1105 Yakima Street

by Debbie Macomber

“Don’t ‘honey’ me. Look at this.” She flew off the bed to her underwear drawer and yanked it open, then removed the now-pink panties and waved them at him. “Did you see this?”

  “Hey, when did you start wearing pink underwear?”

  “Apparently today. Mom washed them with the new red towels, which by the way have also turned pink. Oh, and it isn’t just my underwear that’s this lovely color. You’d better hope no one catches a glimpse of you in your pink shorts.”

  “Ah…”

  “Not quite so funny now, is it?”

  He frowned and didn’t answer.

  “That isn’t all,” Olivia lamented. “Mom cleaned out my sewing room. I asked her to not touch anything in there but either she forgot or she ignored me. Jack, I had all the fabric cut out for my next quilt and Mom decided to put everything away. Except that I don’t know where away is and obviously it’s slipped her mind, as well.” A great deal had been slipping her mother’s mind these days, and this wasn’t the first time she’d noticed. She needed to make Charlotte an appointment with a gerontologist.

  “Your mom straightened out my desk, too.”

  Olivia’s eyes went wide. Even she never touched Jack’s desk. “She was only trying to help,” Olivia explained unnecessarily.

  “I know.” He sat down beside her and placed his arm around her shoulders.

  “I think we need to have Mom tested for Alzheimer’s. Or perhaps she has some other form of dementia. But something’s wrong and we’ve got to find out what it is and what we should do.”

  “Olivia…are you sure? That sounds a bit drastic. She’s got a few memory problems, but a lot of people her age do.”

  “Their house could have burned to the ground!”

  “Thankfully it didn’t,” Jack murmured.

  “What about next time? And there will be a next time, Jack. Mom’s memory is declining and it isn’t going to improve.”

  “Now, Olivia, I agree there’s a problem but—”

  “Jack, you’re a reporter and you’ve researched stories on this.”

  “That’s true.” In fact, not three months ago the Chronicle had done a feature on rising rates of dementia, including Alzheimer’s, and local resources for families. “I guess I don’t like seeing it so close to home.”

  “You mean at home,” Olivia said with wry humor.

  “Yeah. But your mom and Ben might not be able to go back to their house. Would they continue to live with us?”

  “No.” That would slowly but surely drive Olivia over the edge of sanity.

  “Where would they go, then? A seniors’ complex?”

  Olivia hadn’t given the matter much thought. “I think so.”

  “There are some pretty good assisted-living places,” Jack said. “Remember we profiled a few for that feature in the paper?”

  Olivia nodded. “That makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Now that she’d acknowledged the problem, much of what had been happening recently suddenly became clear. The fact that Charlotte had left her knitting in the car at Faith and Troy’s wedding, for instance. Her mother was never without her knitting. True, it’d been a traumatic day, since Ben had gone to confront his son David.

  If it’d been a single incident, Olivia could easily gloss over it, but there’d been countless other ones. Small things such as forgetting where she’d put Olivia’s quilt fabric. The problem with the laundry. Then there was the fire….

  Olivia stood and walked around to her bedside table, where she reached for the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “My brother. I need Will’s input on this.”

  Jack’s eyes met hers. “Time for a family conference,” he said.

  Nine

  “Oh, what a lovely painting,” the older, smartly dressed woman commented as she walked around the Harbor Street Art Gallery. While Will was out running errands, Miranda Sullivan had removed the Chandler painting from the wall where he’d placed it. Then she hung it on the opposite wall, which—in her humble opinion—showed off the watercolor to its best effect. It was all about the light, her husband used to say, and who’d know that better than an artist like Hugh Sullivan? She noticed how quickly this customer was drawn to the painting.

  “You have good taste. This is one of our loveliest pieces,” Miranda said, walking toward the woman. “Welcome to the Harbor Street Gallery. Are you visiting Cedar Cove? I’m Miranda Sullivan.”

  “I’m Veronica Vanderhuff. My husband and I recently moved to the area and we’re looking for a few pieces by local artists. Your gallery was recommended.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. All the art on display is by local talent. The work you’re admiring is Beverly Chandler’s Girl in Spring.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “In my view it’s the best painting we currently have.”

  Veronica shrugged her slim, elegant shoulders. “I’m almost afraid to ask the price.”

  “All our prices are extremely reasonable,” Miranda assured her. She’d love to sell this painting before Will returned. Then she could flaunt the fact that it sold only after she’d hung it on this other wall.

  Veronica checked the price list Miranda handed her and seemed pleasantly surprised. “Oh, this is reasonable. I’ll take it.”

  Miranda wanted to clap and leap up and down. She’d derive real pleasure from rubbing this in Will’s stubborn face. Not a very commendable impulse, perhaps, but there it was. In all her life, Miranda had yet to meet a man who irritated and enthralled her in equal measure. She found herself highly attracted to this man she didn’t even like. If that wasn’t puzzling enough, he was constantly in her thoughts. She knew it was unlikely that Will would ever look on her as anything more than an employee, and yet she couldn’t seem to help herself. Frustrating, to say the least.

  Miranda finished the credit-card transaction and made arrangements to have the painting delivered. Twenty minutes later, Will came back. He walked into the gallery and didn’t bother to greet her, which Miranda considered the height of rudeness. Instead, he went directly to his office, slumping down in his high-backed leather chair.

  Miranda followed him, leaning against the doorjamb, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked bluntly.

  Will glanced up, frowning. “I need a few minutes alone,” he mumbled. He slouched forward as though depressed.

  Miranda’s sympathies instantly went into action. “Is everything all right with your mother?” She knew Will had been talking with his sister regarding his mother and stepfather. Dealing with the insurance company had demanded a lot of his time and energy. From what Miranda surmised, work in the kitchen was going well, although much more slowly than anyone had expected. But Will shared very little of his personal life with her, so this was based on information she’d managed to pick up from others.

  “Mom’s doing fine—not great but okay.”

  Miranda knew she should give Will the privacy he’d requested but felt an almost overwhelming need to comfort him. “Will,” she said softly, moving a few feet into his office. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He kept his eyes lowered and shook his head. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

  “Tell me what happened,” she urged, wondering why he was so upset if there was no new crisis with his mother. She struggled to hide her feelings for him. Admittedly those feelings alternated between annoyance and attraction, but there were times, such as right now, when she realized how deeply she cared about Will. He was vain, supercilious, pompous and a hundred other adjectives she could think of. On the other hand, he was intelligent and witty, a talented businessman, devoted to his family and kind to animals. Not to mention good-looking in a dignified but still sexy way.

  “I ran into Tanni Bliss,” Will muttered. “Shirley was in California last weekend.”

  “So I heard.”

  Will’s head shot up. “You knew?”

  He asked th
e question as though she’d personally betrayed him by keeping the information to herself.

  “Well, yes. Shirley and I are good friends.”

  “You might’ve told me.” His eyes snapped with irritation.

  Miranda planted one hand on her hip. “And why would I do that?”

  “You know how I feel about Shirley.”

  She looked up at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. “You have got to be kidding me. Shirley is no more interested in you than…than the man in the moon. You’re a smart boy. You should’ve figured that out by now.”

  “I’m the one who introduced her to Larry Knight.” He jammed his index finger against his chest. “I met her first and—”

  “Shirley isn’t a prize marble,” Miranda countered swiftly. “Are you so egotistical that you can’t accept the fact that not every woman in the universe is going to fall in love with you?”

  He glared at her and said, “Then I guess you’ll be happy to know Larry proposed.”

  As it happened, she was. “Shirley told me. So who told you? Larry?”

  “No, Tanni. Like I said,” he returned pointedly, “I ran into her at the bank and she said she and her mother had a—” he made quotation marks in the air “—‘fabulous time’ with Larry and his children. When they got there, Larry asked Tanni and her brother if they had any objections to him as their stepfather. And now…they’re engaged.”

  Miranda smiled delightedly, although she wondered whether Shirley would move to California. She felt a little forlorn at the prospect of not having her best friend close by anymore.

  “I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut,” Will said.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, get over it.”

  Will seemed shocked that anyone would speak to him in such a derogatory tone of voice. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Get off your pity pot. If you think Shirley was ever interested in you, then you’re delusional.”

  Will got to his feet and placed both hands on the edge of his desk. Leaning forward, he demanded, “And you know this because…”

  “Because she told me so herself.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what you want. You aren’t the right man for Shirley. She recognized it from the start. Unfortunately, you didn’t.”

  “Then why did she go out with me?”

  That was a no-brainer. “Gratitude. You helped Shaw get into art school and she felt she owed you. That’s the only reason she agreed to a couple of dates. They didn’t mean anything—at least not to her.”

  “Are you always this…” He seemed to fumble for the right word.

  “Correct?” she supplied.

  His eyes narrowed and his ears grew red. “I was thinking more along the lines of smart alec.”

  “Well, smart is true enough. I was at the top of my class,” she bragged. “By the way, did you notice the Chandler sold while you were out?”

  Will brightened considerably. “Hey, that’s great! I didn’t even look.”

  “Yes, to a new customer who recently moved here. Veronica Vanderhuff wants to decorate her home with work by local artists and the first piece in her collection is the watercolor.”

  Will wore a smug, know-it-all look. “I told you that wall was the perfect place to display it. The Chandler was the first thing she saw when she walked in the door.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t.” Miranda could hardly wait to enlighten him. “While you were out, I moved the painting to the opposite wall. She barely glanced at the price before she bought it.” Miranda was sure her expression was just as smug as his—but she didn’t care. “The morning light on it was perfect.”

  “You moved the painting?” Will barged out of the office, nearly knocking her over in his eagerness to investigate.

  Miranda followed him. The space where she’d hung it was now blank, since she’d brought it to the storeroom for wrapping.

  “Who said you could move that painting?” he demanded.

  “I knew I was right,” she insisted. The painting had sold within thirty minutes, which should tell him her judgment was superior to his. If he wasn’t too arrogant to admit the truth…

  “You went against my orders,” he flared.

  “Orders? Did I join a military unit and not realize it?” she yelled back. “In case you’re missing the point here, allow me to remind you. The painting sold.”

  “It would’ve sold where I’d hung it.”

  “I’ll concede it might’ve eventually sold, but we didn’t need to wait because once it was effectively displayed, a buyer appeared right away.”

  “You’ve overstepped your bounds,” Will said. He stalked over to the counter and slapped his hand against it. “I will not have an employee taking matters into her own hands.”

  “Did I mention we got full price and that Ms. Vanderhuff is interested in more artwork?” Okay, Miranda was willing to agree that she might’ve been out of line, but she had a point to prove, which she’d done, and very successfully, too. One might think Will would take the fact that she’d sold the artwork—and for top dollar—into consideration.

  “You leave me no option,” he said. “You’re fired.”

  “You’re firing me because I sold the highest-priced item in the entire gallery?” He couldn’t possibly be serious.

  “I’m firing you because you went against my wishes.”

  “You’re firing me,” she repeated tonelessly.

  “Yes. Pack your things and go.” He gestured to the door as if she needed guidance in finding her way out.

  “Okay, but before I go I want you to know I regret one thing.”

  “Only one?”

  “Only one,” she echoed. “I deeply regret that I didn’t quit weeks ago. You’re the worst employer I’ve ever had.”

  “Then it’s mutual. I want you out of here and you’re just as eager to go.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Miranda marched into the back room and quickly gathered up her things. With her back stiff and her pride intact, she returned to the main part of the gallery. “I’d appreciate it if you’d mail me my final check.”

  “I’ll see to it this afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and without another word she walked out.

  Well, so much for that. Although she pretended otherwise, she was sorry to lose this job. She’d enjoyed it; she knew she was good at it. Although Will Jefferson was as delusional and arrogant as she’d said, she considered him a friend, too. A begrudging friend, but still a friend. That friendship, such as it was, had probably ended now.

  The weekend dragged by. Looking back on the incident, Miranda wished she’d handled everything differently. Will had already been upset about learning that Shirley was engaged to Larry Knight. Then she’d heaped hot coals on his bruised ego by boasting about the sale of the painting.

  Still, it was for the best that she leave. They bickered constantly and neither one of them was willing to give in. Will was just as stubborn as she was. And then there was this…this useless attraction she felt for him. Yes, it was preferable all around that she seek other employment. Only…she’d really liked working at the gallery. She knew many of the local artists and they were familiar with her, too. Her being at the gallery was an asset to Will, but apparently he no longer saw it that way.

  Normally Miranda would have confided in Shirley, spilled out her tale of woe. Not this time. But she couldn’t explain why she hesitated to tell her closest friend that she’d been fired.

  Instead, she hibernated all weekend, not venturing out of her apartment, even for groceries. She used the time to clean her oven, scrub the bathroom walls and sort out the clutter in her kitchen drawers. The tasks suited her mood perfectly. She needed a distraction, something to keep her mind off Will and the blowup they’d had. And this kind of work made her feel more organized, more in control.

  When her paycheck wasn’t in the mail on Monday, she thought perhaps he’d forgotten. She pun
ched out the phone number for the gallery and waited for him to answer. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d already hired her replacement.

  “Harbor Street Gallery,” Will answered on the third ring, sounding harried.

  “It’s Miranda. I was looking for my check. It hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I haven’t had a chance to write it. I’ll do it this afternoon.”

  “Would you like me to stop by and pick it up?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He paused. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “When can I expect you?”

  Miranda glanced at her watch. “An hour?”

  “Perfect.”

  She replaced the phone and felt better than she had all weekend. Collecting her purse and sweater, she headed out the door. The early part of the week was generally slow at the gallery. She’d filled in for Will a couple of Mondays that month so he could help his mother and stepfather with the insurance people and the builder remodeling the kitchen.

  Will was sitting behind the counter, leafing through a catalog, and stood when she entered the gallery. He didn’t smile at first and neither did she. The old wooden floor creaked as she walked across the room, which made her feel even more self-conscious.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Will said.

  “I have time on my hands, so it’s not a problem.”

  He grinned at her weak joke.

  “You have my check?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, locating the envelope under the counter. He handed it to her but held on to one end. “The thing is…”

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly.

  “I believe I might’ve been a bit hasty in letting you go when I did.”

  “Really…”

  He hedged for a few seconds. “There aren’t as many tourists as we usually get this time of year, but…”

  “But,” she went on, “the gallery has the potential to bring in a large clientele.” Miranda had plenty of ideas she wanted to share—like a holiday show, sponsoring an art walk, hosting an event for the chamber of commerce. They could invite local artists, serve wine and cheese, consider ways to work with other businesses.