldn’t stand still. He started pacing, his mind churning and his hands itching to do something, hold something. The need for a drink clawed at him. It happened like that occasionally, although such times were rare after almost eleven years’ sobriety. He needed a meeting and he needed to talk to his sponsor.

  “Olivia,” he said, sounding more anxious than he meant to. “I can’t stay after all.”

  “You can’t?” She stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the formal living room, looking perplexed.

  “I’ve got to be somewhere else—I’m sorry, I forgot. Well actually, it isn’t that I forgot, it’s just that I need a meeting. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “A meeting? Oh, you mean AA.” She stepped into the living room. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. I apologize, but the meetings help me clear my head and get rid of ‘stinkin’ thinkin’.’”

  “You’re having negative thoughts now?”

  “No, I’m thinking how good a cold beer would taste. That’s ‘stinkin’ thinkin” and a meeting is the best place for me to be. There’s one downtown I sometimes attend. It starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “Then go,” she urged.

  He was already halfway to the door. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Jack?”

  He heard her call him and stopped, his hand on the knob.

  “You’ll phone later?”

  “Of course.”

  Sixteen

  Despite Maryellen’s determination to keep Jon out of her life, she was curious about him. It was an unhealthy curiosity, but one that persisted. She supposed this was due mainly to his talent. Thankfully, she hadn’t run into him since that unfortunate incident right before Christmas. Nor had she heard anything from him since, and she was grateful, but she also felt disappointed, which confused her completely.

  The Bernard Gallery, located in Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle, sold his work now. She was sure he’d do well, and he deserved a wider audience, but the truth was, she missed his infrequent visits. She missed talking shop with him, but most of all she missed seeing his photographs. His talent was no small thing. When a notice came about a showing of his work in Seattle, Maryellen decided to attend the launch. She had no fear that Jon would be there. Experience had taught her that he avoided these events; he claimed the pretentiousness was not only unbearable but brought out the worst in him. He’d told Maryellen that comments about his “deconstruction of natural phenomena” or his “grasp of non-being” made him want to leap up and down making ape-like sounds.

  The Sunday afternoon of the show was Mother’s Day and it seemed fitting that Maryellen should allow herself this one indulgence. She spent the morning with her own mother and treated Grace to brunch at D.D.’s on the Cove. In a rare moment of sentimentality, Maryellen told her that she hoped to be as good a mother to her baby as Grace had been to her. Then, before heading to the ferry terminal, Maryellen dropped off a gift for Kelly.

  When she arrived at the Bernard Gallery, the show was in full swing. Wearing a loose-fitting black dress with black hose and a string of white pearls she looked, in her own estimation, rather elegant. Before long, she held a wineglass filled with apple juice and made her way over to the display of Jon’s work.

  She found Mr. Bernard himself standing in front of Jon’s photographs. He spoke to a middle-aged couple apparently enthralled with one of Jon’s pictures.

  “Mr. Bowman is something of a recluse,” the gallery owner was saying. “I did try to persuade him to attend today’s function, but unfortunately he refused.”

  Maryellen smiled to herself; she’d guessed right. If there’d been any chance of Jon’s attending, she wouldn’t have risked it. She could not allow him to learn about her pregnancy.

  The Bernard Gallery had displayed his photographs by suspending them from the ceiling. The pictures were beautifully framed and matted, each one signed and numbered.

  Moving from one piece to the next, she paused to admire his photographs of nature. A field of blue wildflowers blooming against the backdrop of Mt. Rainier was so intensely vivid that her breath caught in her throat. Several scenes of the snowcapped Olympics behind the pristine waters of Puget Sound revealed the thrusting strength of the mountains.

  The next series of photographs showed a new side of Jon. These pictures, in black and white, were all taken in and around the marina. In one of them, an early-morning fog obliterated the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard on the other side of the cove. Sailboats, with thinly veiled masts, rose toward an unseen sky. It was lovely and serene and mysterious.

  The second photo she looked at was completely unlike anything she’d seen from Jon before. A notice taped to the corner stated this photograph was not for sale. Maryellen stopped and stared at the picture of a woman at the end of the pier, overlooking the cove. The snowy peaks of the Olympics could be discerned in the far distance. The day was sunny and her back was to the camera. She stood on tiptoe, leaning over the railing, tossing popcorn into the air for seagulls to catch. They swarmed toward her, their wings flapping.

  So Jon was taking photographs of people now. For one unchecked second, she wondered about the woman who’d captured his attention so completely a
nd felt an unexpected and unwelcome surge of jealousy.

  Wonder at his skill quickly overcame her ambivalent feelings as she studied the photograph. It wasn’t necessary to see the woman’s face to experience the simple joy she found in feeding the birds. Maryellen had thrown popcorn to the seagulls herself and knew how exhilarating it could be. She’d stood at the end of that very pier and—

  Wait a minute!

  That wasn’t just any woman—that was her. Jon had taken a picture of her on the pier. Hurrying on to the next picture, she realized, much to her relief, that there was only one photograph in which she was the subject.

  Instead of feeling uplifted, Maryellen found that her spirits were low as she boarded the ferry for the fifty-minute sailing into Bremerton. That single photograph told her more than she wanted to know. He’d seen her at the pier without her being aware of him. When? It’d obviously been after their meeting at Christmas—probably during March, judging by the coat she was wearing. She’d gone to feed the seagulls during her lunch hour a few times, and he’d obviously caught sight of her. The fact that he’d taken this picture—his one and only photograph of a person—suggested he’d had genuine feelings for her. Maybe still did. And yet, she couldn’t allow herself to respond to those feelings, nor could she act on her own deep attraction to him. She just couldn’t.

  Instead of driving directly home, Maryellen surprised herself and drove to her mother’s. Grace was in the kitchen, doing her weekly cooking. She’d recently gotten into the habit of preparing, freezing and storing everything she’d need for the next six days—until the following Sunday, when she’d start the whole cycle again.

  “I’m trying a few new recipes,” she told Maryellen, busily arranging vegetables, cans and other ingredients on the counter. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet. I’m still full from brunch.” Her appetite was gone, but it had more to do with her churning thoughts than an empty stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” her mother asked.

  “What makes you think anything’s wrong? It’s Mother’s Day, and I’d like to spend some extra time with my mother. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong, does it?”

  Grace tore a strip of aluminum foil from the box and covered a small casserole dish she’d just withdrawn from the oven. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you sound defensive.”

  “Maybe I should just go home.” Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Her mother could read her far too well.

  “Did you see him?” Grace shocked her by asking.

  Maryellen didn’t bother to ask who she meant. That was obvious. “No,” she said. “No.” For emphasis, she shook her head.

  Setting the teakettle on the burner, Grace heated water. It seemed that every time they had something important to discuss, her mother made tea. It signaled that her mother considered whatever was to follow significant, something that required her daughter’s close attention.

  “Mom…”

  “Sit down and don’t argue with me,” her mother said briskly. She pulled out the kitchen chair and gave Maryellen a slight shove in its direction.

  All too soon, the tea was steeping, and the pot rested in the center of the table. “You already know I was pregnant with you when your father and I got married.”

  Maryellen knew this and wasn’t interested in learning whether her parents would have married had her mother not been pregnant.

  “Getting married was the thing to do in those days.”

  “Times have changed,” Maryellen felt obliged to remind her. Statistics said that a third of all children were now born outside wedlock. Other women had raised their children alone and so would she.

  “He’s an artist, isn’t he?”

  “Mom.” The questions exasperated her. “I’ve already told you I’m not answering any questions to do with the baby’s father, so please don’t ask.”

  “You’re right, you’re absolutely right.” Grace tapped the table, as though angry with herself for meddling. “I didn’t mean to do that…. Actually, I’d planned to talk about your father and me. We spent more than thirty-five years together and…well, I don’t know if I was the best wife for him. I think he might’ve been happier with another woman. For all we know, that could be the reason he left.”

  “I doubt it,” Maryellen said, grateful for the chance to speak honestly about her father. She couldn’t do that with Kelly, who viewed him as virtually a saint, without fault. Kelly refused to recognize the truth about their father; for some reason, she was incapable of seeing him in any other way. “You know, I can hardly remember a time when Dad was happy. He went into those dark moods, and both Kelly and I knew to avoid him.”

  Grace nodded.

  “He seemed to get so self-involved.” Maryellen’s memories of her father weren’t all bad, but in the months since his disappearance, those were the ones that drifted to the surface. “You can’t blame yourself, Mom.”

  “I don’t,” Grace said, looking flustered. “What I’m trying to say, and doing a poor job of, is this.” She released a deep breath. “When it comes to the father of your baby, my advice is to follow your instincts. Don’t do what everyone else thinks is best, do what your own heart tells you.”

  “I am, Mom, I am.”

  “Then that’s all I can ask.”

  Maryellen smiled and leaned over to clasp her mother’s hand. “Thanks, Mom—I needed to hear that. Now, how about some of that pasta casserole over there? I suddenly feel hungry.”

  Almost a week later, on Friday afternoon, Grace was still thinking about her conversation with Maryellen. She prayed she’d said the right things. If Maryellen had decided to keep the father out of her life, there had to be a reason. At times she sensed an uncertainty in her daughter—as if she doubted her own decision—but if so, Maryellen didn’t discuss it with her. After the baby was born, Maryellen might well have a change of heart.

  Her assistant, Loretta Bailey, got to the library early so Grace could leave for what she’d vaguely termed an “appointment.” As soon as Loretta showed up, Grace grabbed her sweater, eager to depart before she was barraged with unnecessary questions.

  “Thanks, Loretta,” she called back as she headed out the door.

  “Oh, no problem. Are you seeing that nice man friend of yours?”

  She must have something taped to her forehead, Grace thought with a sigh, because Maryellen had asked her the same thing earlier, when they’d met for lunch.

  “Cliff asked me to drive him to the airport.” After everything he’d done for her over the past months, it was a small thing to request. “He’s taking some of the memorabilia from his grandfather’s estate to a museum in Arizona.”

  “Oh, that’s right, his grandfather was a famous Hollywood cowboy, wasn’t he?”

  “The Yodeling Cowboy, Tom Houston himself.”

  “I’m too young to remember his television show, but I certainly remember hearing about The Yodeling Cowboy,” Loretta said. “My brothers used to try yodeling, and all it did was frighten the neighborhood cats.”

  Grace laughed and went out to the parking lot reserved for library employees.

  By the time she arrived at Cliff’s place, he was packed and ready. The neighbors would be taking care of his horses and Cliff returned the favor for them when they were away.

  She was a few minutes early, so Grace walked out to the paddock where several of his quarter horses grazed. As she stood by the fence, a lovely tan-colored mare trotted toward her. “Hello, Brownie,” she said, stroking the mare’s long sleek neck.

  “You could have her eating out of your hand if you wanted,” Cliff said from behind Grace. “Just the same as you have me.”

  He said things like that just to make her blush; Grace was convinced of it. “Ready to go?” she asked, turning away from Brownie. It was easier to ignore the comment than respond to it.

  “Anytime you are.”

  He loaded his suitcase into the back of her car, then got in on the passen
ger side. Grace pulled out of the yard, a trail of dust behind her. Two geldings raced along the fence line with her, and she admired their speed and beauty. Grace understood why Cliff chose to live this far outside town. She felt a serenity whenever she visited his small ranch. She suddenly realized that after all the years she’d spent living in town, she wouldn’t mind life in the country. She’d never expected to even consider such a thing.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Cliff said as she turned onto the road.

  “It’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much for me.”

  Without missing a beat, Cliff said, “If you feel obligated, then I suggest you think seriously about our relationship—about where we could go.”

  He said it in a joking way and she replied in a similar fashion. “Where we’re going is the airport. Now, would you cut it out?”

  “Probably not. Would you like it if I did?”

  She smiled and kept her gaze focused on the road ahead. “Probably not.”

  Cliff chuckled. “How’s Maryellen?”

  “Wearing maternity clothes now. I wouldn’t have wished this on her, but I’m amazed by how happy she is. She’s very excited about the baby.” She paused, then thinking aloud, said, “I’m pretty sure the father is one of the artists she knows.” Initially she hadn’t intended to, but Grace told him about the conversation she’d had with Maryellen on Sunday.

  Cliff listened intently. “I admire the way you can be open and honest with your daughters.”

  “You aren’t with Lisa?”

  Cliff didn’t answer right away. “Not really. We avoid the subject of her mother. It’s as if Susan’s a phantom woman. I think Lisa’s afraid of saying something that’ll hurt me, although I doubt my ex-wife has that power anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Although Grace didn’t want to pry, she was curious about his marriage. He’d made occasional remarks, but nothing that gave her a real picture of what his life had been like before the divorce. In a way, information about the marriages—and divorces—of others helped put her own marriage in perspective.