Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie Macomber
Bart off. That seemed the best way of getting rid of him before Ian did something stupid.
Her husband stepped away from the bar. “Is he bothering you?” he demanded, his words half-slurred.
“Butt out,” Bart snarled, angry at the interruption. He seemed to think he was making progress with Cecilia. He wasn’t, but Ian didn’t know that and apparently neither did he.
Andrew tried to stop him, but Ian shook off his hand and advanced a menacing step. He wasn’t about to back down, even if Bart outweighed him by fifty pounds. “In case you didn’t know it, you’re trying to pick up my wife.”
Bart glanced at Cecilia as if to gauge the truth. She didn’t dare meet his look.
“We’re divorced, remember?” she taunted, reminding her husband that it’d been his idea to pretend they were no longer married.
“The hell we are.”
“You’re the one who said we should just get on with our lives.”
“I…I…” Ian sputtered, searching for a satisfactory reply.
“Why should you care if I date another man?”
“Because until a judge says otherwise, you’re legally my wife!”
“Are you married or not?” Bart muttered.
“Married!” Ian shouted.
“Separated,” Cecilia said.
Bart reached for his jacket. “In that case, let’s go.”
“The hell she will.” Ian started toward Bart, but Andrew stepped between them.
“Anytime, buddy,” Bart growled.
“Right now sounds good to me,” Ian said, raising his clenched fists.
“Get out,” Cecilia cried. “Both of you! I have no intention of going anywhere with either one of you.” She ran toward the back room where her father had conveniently disappeared, supposedly checking inventory.
“What’s happening out there?” Bobby Merrick asked as if he wasn’t aware of the situation he’d left her to deal with on her own. Ian and Bobby had never gotten along, and Bobby avoided any confrontation between them by making himself scarce.
Cecilia shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Everything okay?”
“Ian’s here, looking for a fight. That’s all.”
Her father stared back, frowning. “I don’t want any trouble here. Tell him to take it outside.”
“Yeah.” Cecilia sighed wearily. “I did. And now I’m leaving.”
“Get rid of Ian first.”
“Not to worry, I’m sure he’s left.”
She retrieved her coat and purse, got her share of the tips and walked toward the front door, hoping she wouldn’t stumble upon her husband slugging it out with the loner. To Cecilia’s surprise, Ian hadn’t left, after all. They stared at each other from opposite sides of the room.
Beverly was the only other person in the bar, preparing the night’s cash for deposit; she muttered “good night,” still intent on her task.
“We’re closed,” Cecilia told Ian.
He paid no attention. “Were you actually going to leave with that sleazebag?”
The contempt in his voice rankled. “That’s none of your business.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then turned and stalked out the door.
Cecilia resisted the urge to hurry after him. Ian was in no condition to drive. She hesitated, arguing with herself. He wouldn’t appreciate her concern, and it might give him the wrong impression. Just a few minutes earlier she’d demanded he stay out of her life. The least she could do was follow her own advice and stay out of his.
The door opened and she glanced up expectantly, thinking it might be Ian. Instead, it was his friend. Andrew seemed awkward and unsure. She barely knew the other sailor, who’d recently been transferred to Bremerton.
“Yes?” she asked stiffly.
“I thought you should know Ian’s going to sea. He’s been transferred to the John F. Reynolds.”
That didn’t make sense to her. The John F. Reynolds was an aircraft carrier. Ian was a submariner, a nuclear electronic technician. “He’ll be away six weeks?” she asked numbly, not understanding the transfer.
“More like six months.”
Six months? “Oh.”
“That’s why he came by tonight. He wanted you to know.”
Cecilia wasn’t sure what to say.
“He didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Cecilia swallowed hard. “He didn’t…not really.”
Andrew peered over his shoulder as if he’d heard someone call his name. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to tell you I’m real sorry about your little girl.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed to say. But he was already gone. She waited a few moments and decided her peace of mind was worth more than her pride. She had to be sure Ian wasn’t driving. Hurrying outside, she stood on the sidewalk, searching for her husband’s car. He was nowhere to be seen.
A sense of loss filled her, an emptiness. Ian was going to sea for six months and she hated the thought of it. She didn’t want to feel anything for him, but she did. At any rate, she told herself wryly, he had his wish—with Ian at sea, she couldn’t proceed with the divorce.
Tired and discouraged, Cecilia strolled toward her own ram-shackle car, shoulders hunched against the cold. She could smell the ocean tonight, and a low-lying fog was rolling in from the cove. A car drove slowly past. Looking up, Cecilia saw that it was Ian’s. Thankfully, Andrew was behind the wheel. As she watched, her husband’s gaze connected with hers.
Cecilia was shocked by the longing she saw in him. It was all she could do to keep herself from calling out. She yearned to wish Ian a safe voyage and see him off without this animosity between them.
But it was too late. Much too late.
Charlotte Jefferson wore her finest dress—navy dotted Swiss, with long sleeves and a full skirt—on her next visit to Tom Harding at the Cedar Cove Convalescent Center. She’d worked feverishly knitting the lap robe for him, and it showed excellent workmanship, even if she said so herself.
Tom was sitting in his wheelchair when she breezed into the room. “I told you I’d be back,” she said, smiling warmly, the newspaper tucked under one arm. Her new friend looked well. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes were clear and bright.
Tom nodded, obviously pleased to see her. His right hand pointed shakily to the empty chair.
“Thank you,” she said, sinking gratefully onto the seat. “I don’t usually dress up in my best except on Sundays, but I just came from the funeral of a friend of my husband’s.”
Tom stared at her blankly.
“We were friends with the Iversons for years,” she said. “He was a good man. Died of lung cancer. Used to smoke like a chimney.” She shook her head sadly, then crossed her legs and removed her left shoe. “I was on my feet most of the afternoon,” she explained. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and Lloyd Iverson’s death really shook me.” Sighing, she looked over at him. “How was your week?”
Tom shrugged.
“Are they treating you well?”
He nodded as if to say he had no complaints.
“How about the food?”