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?"
Another shrug.
"Speaking of food," she said, brightening. "I got the most fabulous recipe for broccoli lasagna at the wake. I just love it when I find a good recipe. Last month we buried Marion Parsons, and a lady from her church brought the most incredible noodle salad made with - and this is the kicker - whipped cream. Spaghetti noodles with a marshmallow and cream dressing. It was out of this world." It suddenly occurred to her that Tom might not be interested in hearing about the recipe exchange that went on at wakes.
"I'm glad to hear you like it here in Cedar Cove."
He nodded again.
"I think I'll make up a batch of that broccoli lasagna and take half of it over to my daughter. She lives alone now, and I just don't think she eats enough vegetables. It doesn't matter that she's fifty-two, she's still my little girl and I worry about her."
Tom smiled faintly.
"Would you like me to bring you a piece, too?"
Grinning, Tom shook his head.
"You don't like broccoli, is that it? You and George Bush. Not George W.