Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie Macomber
Charlotte had picked up—chocolate-chip pecan pie—was the best. She’d got it at the funeral for her next-door neighbor’s elderly father. There’d been a good turnout, but that wasn’t surprising since Herbert had lived in Cedar Cove for eighty-one years. The pie would make a perfect Easter dinner dessert. She’d bake her usual coconut cake, too. Her family would demand that, although she was certain Olivia and Justine didn’t really understand how much work went into that darn cake.
Charlotte believed in doing things the old-fashioned way. She wouldn’t use a cake mix if her life depended on it. Oh no, she baked from scratch, just like her mother had. And her grandmother. The coconut cake took three days and started with fresh coconut, but the result was worth all the effort. Tradition had a strong hold on her.
Thursday morning, as was her habit, she went to the Senior Center and visited with her knitting group. Her dearest friends sat around the large table, each working on her current project. Some knitted for their grandchildren, and others worked on projects for foster children or for charity. There was nothing more comforting than a sweater or blanket created with loving hands and a loving heart.
“Hello, Charlotte,” Evelyn greeted her. She was almost finished with the afghan she was knitting for her daughter. The pattern was a lovely one and it had already been completed by several others in the group.
“Have you seen Jack Griffin lately?” Evelyn asked. Despite reassurances, she continued to have her suspicions regarding the Chronicle’s editor. Evelyn was like that—especially after she’d learned how to log on to the Internet. She had doubts about practically everyone, and for the most part Charlotte chose to overlook her friend’s lack of faith in others.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Charlotte said conversationally. She’d been putting in a lot of extra hours on the Seniors’ Page and was pleased with her efforts. Jack had liked her ideas and suggested she write a weekly column for the paper. At first Charlotte had balked. She wasn’t much of a writer, and she hadn’t thought she’d find enough news or ideas to fill a weekly column. But Jack had such confidence in her she’d decided to give it a try. Her first column had appeared on the Seniors’ Page the week before and had included a recipe, some local history and a few recommendations, gleaned from Olivia’s friend Grace, of new books available from the library.
“I tried your recipe,” Helen told her, needles flying. She was working on a sweater for her fifteen-year-old granddaughter.
“The cheddar biscuits?” When it came to recipes, Charlotte was already three months ahead. Never lacking for new ones, she’d found it difficult to decide which to print first. “Oh, ladies, just wait until I tell you about the chocolate-chip pecan pie I tasted this week.”
“Herbert Monk’s funeral?” Bess asked.
“I heard about it,” Helen said. “Word spreads when something really good is served at one of the wakes.”
“All I ask is that someone make that broccoli lasagna for my wake,” Evelyn tossed in. “Then everyone will know I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Charlotte chuckled.
“How’s your friend Tom?” Helen put in.
Charlotte was beginning to feel guilty about Tom Harding. “I haven’t seen him all week,” she confessed. She’d been so busy working on the Seniors’ Page, she hadn’t gone to the convalescent center.
On her last visit, Tom had been rather subdued. She’d attempted to lighten his spirits, without success, although he sat and listened and occasionally responded. As always, Charlotte had chatted about all kinds of things. She told him she had his key in a safe place and he seemed reassured by that.
“I don’t think he’s doing well,” Laura said.
Laura was a woman in the know. With seven children living in the community, she knew more about what was happening in Cedar Cove than the mayor.
“Really?” Charlotte hoped it wasn’t serious. If so, she supposed Janet Lester would have called her.
“You might want to check on him yourself.”
“I intend to do that this very afternoon,” Charlotte said, a bit annoyed that Laura had been the one to tell her about her friend. Really, though, Charlotte had no one to blame but herself. It was just that she’d been so busy lately.
She stayed for an hour, visiting and knitting, then packed up her needles and headed for the convalescent center. Not bothering to stop at Janet’s office, she went straight to Tom’s room.
She’d learned from Janet that Tom had originally chosen Cedar Cove. He’d never indicated why. The storage unit remained a mystery. He hadn’t explained that, and when she’d attempted to ask him about it, he’d pretended to fall asleep.
She’d brought her latest column to read aloud, plus a slice of the pecan pie she’d saved just for him. This would, she hoped, suffice as an apology for her lack of attention these last two weeks.
To her surprise, Charlotte found Tom’s room empty. There’d been talk about getting him into physical therapy and she suspected that was where he’d been taken.
Anxious about Tom’s condition, she hurried toward Janet’s office. Charlotte knocked politely at the half-open door.
“Charlotte.” Janet immediately stood, averting her gaze. “I should’ve phoned you earlier.”
“You certainly should have.” It was an embarrassment to find out from one of her friends that Tom wasn’t doing well.
“I do apologize.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“We believe it was another stroke.”
Charlotte gasped. Poor, poor Tom. Another stroke would certainly compound his health problems.
“How bad was it?”
“Bad?” Janet asked, sitting back down. “You don’t know,” she said slowly.
Charlotte shook her head, but she was beginning to get the feeling that this was worse than she’d imagined. Pulling out a chair, she sat down, too.
“Tom died late last night.”
“Died?” It shouldn’t come as a shock, considering his age and his poor health. Nevertheless, Charlotte felt she’d lost a good friend. “I…didn’t realize. I didn’t…” At this stage of her life, death was a common occurrence. She’d buried her husband years earlier, and every day, it seemed, there was an obituary for someone she knew. Still, the death of this man hit her hard.
“Are you all right?” Janet asked.
“Of course,” Charlotte insisted, but she wasn’t. Her hands trembled and she felt chilled.
“I know he appreciated your friendship.”
Charlotte nodded, scrabbling inside her purse for a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
“Your visits meant the world to him.”
“It’s been two weeks—I should’ve been here.”
“Charlotte, you couldn’t possibly have known,” Janet said gently.
Charlotte knew that was true, but she couldn’t squelch the feeling that she’d let Tom Harding down. Before her work with the newspaper, she’d stopped by at least once a week. Tom had been the first person to hear her initial column. She’d read it to him herself and he’d smiled and approved of her efforts. Jack Griffin, on the other hand, had taken his sharp red pencil to her work and cut away at it until she’d barely recognized it as her own. Granted, she knew she wasn’t an experienced writer, certainly not a professional, but it had wounded her pride. When she’d complained to Tom, he’d given her a sympathetic look, which was just what she’d needed.
That was the last time she’d seen him.
Janet reached for her phone