Ultimate Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie Macomber
two eggs and toast, plus a separate bill. Zach ordered the same thing and also asked for his own check. Once it was understood that they’d each pay for breakfast, Zach turned his attention back to Rosie.
“What do you know about Ryan?”
“Not much. His parents are divorced and he lives with his mother.”
“She lets him pierce various body parts,” Zach said, frowning.
Rosie wasn’t impressed with that, either. “Apparently so.” There were six safety pins clipped through Ryan’s ear, and a small steel ball was attached to the end of his tongue. The thought of this boy kissing their daughter made her queasy.
“He hasn’t been over to the house since I talked to him,” Zach added with some satisfaction.
Rosie wasn’t convinced that was true, but didn’t want to say anything that would threaten their fragile peace.
“I talked to his mother last week.”
That piqued Zach’s interest. “What’s she like?”
From their brief conversation, it seemed Ryan’s mother didn’t exactly see the situation in the same light as Rosie did. “She…was defensive. I told her we preferred that an adult be in the house if Ryan visited. She accused me of being overprotective.”
“Is it any of her business?” Zach demanded.
“No, but I don’t think we’re going to get a lot of cooperation from her.”
“Seems that way.” Zach was frowning.
Rosie was so grateful to talk to him about this. It dawned on her now why she’d been so restless and uneasy—it was largely due to her daughter’s behavior.
“Do you remember last year when I told you about the Harrison girl?” she asked.
Zach shook his head.
“She was in junior high and pregnant with twins.”
The color seemed to rush from Zach’s face. “You don’t think—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“I don’t know, Zach, and we might not know for sure until it’s too late.”
Her words had the shock value she’d intended. Allison’s anger and resentment grew more acute every week. This boy in her life was trouble, and their daughter’s future could well be at stake.
“I’m worried about Allison,” Zach said, his voice low.
“I am, too,” Rosie agreed. “She didn’t take the divorce well, and she’s lashing out at both of us. I’m not sure what she’d do…. I hardly know her anymore.”
Nine
Olivia was happy. She woke early on Sunday morning—her birthday—and luxuriated in bed while the last dregs of sleep left her. It occurred to her that she should be adding up the years, which now totaled a rather shocking number. Better yet, she should review her accomplishments and align them with her goals, which was what she did every birthday.
Yes, she should probably be doing that. Birthdays were a good opportunity to assess one’s life. Instead, she was grinning to herself and mulling over the way she’d “run into” Jack at the theater, all the silly subterfuge they’d indulged in. But they’d had such a good time together. Jack possessed the ability to make her laugh, and she valued that, more than almost anything. All pretense between them was gone now. It was clear how genuinely glad he’d been to see her again, and the truth was, she felt equally delighted.
They’d spent all afternoon together and all evening. After the movie, they’d had dinner at the Taco Shack and lingered for hours over coffee, talking about every subject except one. Stan. He didn’t ask, and Olivia certainly didn’t bring her ex-husband’s name into the conversation. It was as though neither of them wanted to say or do anything that might set back their relationship.
They parted reluctantly and talked for another thirty minutes in the parking lot.
Even though Jack had bought her a birthday gift the year before, she was sure he’d forgotten the date. She could’ve mentioned it, probably should have. Another should…but she had no intention of informing him that she was about to turn a whole year older.
Charlotte insisted on cooking her breakfast, so after church services, Olivia went to her mother’s place.
“Come in, come in,” Charlotte called from the kitchen when Olivia let herself in the house. Harry, her guard cat, sprawled in the front window, basking in the autumn sunshine. The scent of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven made Olivia’s mouth water.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” her mother said warmly, coming out of the kitchen wearing an apron. She enveloped Olivia in a tight hug. “You look wonderful.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Olivia wasn’t ready to admit that Jack was responsible for the sparkle in her eyes. Not when her mother was guaranteed to give her a hearty “I told you so” in return.
“Everything’s ready,” Charlotte said. The dining table was set with her mother’s best china, the orange juice poured in tall crystal goblets. Humming something Olivia didn’t recognize, Charlotte bustled back to the kitchen. Come to think of it, her mother seemed to be in a mighty cheerful mood herself.
“Can I help?” Olivia asked, following her.
“All I need to do is bring everything to the table,” Charlotte assured her. “I baked your favorite breakfast casserole and cinnamon rolls.”
Olivia swallowed a smile. The breakfast casserole was her mother’s favorite, but far be it from Charlotte to cook it just for herself, so she always took advantage of a convenient excuse—like her daughter’s birthday.
“This looks so good.” Olivia pulled out the chair across from her and surveyed the feast.
They bowed their heads and her mother said grace before she served the casserole, made up of bacon, onions, hash browns and lots of cheese. “Shall I tell you about the day you were born?” Charlotte asked.
“Mother, I’m fifty-five years old! I’ve heard the story for fifty-four of those years. I know everything there is to know about that day.” Every minute detail had been conveyed countless times. “I know how Daddy had to rush you to the hospital at nine in the evening and how you were in labor for twenty hours. I know there was a big storm the very next day and nobody could visit until the day after. And I know I screamed for three solid hours—or so you say.”
“It’s the truth.” Charlotte nodded stubbornly.
Olivia laughed. As silly as it was, she found herself passing on this tradition of her mother’s to her own children. On the morning of her son James’s last birthday, Olivia had phoned long distance to describe the day he was born. James had listened politely and then informed her she’d told him the same thing, almost word for word, the year before.
Through breakfast, they chatted about family and friends and then her mother casually said, “I invited Ben Rhodes to join us, but he had other plans this morning.”
Ben, Olivia mused. She vaguely remembered hearing her mother mention Ben. It might seem peculiar that Charlotte would want to include a stranger in Olivia’s birthday breakfast. But her mother was like that. She collected people the way some women collected china cups or brooches. For instance, Tom Harding, Cliff’s grandfather, a man in his nineties.
She’d befriended him a couple of years back. The old man had been a stroke victim and had lost the ability to speak, but he didn’t appear to have any problem communicating with her mother. It was Charlotte’s gift, Olivia decided, to seek out those who needed her attention most.
“Justine and Seth invited me over for dinner,” she said, purposely turning the subject away from her mother’s latest charity project.
“So I heard.”
“And