Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  Another smile appeared on the receptionist’s face. “You’ll just have to check it out for yourself.”

  Allison was puzzled, since it wasn’t like Mary Lou to be so mysterious.

  The kitchen, located behind the office, wasn’t a real kitchen—more of a lunchroom, with a microwave and a small refrigerator, plus a table and four chairs. Most days, Allison stuck her schoolbooks and purse in a cupboard there. As she walked into the room, she saw a baby carrier—complete with baby—resting on the table.

  “Cecilia!” she cried, delighted beyond words. Her father’s assistant had been a good friend to Allison, a better friend than either of her parents would ever know.

  Three years earlier, Zach and Rosie Cox had divorced. It had been a terrible time for their family, especially Allison. She’d rebelled, hanging out with the wrong crowd. Her grades had slipped drastically and she’d stopped caring about much of anything.

  When her father offered her a part-time job, she wasn’t fooled. She’d been well aware that the only reason he was willing to hire her was to keep an eye on her after school. She’d taken the job, but she’d gone into it with a bad attitude.

  Then she discovered she wouldn’t be working for her dad. He’d assigned her to assist Cecilia Randall, and the young navy wife had helped Allison understand her own behavior—what she was doing and why. Cecilia’s parents had divorced when she was ten and she understood the pain Allison was feeling. Cecilia had guided her out of the self-destructive rut into which she’d stumbled.

  As soon as Cecilia saw Allison now, she opened her arms wide for a hug. “I decided Aaron could do with a day out in the sunshine,” her friend said, wrapping her arms around Allison and pulling her close. The baby was only three weeks old, so Cecilia hadn’t been out of the office long. It felt like an eternity, though, because so much had happened.

  Clasping Allison’s shoulders, Cecilia leaned back and studied her. “You look…”

  “Dreadful,” Allison muttered. With everyone else, including her parents, she could pretend, but not with Cecilia. She wasn’t sleeping nights, and she’d grown so weary of carrying this burden of worry and fear.

  “Anson,” Cecilia whispered.

  Allison nodded.

  The baby began to cry, demanding attention. He was loosely covered with the blanket Allison had knit. At first glance she thought Aaron resembled Cecilia’s husband, Ian, but as she studied the baby, Allison saw plenty of his mother in him, too.

  “Oh, Cecilia, he’s adorable,” she whispered, giving Aaron her finger to hold. The infant immediately clutched it with one tiny hand, and she was surprised by the strength of his grip.

  “He’s already spoiled,” Cecilia said, smiling fondly down on her son. “It’s bad enough that I’m at his beck and call, but you should see Ian. You’d think the sun rose and set on this baby.”

  Because Cecilia and Ian’s first baby had died shortly after her birth, Allison knew how precious this child was to her friend. Aaron started to fuss again, more loudly this time. Cecilia lifted him out of the carrier and sat down at the table. “I think I’d better nurse him for a few minutes,” she said, draping the blanket over her shoulder while she unfastened her blouse and expertly arranged her son.

  “Sit,” she ordered Allison, gesturing with her head at the chair beside her.

  Allison willingly complied. “I’ve wanted to talk to you so badly,” she said. Thankfully, no one had come in search of her. Busy though the staff was, they seemed to know that Allison needed this time with Cecilia, just the two of them.

  “You can call me whenever you need to,” Cecilia assured her. “I worried about you when I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “I know,” Cecilia said as she nursed her infant son. Her gaze was focused on Aaron. With her free hand, she stroked the wisps of hair at his temple.

  “Do you remember that when we first met, I was going out with Ryan Wilson?”

  “The kid with the paper-clip earring?” Cecilia asked, grinning down at her son as if to suggest she dreaded the day he’d become a teenager. “I believe your father might’ve have mentioned him.”

  Allison felt embarrassed now to recall how foolish she’d been. Ryan was trouble, and getting involved with him had been a blatant attempt to pay her parents back for their selfishness—what she saw now as their temporary insanity. Soon after that, her parents had reconciled, and before the summer was out they’d remarried.

  “Anson isn’t anything like Ryan.” She shook her head. “People might think he is, but Anson’s a much better person. He’s smart and loyal and kind. Ryan isn’t any of those things. He isn’t even in school anymore. I have no idea where he is.” But she had no idea where Anson was, either….

  “I know that,” Cecilia said calmly, “and the reason I do is your father. He would never have gone out of his way to help if he thought Anson would hurt you.”

  “He has hurt me,” Allison protested, clenching her fists. “I don’t understand why he ran away.” She wondered if Anson considered what a terrible position he’d put her in. She realized that he didn’t have the luxury of thinking about anyone but himself. He had to escape, had to run. However, he’d left Allison to face his detractors, alone, and she was afraid.

  “Sometimes people don’t know how to deal with pain,” Cecilia said, her gaze still on her baby. “The only way they can react is by running.”

  “That only makes things worse,” Allison said.

  “You’re wise to recognize that,” Cecilia told her. “But unfortunately, Anson hasn’t figured it out. My guess is he’s hurt and confused, and taking off was kind of a knee-jerk reaction to pain.”

  “Where would he go?” As far as she knew, Anson didn’t have any family. His mother was a sorry excuse for a parent, and he’d never known his father. Not once had Anson mentioned grandparents or uncles or aunts. She’d racked her brain, trying to work out where he could possibly find a hiding place. She hoped he was safe and had enough to eat.

  “Mom and Dad said the minute he contacts me I need to call Sheriff Davis.”

  “And they’re right.”

  Allison agreed, although she didn’t like it. “Anson is what the sheriff called a person of interest.” She was interested, too, darn it. She had questions of her own.

  As soon as Aaron was finished, Cecilia buttoned her blouse and placed the baby over her shoulder, rubbing his back. “Everything’s going to work out, Allison. If Anson is innocent—”

  “He is,” she said vehemently.

  Cecilia raised her head abruptly, staring at Allison. Her dark eyes seemed to burn straight through her. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  Allison swallowed convulsively.

  “I can see from the look in your eyes.” Cecilia paused, waiting. “Allison? Have you heard from him?”

  “No.”

  “Allison?” she asked again, her voice calm. “You’d better tell me.”

  “I…I’m not sure….”

  “Why are you afraid?”

  Lowering her head, Allison bit her lip. “No one else knows,” she murmured. Last week, when the sheriff had come to speak to her, she’d answered all his questions—to the letter. But he hadn’t asked about this particular thing, and Allison hadn’t volunteered the information.

  “You can trust me,” Cecilia added. “You know I want only the best for you.”

  Allison nodded. “You won’t tell anyone?” She tried to keep the pleading out of her voice.

  “If you ask me not to say anything, I won’t.”

  “Not to anyone,” she insisted.

  “I promise.”

  “Okay.” Allison took a deep breath. “If I tell you…you might think—you might believe Anson set the fire.”

  “You’re not withholding evidence, are you?” Cecilia asked urgently. “Because that would change everything.”

  “No! I couldn??
?t do that.”

  Cecilia sighed with relief. “Good, because that would make you an accessory.”

  Sheriff Davis and her parents had already explained this. “I answered all his questions truthfully,” she said.

  Cecilia frowned. “This was a sin of omission, then?”

  Allison slowly released her breath. “That night…when Anson knocked on my bedroom window.”

  She glanced up and Cecilia nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “We talked, and…and then he came into my room.” Her mother had been really upset when Allison admitted that; she could only imagine what Rosie would say if she knew the rest.

  “Yes?”

  Allison hesitated again. “He…he was in my room for a few minutes and then he left and when he did—” She nearly choked on her words.

  Cecilia leaned closer.

  Allison could hardly make herself say it. “I…I could smell smoke.” Her throat was painfully dry. “Not at first, I didn’t, because all I could concentrate on was not letting him leave. I noticed a smell but I didn’t think about it. Later I did, and when I realized what it was, I cried myself to sleep.”

  “Anson smelled of smoke?” Cecilia whispered the question.

  “Like that other time,” Allison said shakily. “As if…as if he’d been standing close to a bonfire.”

  Cecilia’s shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes.

  It was just as Allison had feared. Now even Cecilia believed Anson had burned down The Lighthouse.

  Three

  Arching her back, Maryellen Bowman shifted positions on the sofa, her temporary bed. The family living room had become her prison as the pregnancy moved into its final trimester. Jon was gone for the afternoon with Katie, their three-year-old daughter, so the house was quiet, peaceful. Maryellen knew she should try to rest. The problem was, she couldn’t.

  Worries assailed her from all sides. She worried about her unborn baby and this difficult pregnancy. She worried about the pressures her husband was under as he struggled to support their family now that The Lighthouse, where he’d once worked as chef, was gone. She worried about his photographic career, her marriage and all the mistakes she’d made. The worst one had come from the best intentions. Maryellen had tried so hard to heal the rift between Jon and his parents, and it had nearly destroyed her relationship with her husband.

  She found it impossible to rest, and yet that was what the doctor had ordered—bed rest for the remainder of this pregnancy. She was forbidden to climb stairs or exert herself in any way.

  Yet how could she lie around when so much needed to be done? Leaning against the sofa, she closed her eyes and fought back depression. It’d never been like this when she carried Katie. That pregnancy had been normal in every respect.

  Then she’d miscarried their second child. The emotional costs of this third pregnancy had yet to be calculated. Still, they both desperately wanted their child. All Maryellen could do was follow her doctor’s instructions, try not to worry and pray that the baby would be born healthy and whole.

  Because she was bedridden, everyone had pitched in. Her mother, especially, helped as much as she could, coming by twice a week with dinner and looking after Katie as often as her own busy life would allow. This gave both Jon and Maryellen a much-needed break. She hated to intrude on her mother, since Grace and Cliff were newly married and just now setting up house together. Grace had her own adjustments to make without taking on Maryellen’s problems.

  The phone rang and Maryellen grabbed it, eager for any distraction.

  “Hello,” she said, hoping her voice disguised the self-pity she’d fallen into.

  “It’s Ellen Bowman. Is everything all right?”

  Her mother-in-law’s sympathy nearly overwhelmed her, bringing her close to tears. Maryellen felt dreadful, about as low as she’d been in her entire life, other than during her brief first marriage. “I’m okay,” she managed to tell her.

  “And Jon?” Ellen asked hesitantly.

  “He’s…” Maryellen was willing to stretch the truth about her own state of mind and health, but she couldn’t lie about her husband’s. “Not well, Ellen. He’s not doing well at all.”

  Her mother-in-law grew quiet. “Joseph and I thought that might be the case. I know Jon’s angry. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with either of us. His attitude’s killing his father. But I know you’ve tried to talk to him, and we both appreciate your efforts more than we can say.”

  Maryellen had paid a high price for interfering between Jon and his parents and she dared not do it again. She and Jon had actually separated for a time, just before the miscarriage, because of her attempts to effect a reconciliation. Afterward, they’d sidestepped the whole issue. But earlier in the month, soon after she’d begun her regimen of bed rest, Jon had conceded that they didn’t have any choice other than to ask his family for help.

  Yet he hadn’t made the phone call, hadn’t contacted them in any way, at least not that Maryellen knew about. Instead, they struggled from day to day until she feared their lives were about to implode. Neither Jon nor Maryellen could continue living with this constant, unrelenting stress.

  “Jon was going to phone you,” Maryellen said. “He told me.”

  “He was?” Hope elevated Ellen’s voice.

  “He hasn’t, because, well, because he’s afraid, I think, and proud. Too proud.”

  Ellen laughed softly. “He’s like his father in that regard.”

  Maryellen smiled and tried to relax. This nervous tension was bad for the baby, bad for her, bad all around. At her last appointment, Dr. DeGroot had emphasized the importance of staying calm. When he’d said she should try to keep her life stress-free, she’d nearly laughed out loud.

  “Joseph and I ordered the Cedar Cove Chronicle mailed to us here in Oregon,” Ellen said, “and we read about the fire at The Lighthouse. We know Jon went back to work there.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible news.” Without his job as chef, Jon was left with only his photography earnings to support the family. His work was displayed in a Seattle gallery and sold well, but the money he made wasn’t nearly enough to cover their living expenses, particularly now that Maryellen no longer had medical insurance.

  “Jon’s not working anywhere else, then?”

  “His photographs are selling nicely,” Maryellen felt obliged to tell her. “He’s so talented.” It was through his art that Maryellen had first come to know Jon Bowman. He’d brought his photographs for display at the Harbor Street Gallery, where she was employed as manager. They were among the most popular in the gallery.

  Unlike some of the other artists, Jon preferred to keep a low profile. It wasn’t until after Katie was born that she’d learned this man she loved had spent time in prison. In order to save their younger son, his parents had lied and Jon had been sentenced for a crime he’d never committed.

  “Joseph and I want to help,” Ellen insisted. “What can we do?”

  “I’m not sure…” She didn’t feel comfortable stating the obvious—that she needed someone here, in the house, looking after Katie, preparing meals, cleaning.

  “There’s something wrong,” Ellen said sharply. “What is it?”

  “I’m—I’m having problems with the pregnancy,” she admitted. “I’m on complete bed rest.” The baby gave her a hard kick as if to remind her.

  “What about Katie? You can’t possibly be taking care of her if you’re confined to bed.”

  “I’m not. I can’t. She’s with her father,” Maryellen said. Jon was doing his best to sell his work and take care of their child, run the household, and everything else.

  “But how can he do that?” Ellen asked, clearly concerned.

  “He can’t.” Maryellen was unwilling to explain further.

  “We’re coming,” Ellen announced. “You both need us.”

  Maryellen sighed, feeling a surge of relief and simultaneous anxiety about Jon’s reaction. “I can??
?t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t,” Ellen said. “Our son will just have to swallow his silly pride. His family’s at stake here. As far as I’m concerned, this is God’s way of bringing us all back together. Jon can’t very well ignore us now. He’s our son, and Katie and this new baby are our grandchildren.” Ellen sounded like a force to be reckoned with.

  “Let me talk to him first,” Maryellen urged.

  “You do that if you want, but it doesn’t make the least bit of difference what he says. Joseph and I are coming to Cedar Cove, and that’s that. Leave everything to me, Maryellen,” she insisted in a determined voice. “I’ll be in touch.”

  They ended the conversation and afterward Maryellen did feel better. She didn’t know what she’d say to Jon. Maybe she wouldn’t broach the subject, after all. Maybe she would leave everything to Ellen and Joseph. She was so weary of fighting him on this. He’d relented once and agreed to ask his family for help and then done nothing. She couldn’t face that battle again.

  Just as she was beginning to think it was time for Jon and Katie to return home, she heard a car pull into the yard. Trying to look rested and relaxed, she attempted a smile, waiting for her husband and daughter to walk into the house.

  Instead the doorbell rang.

  Visitors? In the middle of the day?

  Before Maryellen could move, the door opened and Rachel Pendergast and Teri Miller entered, letting in warm spring air and sunshine and laughter. They worked at Get Nailed, the salon where Maryellen had her hair and nails done. Or used to…

  “Rachel? Teri?” Maryellen couldn’t have been more surprised—and delighted. “What are you doing here?”

  “We are on a mission of mercy,” Rachel declared. She set a white take-out bag on the coffee table in front of Maryellen, then reached for her hand. Shaking her head, Rachel gave a disparaging sigh. “Just look at those nails,” she muttered.