92 Pacific Boulevard

by Debbie Macomber

  The front door opened and Bruce dashed inside. “Rachel?”

  “In here,” she called back, hoping she sounded sultry and sexy. She climbed onto the bed and lay on her side, facing him, the provocative black negligee revealing far more than it concealed. Her chin was propped on one hand.

  Bruce came into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Looking for someone?” Rachel purred.

  He swallowed visibly. It was a moment before he was able to move or speak. “I need a shower,” he croaked.

  Rachel rolled onto her back. “Hurry.”

  “Oh, I’ll try.” He started throwing off his clothes as he trotted toward the bathroom. His shirt fell onto the carpet next to the bed. It was a testament to the quality of the garment that the buttons hadn’t been ripped off in his haste. His shoes were next; one was kicked under the bed and the other bounced against the wall and into the bathroom.

  “We have all afternoon, you realize,” she said. “Shall I pour us a glass of champagne?”

  The shower door opened. “Champagne?”

  “Another gift from Teri and Bobby.”

  “Sure…” His gaze was riveted on her. “You are so beautiful.”

  “That’s how you make me feel,” she whispered.

  While Bruce showered, Rachel went into the kitchen. Although it was an odd contrast with the negligee, she wore her old terry-cloth robe, not wanting to risk being seen through the windows. She opened the refrigerator and sorted through the milk and yogurt and eggs to the farthest reaches of the bottom shelf, where she’d stored the champagne. Moët et Chandon, something she’d never expected to taste.

  By the time she heard Bruce, the flutes were out and ready. She’d lit several scented candles, too. The mood was set except for the music. She found an appropriate CD and put it on.

  A minute or two later, Bruce met her in the kitchen. He was barefoot and naked with a towel around his waist. His dark hair fell in wet tendrils, dripping moisture onto his neck and shoulders. As far as Rachel was concerned, he’d never looked sexier.

  Rachel turned to greet him with a shy smile. She held the champagne bottle in her hand and removed the wire top. “Someone once told me that the correct way to open champagne is to twist the bottle and not the cork. When properly opened, it should sound like a contented woman.”

  Bruce pretended to leer. “I’m more than eager to hear the sound of a contented woman.”

  “The champagne or me?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Both.”

  Rachel attempted to follow the opening directions for champagne, and the cork popped much more loudly than she’d expected.

  “You can be as noisy as you want, too,” her husband joked, taking the bottle out of her hands. He filled both flutes and gave her one. Clutching his own, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. Their lips clung as the kiss deepened. Although only their mouths touched, an overwhelming physical response rippled through her.

  Bruce groaned and put down his champagne. “Maybe we could drink this later?” he asked, hardly sounding like himself.

  “What do you have in mind?” she asked as he took the flute from her and set it on the kitchen counter.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit warm in here?”

  “Hmm. I know what you mean.”

  “You have too many clothes on.”

  Rachel smiled. “You could be right.” She glanced out the kitchen window, saw no one, then peeled off her robe.

  Bruce led her down the narrow hallway to the master bedroom, then lifted her into his arms.

  “Bruce, I’m too heavy,” she protested but not too strenuously.

  “Well…it’s not far from here to the bed.” He shoved the door with his foot, closing it partway.

  Looping her arms around his neck, Rachel nibbled at his earlobe and felt his body shiver with excitement. She was excited, too. The freedom to make love without fear of waking or disturbing Jolene was heaven.

  Bruce reverently placed her on the bed, his eyes glowing with love and wonder. “These past few weeks…”

  “I know, I know.” Reaching for her husband, she urged him down so that he was sprawled across her. They kissed until Rachel was breathless with desire. “Oh, Bruce,” she sighed. “I want you so much.”

  No sooner had the words left her lips than the front door opened and closed.

  Bruce froze.

  Rachel did, too.

  “What’s Jolene doing home?” Bruce whispered fiercely.

  “She’s supposed to be at basketball tryouts!”

  “Rachel?” Jolene called out. “Are you home? Dad?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Rachel called back as Bruce scrambled off her. He’d just managed to grab the towel and cover himself when his daughter appeared in the doorway.

  A look of sheer horror came over her. She scrunched up her face and cried, “Gross!”

  “Jolene.” Rachel hurriedly hid her negligee with a pillow. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, remember?” She knotted both hands into fists at her sides.

  Rachel could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

  “If you’d kindly give us a few minutes of privacy,” Bruce said from between clenched teeth. Keeping his hand clamped on the towel around his waist, he walked to the bedroom door and closed it completely.

  “I knew this would happen,” Jolene cried from the other side. “It’s like I don’t even live here anymore. All you think about is…that.”

  Apparently that was a synonym for sex.

  The girl marched down the hallway to her room and slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the house.

  “Jolene, that’s not true.” The kid had no idea of the restraint she and Bruce had employed since they’d been married.

  “Leave her be,” Bruce said with a disgusted sigh. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “I know.” Rachel was disappointed, too. She stepped up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. “She needs time to adjust.”

  “She’s had time.”

  “It’s been less than a month.”

  “I thought she wanted us to marry,” Bruce argued.

  “She did. Only she’s afraid of what it’s going to do to her relationship with you.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Bruce muttered. He broke away long enough to jerk on his pants.

  “But, Bruce, it has. Don’t you see?”

  “Frankly, no.” Every movement conveyed his frustration and anger. “We’re married, and I want to make love to my wife. It isn’t right for us to be sneaking around because we’re afraid Jolene might know what we’re doing. She should know. That’s what married couples do.”

  “Listen, Bruce, I’m as frustrated as you are, but we need to be sensitive to Jolene’s feelings. We should never have rushed into this.”

  Bruce whirled around, his face contorted. “So now you regret marrying me?”

  “No!” she insisted. “I love you and Jolene more than I could ever express. What I wish is that we’d given Jolene time to get used to the fact that I was going to be moving into the house.” Rachel didn’t want her husband to think for even an instant that she didn’t want to be married. “For seven years it was just the two of you and I was conveniently tucked away for whenever Jolene wanted to visit or chat. Now I’m here 24/7, and she feels threatened.”

  Bruce sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. “This is torture.”

  Rachel sat next to him and leaned her shoulder against his. “It is for me, too. But remember, there’s always tonight.”

  “What I want,” Bruce said, “is to be able to make love and not worry about the bed creaking.”

  It wasn’t funny but Rachel couldn’t help laughing. “We’ll find a way.”

  “I just hope it’s soon.” Bruce left the bedroom, and a few minutes later Rachel heard the front door close. He must have gone back to the shop.

  Wondering how best to approach
her stepdaughter, Rachel changed out of the negligee and into her clothes. She gently tapped on Jolene’s bedroom door.

  “Jolene?”

  No response.

  “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Go away.”

  “I thought you had basketball tryouts after school,” she said.

  “That’s on Monday.”

  “The notice said it was today.”

  “Well, it isn’t. Tryouts got canceled because the coach is sick.”

  “Oh.”

  “Go away.”

  “Not until we talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  Rachel stood by her stepdaughter’s bedroom door for a long time and tried to cajole Jolene into coming out so they could discuss this.

  After a while Jolene stopped answering her.

  Rachel turned the handle, figuring that if Jolene wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to Jolene.

  Only the bedroom door was locked.

  Chapter Eight

  Troy was still in the parking lot outside city hall when Mayor Benson came charging toward him. He’d just returned from a speaking engagement at the local Rotary, but other than that, it hadn’t been a good day. Two of his deputies had phoned in sick. The flu bug had hit his department hard, and he was stretched to the limit. His conversation with the Seattle reporter, Kathleen Sadler, hadn’t improved his mood, either. The woman was demanding responses to questions he simply couldn’t answer. Judging by the angry look on the mayor’s face, Troy’s day was about to get even worse.

  “What can I do for you, Louie?” Troy said.

  “I just got off the phone with Kathleen Sadler.”

  Troy wanted to close his eyes and groan. When he hadn’t supplied the information she was after, the reporter had obviously called Louie. No wonder the mayor was in such a state.

  “Kathleen Sadler,” Mayor Benson repeated. “I thought you were going to take care of it. I already told you how important it is that we keep this story out of the public eye.”

  “I did speak to her,” Troy said. “She refused to accept what I told her. She kept saying there has to be more to the story.”

  “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.” Louie clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “If you wanted to avoid her, you should’ve forwarded the call to me.” Troy didn’t understand why Louie felt obligated to talk to the woman, especially since she seemed to be making a pest of herself. If there was a story behind those remains, the facts would come out eventually. But at this point, there was nothing either of them could tell her.

  “I did suggest she contact you,” Louie said, “only it turns out you were at the Rotary meeting and, fool that I am, I took the call.”

  In Troy’s opinion, that was the mayor’s problem. “I’ll talk to her again, if you want.”

  “I do. Apparently she’s coming to Cedar Cove on Wednesday and wants to interview the teenagers who discovered the body.”

  “That is not going to happen.” Troy would do everything within his power to make sure of it. Philip Wilson, better known as Shaw, was of legal age but his name hadn’t been released to the press. Tanni Bliss, the other teenager, was still in high school. He’d contact their parents and give them a heads-up about this reporter. Both kids had been pretty shaken, as Troy recalled—Tanni more so than Philip.

  “Good,” Louie said and gave a satisfied nod of his head. “You deal with this.”

  “I will.”

  “Do it fast. I gather she’s bringing a photographer to take a picture of the cave. She’s writing a feature story on this, and with our tourism initiatives, the timing couldn’t be worse. You’ve got to convince her there’s nothing to report.”

  Troy shrugged. “Why do you suppose she’s so interested?”

  “How would I know?” Louie flared. “Like I said earlier, this is bad timing. Jack’s doing a feature on tourism for the Chronicle that we hope will get picked up across the state, and this woman’s article is bound to overshadow his. Cedar Cove could do without the negative press.” He shook his head. “That’s not the half of it, either. The council just put together a request for state funds to enhance tourism in our area.” He looked up at the heavens. “Why is all of this happening now?“

  Troy didn’t have an answer for him. “I’ll do my best to make it go away.”

  Louie seemed slightly mollified. “I’d appreciate that.” He handed Troy a slip of paper. “In case you need it, here’s that reporter’s phone number. You try and reason with her.”

  Troy sighed. The thing he’d noticed about reporters was that the more fuss he made, the keener their interest. Any bit of information he fed them was never enough; they demanded more. Then they’d dig around until they found what they wanted—or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Over the years, Troy had learned that the best policy was to say nothing, or at least nothing of substance. He was polite and cordial, but his lips were sealed.

  After the mayor left, Troy hurried to his office. He’d just sat down at his desk when his cell phone chirped. He rarely received personal calls. A quick check told him it was his daughter.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Hi, Daddy. I wanted to tell you I saw Faith.”

  Hearing Faith’s name produced an instant flash of anticipation, immediately crowded out by regret.

  “She gave me something for you.”

  Troy sat up straighter. “She did?” He hated the hopefulness that elevated his voice.

  “It’s a recipe for bran muffins.”

  “Oh.” His hopes quickly deflated.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d been over to her house.”

  “It was a routine call. I stopped by to follow up after the break-in.”

  “I think it’s terrible that someone would do that to Faith.”

  Troy agreed.

  “Have you seen much of her lately?” his daughter inquired. She sounded as if she’d been taking classes from a trained investigator.

  “Just that once since the break-in.”

  “I see,” Megan said. “Faith looked good, didn’t she?”

  In Troy’s opinion, Faith always looked good. “Yes, she did,” he murmured.

  “She said you really enjoyed the muffins and suggested I bake them for you.”

  As he recalled, he hadn’t had anything to eat that particular morning and had skipped lunch. The fact was, he would’ve eaten sawdust if Faith had served it.

  “I thought I’d bake these for you and bring them over this evening.”

  “Wonderful, thank you.” A reminder of Faith was the last thing he needed.

  “Can I drop them off after dinner? I mean, you’ll be home, won’t you?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  This was obviously an exploratory question to see if he’d be with Faith.

  “Craig wanted to run a couple of errands tonight and I figured I’d go with him, then we’ll stop at your place. Should I call first?”

  “No need. I’ll be home.”

  “Okay.” She seemed disappointed. “I’ll see you around seven. We won’t stay long.”

  “You’re welcome anytime, Megan, you know that.”

  “I know,” she said.

  They chatted for a few more minutes before Troy closed his cell and slipped it back inside its case. His daughter sounded better than she had since Sandy’s death. Troy was well aware that she missed her mother, but Megan had come to terms with her grief, the same way he had.

  Before he went home, Troy left a message for Kathleen Sadler at the Seattle paper. For the second time, he asked that she direct all future calls to him. She probably felt Louie Benson was an easier target, but Troy planned to put a stop to that. He’d prefer the mayor not question him in the parking lot again.

  On his drive home, Troy decided to swing past Rosewood Lane. He didn’t expect to see Faith, although he hoped he would. It’d been more than a week since they’d talked.

  As it happened, he sa
w her struggling with a heavy bag of groceries, dragging them from the backseat of her car. She glanced up just as he drove slowly past. Since she’d already seen his vehicle, Troy pulled over to the curb and parked.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said, moving toward her.

  “I’m fine.” But even as she said it, she surrendered the two heavy bags.

  Troy trailed her up the back steps and into the kitchen, where he set the groceries on the counter.

  Faith stood against the stove, hands braced behind her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” How polite and stilted they sounded, like strangers brushing past each other on the street.

  “I don’t want you to think I make a habit of driving by your home, Faith,” he explained. “I’ve asked Deputy Walker to make a couple of detours this way during the course of his shift.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. She lowered her gaze as if she found something on the floor of infinite interest.

  “How are you sleeping?” he asked, reluctant to leave.

  She didn’t answer right away. “Better,” she finally said.

  “Any more unexplained noises?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Faith, if there’s a problem I want to hear about it. You aren’t the kind of woman who imagines things.”

  She shrugged. “It was probably nothing.”

  “So you have heard something?”

  “Last night…”

  When she didn’t finish, Troy prompted her. “What about last night?”

  “I…I thought I heard someone in the side yard. I got up and turned on the porch light and—”

  “Don’t tell me you decided to investigate on your own!”

  “Oh, honestly, Troy, I’m not stupid. I didn’t wait for a storm, light a candle and then go walking on the cliff’s edge like some gothic heroine, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I did phone 9-1-1, but while I waited for a patrol car I turned on the house lights and made a bunch of noise, as if I was ten people instead of just me.”

  A smile tilted his lips. “Exactly how did you do that?”

  “Well,” she said, grinning, too. “I banged a few pots, put the television on and started talking loudly to my imaginary son, who happens to be a professional wrestler.”