Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series

  “Seth, I like and trust Roy,” she said, referring to the town’s only private investigator, “but the fire department’s already investigating. So is the insurance company. Let them do their jobs,” Justine said in a soft voice. “Let the sheriff do his.”

  Splaying his fingers though his hair, he released a slow breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you.”

  “I know.” Justine got up and walked into his arms, pressing her body against his, urging him to relax. “Come back to bed and try to sleep,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is The Lighthouse going up in smoke.”

  Seth had arrived a few minutes after the fire trucks and stood by helplessly as the restaurant, engulfed in flames, had quickly become a lost cause.

  “I can’t believe it was Anson Butler,” Justine said, thinking out loud. She’d liked the boy and had trusted him—which, according to her friends and neighbors, had been a mistake.

  “You don’t want to believe it’s him,” her husband returned, the anger back in the clipped harshness of his words.

  That was true. Seth had hired Anson several months earlier. The teenager was paying off court expenses because of a fire he’d set in the city park. He’d had no explanation for why he’d burned down the toolshed. All Justine really knew were the few details Seth had divulged at the time he’d taken the boy on.

  To his credit, Anson had turned himself in to the authorities and accepted full responsibility for his actions. That had impressed her husband, and on the recommendation of their accountant and friend, Zachary Cox, who’d become something of a mentor to the boy, Seth had agreed to give Anson a job.

  At first the teenager had made an effort to prove his worth. He’d shown up early for his shifts and put in extra hours, eager to please his employer. Then within a few weeks, everything had fallen apart. Tony, another dishwasher, had taken a dislike to Anson and the two had exchanged words. From what she understood, they’d also gotten into a shoving match once or twice. As a result of their animosity, the tension in the kitchen had increased. Seth had talked it over with Justine and she’d suggested they separate the two boys. Seth decided to make Anson a prep cook. Tony didn’t like the idea of Anson getting a promotion, while he’d been on staff longer and remained a dishwasher.

  Then money had gone missing from the office and, although others had access to the money box, both Tony and Anson had been seen entering the room. When questioned, Anson claimed he’d been looking for Seth because a supplier had a problem. Tony insisted he needed to talk to Seth about his schedule. Both boys were suspects, so Seth felt he had no choice but to lay them both off. The money was never recovered. Seth blamed himself because he’d left the safe open, lockbox inside, while he was briefly out of the office.

  A week later, The Lighthouse had burned to the ground.

  “We don’t have any proof it was Anson,” Justine reminded her husband.

  “We’ll get proof. Whether he’s the culprit or somebody else is. We’ll find whoever did this.” Seth’s hard mouth was set with determination and his body tensed.

  “Try to sleep,” she urged again. Despite his reluctance, she led him back to their bedroom.

  Together they slipped under the sheets and she moved her body close to his. Seth lay on his back, eyes open, as she slid her leg over his and draped her arm across his powerful chest. He held her tight, as if she were the only solid thing left in a world that had started to crumble. Kissing his neck, Justine purred in his ear, hoping that if they made love, the restlessness in him would ease and he’d be able to relax. But Seth shook his head, rejecting her subtle offer. She swallowed down the hurt and tried not to take it personally. All of this would be over soon, she told herself; soon everything would be back to normal. Justine had to believe it. Without that hope, despair would encroach, which was something she had to avoid at any cost. She fought to maintain a positive outlook, for her husband’s sake and for the sake of her marriage.

  When Justine woke again, it was morning and Leif was climbing onto her bed, wanting breakfast. Penny, their cocker spaniel-poodle mix, followed him, eyeing the bed.

  “Where’s Daddy?” she asked, sitting upright, rubbing her hand tiredly over her face.

  Her son dragged his teddy bear onto the bed, blue eyes soulful. “In his office.”

  That wasn’t a good sign.

  “It’s time we got you ready for school,” Justine said briskly, glancing at the clock. Quarter to eight already. Leif’s preschool class was held every morning, and even though their own schedules had fallen apart, Justine and Seth had done their best to keep Leif’s timetable consistent.

  “Daddy’s mad again,” the four-year-old whispered.

  Justine sighed. This was almost a daily occurrence, and she worried about the effect of so much tension on their son, who couldn’t possibly understand why Daddy was mad or Mommy sometimes cried.

  “Did he growl at you?” Justine asked, then roared like a grizzly bear, shaping her hands into make-believe claws. With Penny barking cheerfully, she crawled across the mattress after her son, distracting him from worries about his father.

  Leif shrieked and scrambled off the bed, racing for his bedroom. Justine followed and laughingly cornered the boy. Leif’s eyes flashed with delight as she set out his clothes. He insisted on getting dressed on his own these days, so she let him.

  After saying a perfunctory goodbye to her husband, Justine delivered Leif to preschool. When she pulled back into the driveway, Seth came out the door to greet her. The April sky was overcast, and rain was imminent. The weather was a perfect reflection of their mood, Justine thought. A sunny day would’ve seemed incongruous when they both felt so fearful and angry.

  “I talked to the fire marshal,” her husband announced as she got out of her car.

  “Did he have any news?”

  Seth’s frown darkened. “Nothing he was willing to tell me. The insurance adjuster’s taking his own sweet time, too.”

  “Seth, these things require patience.” She needed answers as much as he did, but she certainly didn’t want the fire marshal to rush the investigation.

  “Don’t you start on me,” he flared. “We’re losing ground every day. How are we supposed to live without the restaurant?”

  “The insurance—”

  “I know about the insurance money,” he said, cutting her off. “But we won’t get anything for at least a month. And it isn’t going to keep our employees from seeking other jobs. It isn’t going to pay back my parents’ investment. They put their trust in me.”

  Seth’s parents had invested a significant amount of the start-up money; Seth and Justine paid them monthly and she knew Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson relied on that income.

  Justine didn’t have any solutions for him. She recognized that he was distressed about more than the financial implications of the fire, but she had no quick or ready answers. “What would you like me to do?” she asked. “Tell me and I’ll do it.”

  He glared at her in a way she’d never seen before. “What I’d like,” he muttered, “is for you to stop acting as if this is a temporary inconvenience. The Lighthouse is gone. We’ve lost everything, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal.” Justine recoiled at the unfairness of his words. He made it sound as if she was some kind of Pollyanna who wasn’t fully aware of their situation. “Don’t you realize the last five years are in ashes?” he railed. “Five years of working sixteen-hour days and for what?”

  “But we haven’t lost everything,” she countered, hoping to inject some reason into his tirade. She didn’t mean to be argumentative; she simply wanted him to see that although this was a dreadful time, they still had each other. They had their child and their house. Together they’d find the strength to start over—if only Seth could let go of this anger.

  “You’re doing it again.” He shook his head in barely controlled frustration.

  “You want me to b
e as angry as you are,” she said.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “You should be angry. You should want answers just like I do. You should—”

  “More than anything,” she cried, her own control snapping, “I want my husband back. I’m as sick as you are about everything that’s happened. We’ve lost our business, and to me that’s horrible, it’s tragic, but it isn’t the end of my world.”

  Her husband stared at her, incredulous. “How can you say that?”

  “Maybe you’re trying to lose your wife and son, too,” she yelled, and before she could change her mind, she slipped back inside the car, slamming the door. Seth didn’t try to stop her and that was fine with Justine. She needed to get away from him, too.

  Without waiting for his reaction, she backed out of the driveway.

  With no real destination, Justine drove into town, a few blocks from where Leif attended preschool classes. Her son would be in school for another two hours, and she had nothing urgent to do, no one to see, so she walked down to the marina.

  Struggling to find meaning in the disaster that was battering her marriage, she sat down on a wooden bench in Waterfront Park and gazed out at the cove. The sky was even darker now, and the water crashed against the rocks near the shore. She needed to think. Everything would be all right when she got home, she told herself. Seth would be sorry for what he’d said, and she—

  “Justine, is that you?”

  She glanced up to see Warren Saget coming toward her. She offered him a weak smile. She didn’t welcome his company—didn’t want to see anyone right now, but especially Warren, who’d let it be known that he still had feelings for her. When she’d declined his proposal, he hadn’t taken it with good grace, and she tended to avoid him.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down beside her. “I was sorry to read about the fire.”

  The Cedar Cove Chronicle had published a front-page spread about the arson, and everyone in town had been talking about it all week.

  “It was…a shock,” she mumbled, suddenly cold.

  “You’re going to rebuild, of course?”

  She nodded. She couldn’t imagine Seth not wanting to rebuild. Within a few months, all of this would be behind them, she told herself again. Everything would be all right. There was simply no other option.

  A chill raced up and down her arms as she remembered that this was exactly what she’d believed the day they’d buried Jordan. It was over, she’d thought then. All the relatives would go home and school would start and everything would go on the same as before. Only it hadn’t. How naive she’d been, a thirteen-year-old girl who’d trusted her parents to maintain the steady course of her life. They hadn’t; they couldn’t. Their own suffering had made them unable to cope with hers, destroying their marriage and tearing their family apart. Far from being over, the grief had barely begun.

  “Warren,” she said, panic rising inside her all at once. She reached for his hand, gripping it hard. She was hyperventilating; she couldn’t get her breath. She heard herself gasping for air. The world began to spin.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Are you ill?”

  “I…don’t know,” she said on a choked whisper, the panic settling in. Suddenly she felt an overwhelming need to find her mother.

  “What should I do?” he asked, placing his arm protectively around her shoulders. “Should I take you to the clinic? Call for an Aid Car?”

  She shook her head, feeling small and lost and childlike. “I…I want my mother.”

  Warren didn’t hesitate. He leaped to his feet. “I’ll get her.”

  “No.” She tried not to sob. She was an adult. She should be more capable of dealing with the events in her own life. Looking at Warren, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She forced her heart to stop racing.

  “I think you’re having a panic attack,” Warren said, brushing damp hair from her temple. “My poor Justine. Where’s Seth?”

  “H-home.” She couldn’t, wouldn’t tell him anything more.

  “Should I phone him?”

  “No! I—I’m fine now,” she said shakily.

  Warren slipped his arm around her and held her head against his shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he whispered soothingly. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Two

  Clutching her textbooks, Allison Cox rushed from her first-period American History to her French class. She slid into her desk and ignored the whispers that ceased abruptly as soon as she entered the room.

  No one needed to tell her the topic of conversation. She knew. Everyone was whispering about Anson. Her friends assumed he was the one who’d burned down The Lighthouse. He wasn’t! She refused to believe he was in any way responsible for the fire. Anson wouldn’t do anything so underhanded to the Gundersons. Not only had they been good to him, he wasn’t that kind of person. He wasn’t cruel or vindictive. Allison didn’t care what anyone thought or said—she wouldn’t lose faith in Anson or the love they shared.

  Turning, she glared over her shoulder at Kaci and Emily. According to her so-called friends, she was walking hand in hand with denial. Fine, they could think whatever they wanted; it had nothing to do with her. They could condemn Anson, but she wouldn’t.

  The class bell rang, and she slowly turned around, ignoring the flow of gossip. Yes, Anson had disappeared right after the fire. Yes, he’d burned down the shed in the park. But she just couldn’t accept that he’d had anything to do with what had happened at The Lighthouse.

  She’d convinced herself that Anson would return to Cedar Cove soon. With all her heart, she believed he’d be back by graduation. She clung to that hope, focused on the date—June fourth—and refused to doubt him.

  The afternoon dragged by. Every day had since she’d seen him the night of the fire. After her last class she couldn’t get away fast enough. She hurried off the school grounds to her part-time job at her dad’s accounting firm. As she walked to the building owned by her father and his partners, she reviewed the facts as she remembered them. She did this often; she went over and over every detail she could recall. Logically, she understood why someone who didn’t know Anson might conclude that he was an arsonist. Okay, so he’d made that one mistake last fall, with the park shed. But he’d owned up to it, taken his punishment and moved on.

  It’d been a week since she’d seen him—the longest week of her life. She remembered how he’d come to her that night. She’d been asleep and he’d tapped against her bedroom window, waking her. It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared in the middle of the night, only now he wouldn’t come inside. He’d explained that the only reason he was there was to tell her goodbye.

  She’d argued with him, but he’d been adamant, insisting he had to leave. So many questions remained unanswered, including the issue of the missing money. Anson swore he knew nothing about that and she believed him. Mr. Gunderson was wrong to blame Anson for a crime he didn’t commit.

  Worse, according to the terms of his plea agreement, the agreement Anson had made with the court after the first arson, he’d pledged to stay in school and make restitution.

  But Anson hadn’t been in school the week before the fire, and Allison had been worried sick, wondering where he was and what he was doing. No one seemed to have any idea, and no one seemed to care, either. Not even his mother.

  Anson had said he was leaving and wouldn’t tell her where he was going or when he’d be back. He’d kissed her goodbye and although she’d pleaded with him to stay, to talk things out, he’d disappeared into the night.

  The next morning, on one of the worst days of her life, Allison’s mother, Rosie, woke her and said Sheriff Troy Davis needed to ask her a few questions. That was when she’d learned about The Lighthouse. As best she could, Allison answered the sheriff’s questions—except she didn’t tell him everything.

  She couldn’t.

  Not even her parents knew the full truth.

  She dared
not tell her dad for fear he’d lose his trust in Anson—and in her.

  Allison was grateful for this job at her father’s office. Even though it was only part-time, it distracted her from her troubles for at least a few hours a day.

  Her father had tried to help Anson. Allison appreciated the way he’d stepped in and stood at Anson’s side after that fire in the park. Her father had been the only one, too. Anson’s own mother had turned her back on him; Cherry Butler had as much as said that her son deserved whatever he got. Nor did she seem terribly concerned that Anson had now disappeared. According to Cherry, he’d come back when he was ready, and until then, she wasn’t wasting any time worrying about him. Allison was horrified by his mother’s attitude.

  If Allison had run away, she knew her parents would never stop looking for her. And they wouldn’t ever give up on her, like Anson’s mother had on him.

  But then, that was what Anson had said the night he left—that Allison was lucky. She had parents who loved her and cared about her. Anson claimed no one gave a damn about him. He was wrong. Allison cared. Her parents, too, were concerned about him, although of course their primary goal was to protect Allison.

  Some kids were born lucky, Anson had told her, and she was one of them. He wasn’t. He insisted that he had to make his own luck.

  As she opened the front door of Smith, Cox and Jefferson, Allison noticed that the reception area was full of clients who’d waited until the last minute to file their taxes. With only four days to go until April fifteenth, she sensed the uneasiness in the room. It was like this every year.

  Mary Lou, the receptionist, returned Allison’s smile. “There’s someone to see you in the kitchen,” she said.

  For a fleeting moment Allison thought it might be Anson. It couldn’t be, though. The minute he showed up, the sheriff’s office would become involved. Her father would be duty-bound to call them. Because Sheriff Davis suspected Anson would try to contact her at some point, her parents had discussed the possibility and the action they’d have to take. The matter was out of her hands and her father’s, too. Allison had no choice but to accept that.