"No you're not. This couldn't have worked out better for you. Well, I have news for you. You'll get nothing from me. Not one single penny. You stole that money and that was the day I wrote you out of my will. I refuse to leave anything to a thieving stepson."

"That's perfectly fine by me," Josh a.s.sured him.

He left then, keeping the bedroom door ajar.

"Get back here. I'm not finished telling you what I think," Richard called, his voice pitifully weak.

Josh pretended not to hear. He started toward the kitchen when Mich.e.l.le stopped him. "You okay?"

He nodded.

"He doesn't mean the things he says," Mich.e.l.le a.s.sured him.

"I know." And Josh did. "Richard's lost everything that ever mattered to him."

"And he's turned his back on what's left because he's afraid of losing that, too."

Josh would like to believe Richard actually cared about him, but past evidence proved otherwise.

Mich.e.l.le pressed a comforting hand on his arm, and Josh reached for her and brought her close. She was warm and soft and after confronting his stepfather's grief and bitterness, he needed her gentleness and her beauty to wipe away the old man's hate.

She raised her lips to his, and unable to resist, Josh kissed her again and again, accepting the sweetness and rea.s.surance she offered.

Chapter 20.

I took up knitting after I heard the news about Paul. A friend, Judith Knight, told me it would help me with the grieving process. At the time I'd been so desperate I was willing to try anything that would soften the horrendous pain. If learning to knit would do this, then I'd stand on my head in the middle of the street in order to learn. On the way home from work late one afternoon, I stopped at a downtown Seattle yarn store and signed up for a beginner's cla.s.s.

Hurting as I was, my frustration level was about ten times higher than normal. I wanted to quit, to throw in the towel-if you'll pardon the cliche-any number of times, but with Judith and my instructor's encouragement I stuck with it. I'm grateful I did. Although I'd been knitting for less than a year, I was fearless in choosing my projects, willing to tackle just about any pattern. I'd knit a pair of socks, a hat, taken a Fair Isle cla.s.s, and I had recently bought yarn for a lace shawl.

What I found amazing was that knitting did help me. I'd been so busy with the move, transitioning from my Seattle home to Cedar Cove, that I hadn't picked up my needles in weeks. That was unlike me; I'd become addicted to knitting. Addicted to the small comfort I felt when I centered myself and concentrated on creating something beautiful.

The repet.i.tive action of weaving the yarn around a needle, one st.i.tch at a time, brought me solace in a way that's difficult to explain. When I sat down to knit I discovered that I could divert my thoughts from the emptiness I experienced after I lost Paul. And yet ... and yet many a night tears blurred my eyes, and all I could think about was Paul. Nevertheless, I discovered that comfort came with each st.i.tch.

My thoughts were burdened following the events of that Friday afternoon. I recognized that knitting would help my mind make sense of what had transpired and give me a chance to catch my breath. I'd been busy from the moment I set my feet on the carpet that morning.

I was grateful to have met Peggy Beldon and Corrie McAfee. Although I didn't know either woman well, I had the feeling that given time both would become friends.

Sitting in front of the fireplace, I reached for my current knitting project. I almost always had three going at the same time. The socks were easy projects to take with me, which was good because I found I fidgeted if my hands were idle for long.

I have practically no patience. I didn't used to be like this, but since I lost Paul I haven't been able to sit still for long periods. It's the waiting that disturbs me; I can't stand stillness, the silence of inactivity. Knitting helps me deal with this completely unreasonable aspect of my personality. If the dentist is running late or if I'm obliged to sit for several minutes, having a small knitting project with me helps tremendously.

The delicate lace shawl pattern demanded total concentration. I'd chosen a lovely light blue alpaca. At times it felt like I was knitting with a spider's web. To this point it'd turned out beautifully. This evening I would work on the afghan.

I was knitting one in shades of brown and orange and yellow for the foot of one of the guest room beds. This was a much larger, more complicated project. I'd long since memorized the ten row repeat pattern, and I could pick the afghan up at any time and work on it. Ten rows took about an hour, which was perfect. I knew if I sat down I would need at least a sixty-minute time frame.

As I began to knit, my mind returned to the events of that afternoon. Mark Taylor was an enigma. Although I'd seen him three times now, I was still uncertain how I felt about him. He was brash, irreverent, and short-tempered. He couldn't explain why he'd shown up when he did or why he'd taken such a keen and instant dislike to Spenser.

My fingers tugged at the yarn, freeing it from the skein as I continued to work, my thoughts whirling as fast as my needles.

Both my guests were out for the evening and I'd been told not to expect either for dinner. Not having to work in the kitchen had freed me. For my own dinner, I'd toasted a cheese sandwich and called it good. After all the errand running and walking I'd done that afternoon, I should have had more of an appet.i.te, but I didn't.

I thought about my guests and was surprised that I hadn't seen more of them. With Josh it was understandable; he'd briefly mentioned that he was in town because his stepfather was ailing. I hoped everything was going as well as could be expected.

As for Abby, she'd told me she'd come to town for her brother's wedding, but a wedding should be a happy occasion. That didn't explain why she'd been in tears the afternoon she'd arrived.

Both had come back to Cedar Cove, their former home, with burdens. For that matter, I carried more than a few of my own. Each one of us hauled rocks on our backs, some larger than others, I realized. Some people had grown so accustomed to the extra weight that they no longer seemed aware of the baggage. I felt an impulse to help my guests but I wasn't sure if, or how, I could-or if I should even try. Or perhaps they had come to Rose Harbor Inn so they could help me.

The afghan was about half-completed and the weight of it on my lap warmed me. The room was also being heated by the fireplace, and I was so comfortable and drowsy that I found myself shaking sleep off a couple of times. It'd be ridiculous to head to bed this early. The grandfather clock in the foyer said it was barely seven-thirty. Oh dear. For me to be this sleepy, this early, told me the day had been even more taxing than I'd realized.

I finished knitting the row and let my hands rest in my lap as I decided to briefly close my eyes and rest ... just for a few minutes ... only a few. Almost immediately I could feel myself drifting into a half-sleep.

Then it happened for the second time since I'd moved to the inn.

I felt Paul's presence and was wrapped in the memories of the first time we met. It had been at a Seattle Seahawk football game. Paul was in the seat next to me, and the first thing I noticed about him was his smile. It didn't come from his mouth as much as his eyes, which were a compelling shade of blue. Big blue eyes. Big smile.

"You attend all the games?" he asked me as I pa.s.sed him the beer he'd ordered from the attendant.

"I wish," I said, "but unfortunately no. I watch them on TV, though."

"Me, too."

Right away we bonded over football. Throughout the game we talked back and forth, cheered and groaned together. The couple with me, the Andersons, were keeping each other company. Without Paul, I would have felt odd man out.

The Seahawks won the game. As we stood to exit the stands, the Andersons were thanking me profusely for bringing them along. I nodded and was about to exit the row myself, when Paul stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Would you like to have a beer with me?" he suggested.

I was tempted, really tempted, but for a split second I hesitated. After a number of painful disappointments, I'd mostly given up on relationships. To be blunt, I wasn't sure I had the energy for this anymore. I'd already learned that Paul was in the military and only in the area for a brief time. I wasn't sure I wanted to get involved in something that was destined to dead-end in quick order.

In retrospect, even knowing that I would eventually lose him and my heart, I remain grateful that I told him yes that afternoon.

We talked for three hours that first night. Three solid hours. Our connection had been strong from the very beginning. We were close to the same age, and neither of us had been married, each for different reasons. Paul had been married, in essence, to the military.

My reasons were completely different. I'd dated plenty of men but I'd never fallen head over heels in love and I didn't want to settle for comfortable.

My parents claimed I was too picky, and I suppose I was. Not until my second date with Paul did I realize what had held me back from those other relationships.

I'd been waiting to meet Paul.

Deep down I'd known that when the time was right, I'd connect with the man I was meant to love for the rest of my life. I'd almost lost faith.

Half-asleep, I remembered Mark's question from earlier in the day when he'd asked me who Paul was. The question had badly shaken me. I don't remember now what I told him or if I even answered. And now Paul was with me.

I sent Mark, he seemed to be telling me.

Spenser is no friend. He was dishonorably discharged before we left for Afghanistan. I should have told you, but I a.s.sumed neither of us would see him again.

Spenser hadn't even been in Afghanistan. It'd all been a lie to dupe me.

And so Paul had sent Mark to protect me? The handyman had said he'd felt compelled to hurry over to the inn. At the time he didn't know why. By his own admission he'd tried to ignore the urge and found he couldn't. He hadn't been happy about traipsing to Rose Harbor Inn ... and it had showed.

I wanted to ask Paul why he'd sent Mark, of all people. There were any number of others who could have served the same purpose. Corrie McAfee, for instance. Married to a private investigator, she could easily have sent Spenser on his merry way.

Just as I sensed Paul's presence, I sensed his departure. He'd only been with me a few seconds. I wanted to cry and beg him to return, but intuitively I realized it was useless. It was enough that he'd been with me.

I knit for another hour, content because Paul had been by for a visit, however briefly. As my fingers worked the ten-row pattern, I wondered why Paul had chosen to come to me now. Why hadn't he come when the grief was at its worst? Why had he waited until I was in Cedar Cove?

Perhaps he had been with me at other times, but I had been too raw, in too much pain, to feel his presence. On second thought, perhaps it was the inn-this special place, this harbor I'd found-that had brought everything together so we could connect.

It was still relatively early when I set my knitting aside. I ran a hot bath and soaked in the water, savoring the lavender-scented bubble bath and my special soap. When I climbed into bed, the sheets felt cool against my skin.

I reached for the novel I was reading, fluffed up the pillows, and read until after ten. Apparently both my guests were out late.

After receiving the news of Paul's death, I'd been unable to sleep. I'd fall asleep easily enough, then bolt awake, sleeping in fits and starts for the rest of the night. After a month of this I was close to a mental and emotional collapse. I got up each morning with burning eyes, feeling sick to my stomach from lack of sleep. Although I hated the thought of it, I resorted to taking over-the-counter sleep medication.

That night, after my dream of Paul, I didn't take a pill. I finally felt I could wean myself off the medication. To my delight I slept better than any night since I'd lost my husband.

I woke the next morning feeling refreshed and eager to tackle the day. For several minutes I lay in bed, pleasantly surprised by how well I'd slept. I felt so very grateful to have had Paul visit me, if only for those few moments.

Because it was still early, I dressed warmly and walked down to the bakery to pick up my order of fresh sweet rolls. They smelled heavenly, still hot from the oven. I'd make sure they were served warm.

By the time I returned, Abby was up and dressed.

She looked up guiltily when I walked in the front door. "Morning," I greeted her cheerfully.

"I hope you don't mind; I helped myself to a cup of coffee."

"Of course. That's why it's here." After I set the box on the kitchen counter, I removed my coat, hung it up in the foyer on the hook, and then joined Abby in the kitchen.

"I apologize that I wasn't awake when you returned last night. How did everything go?" I hoped I wasn't asking unwelcome questions. It was none of my business, but I couldn't help being curious.

"It went just beautifully," Abby said. "So much better than I'd dared to hope."

"You met everyone in the wedding party?"

"I did. My parents arrived without a problem and several of my aunts and uncles are in town, too. It's the biggest family get-together we've had in more years than I can remember. Roger is so happy and Victoria is a perfect complement to him."

"That's great."

Abby remained in the kitchen, pressing her shoulder against the doorjamb with her ankles crossed, apparently in no hurry to return to her room.

I opened the refrigerator and brought out the French toast I'd prepared the day before and was planning to bake that morning. I sprinkled the top with frozen berries and set it on the stovetop while I waited for the oven to preheat. I intended to scramble eggs, too.

When I opened the oven door, I noticed that Abby was still in the kitchen. She stared sightlessly into s.p.a.ce, apparently deep in thought. When the ding told me the oven was fully preheated, I set the dish inside the oven and closed the door.

I debated on whether to ask specific questions of Abby. "Is everything okay?" I asked, keeping my voice low and gentle.

Right away, Abby broke into a smile. "Yes, everything is fine ... better than I expected." She didn't elaborate, though.

"We run from foolish things, don't we?" The question was out before I had a chance to censor it. I couldn't imagine what had made me ask something like that.

But Abby took it seriously and nodded. "We do; we really do." The thoughtful look was back. "My parents are happy. I didn't expect that. I thought ..." she paused and smiled. "They're happy and that makes me happy, too."

I didn't know why her parents' happiness should come as a shock. Considering how quickly my mouth got ahead of my brain, I decided it would be best not to ask.

"It's good to see that those we deeply care about are well, isn't it?" I asked instead.

From Abby's expression I could see that she hadn't processed my question, which was fine. I didn't really need an answer.

"I would have given just about anything to avoid this wedding," she commented softly, almost as if she was unaware that she'd spoken aloud.

"You didn't want to attend your brother's wedding?"

"Oh, no. I was eager to do that. What I didn't want was to return to Cedar Cove."

I waited for her to explain.

"I was so certain it would be a disaster ... It still might be, but I doubt it. My family will back me."

"Good."

"My family," she repeated softly, and again I don't think she realized she'd spoken out loud. Snapping out of it, she looked up and smiled. "I've been so afraid and I shouldn't have been. If I'd faced these demons earlier I would have spared myself a great deal of grief."

"Then you think coming home for the wedding worked out for the best?" I posed the question even though I already knew the answer.

"It did," Abby confirmed. "It really did."

Chapter 21.

The scent of cinnamon wafted up the stairwell and stirred Josh awake. He hadn't gotten back to the B&B until after three that morning. Despite his mood, he'd crawled into bed and instantly fallen asleep.

He could hear noises down below and he recognized the voices of Jo Marie and the other guest. Annie? No, that wasn't it. "A" something. Abby. The other guest's name was Abby.