"What do you intend to do with it?" I asked. He didn't have retail s.p.a.ce as far as I could see.

He shrugged. "Don't know yet. I'll probably give it away." He sounded less irritated now.

"Give it away?" I repeated. That cradle could be sold for a fortune. Beautifully hand-carved, one of a kind? Nothing about Mark was the least bit usual-I never knew what to expect from him.

I blew on my coffee and then took a tentative sip, fearing it would burn my lips.

"Is there a reason you stopped by?" he demanded. He stepped away and reached for his own coffee.

"Yes."

"Then don't you think you should get on with it? As you might have noticed I'm busy."

Despite his att.i.tude I smiled, and did a poor job of hiding my amus.e.m.e.nt.

"You find something funny?" he demanded.

"You," I told him.

He scratched the side of his head. "I've been called a lot of things over the years, but I have to say funny isn't one of them."

"I felt I owed you an explanation regarding Paul ..."

He raised his hand and stopped me. "It's none of my business. Whoever he is doesn't matter an iota to me, understand?"

I ignored him. "Paul was my husband. He was killed in Afghanistan about nine months ago."

Mark straightened his shoulders and took a step back. "That explains it."

"Explains what?"

He shook his head, apparently unwilling to respond. After a moment he said, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yes, I am, too. Paul Rose was a good man. The world is a better place because of him." I bit my lower lip, hoping to keep the sadness out of my voice. I wasn't sure I succeeded.

His look grew thoughtful. "You named the inn after him and you want to plant a rose garden." It was as though everything made sense to him all at once.

"His helicopter went down in the mountains. The crash site isn't accessible so his body was never recovered."

Mark's look held mine. "That's tough."

"For a long time I tried to believe he might still be alive."

"Is he?"

I shook my head. "As much as I want to believe it's a possibility, I don't think it is. The aerial photographs of the crash site show that it would have been impossible for anyone to have survived."

Mark looked away and set his cup aside. Without another word he returned to working on the cradle.

"I apologize if I made a pest of myself," I said, setting aside my own mug.

"You didn't," he said as he continued with the task at hand.

"Thanks for the coffee," I said on my way out of the shop.

"Don't think anything of it," he grumbled.

I left and started down the hill toward town. The cold felt good against my face. I was grateful for my wool coat and the warmth it offered. The wind blew off the water and the scent of salt lingered in the air. I was half-tempted to walk all the way to the marina and look out over the cove. I resisted when my stomach reminded me it was time for lunch.

Although I'd cooked a hearty breakfast for my two guests I hadn't eaten much of anything myself. I'd heard a lot about the Pot Belly Deli and I decided to stop in there for a bowl of soup.

The place was packed. I waited ten minutes for a table and was seated at a small round one by the window, overlooking Harbor Street.

Two women sat at the table across from me. They were obviously good friends and they chatted back and forth, leaning toward each other and sporadically laughing.

When the waitress came over with a water gla.s.s and a menu, I asked for the soup of the day, and was told it was beef vegetable. I ordered that and a cup of tea. It wasn't until the waitress left that I noticed that one of the women at the table across from me had on a name badge. Grace Harding. This was the very person I'd hoped to meet later that day.

She must have caught me looking in her direction because she paused in the middle of her conversation and glanced my way.

Fl.u.s.tered and a little embarra.s.sed, I said, "I apologize if I was staring."

"No, not at all. Are you the young woman who recently purchased the Frelingers' B and B?"

"Yes, I'm Jo Marie Rose."

"Grace Harding, and this is Olivia Griffin."

"Judge Olivia Griffin?" I asked.

"Yes." The judge was an elegant-looking woman with short, stylish dark hair and dark brown eyes. "I'm pleased to meet you both."

"Welcome to Cedar Cove."

I'd felt such a warm reception from the town already. "Practically everyone I've met so far has said I need to introduce myself to you," I told the two of them.

The waitress came by with my soup, a warm crisp roll, and a pat of b.u.t.ter. The bread smelled as if it'd come straight from the oven and I could feel my resolve weakening. When I looked up I discovered that Judge Griffin was watching me.

"Did you have an unexpected guest yesterday?" she asked.

I started to say that I hadn't and then remembered Spenser. I wasn't sure how to answer. I opened my mouth and then closed it. I couldn't imagine how she would know about him. I didn't think Mark would have said anything, but then again I didn't really know Mark. The more exposure I had to him, the less I knew.

Olivia looked slightly embarra.s.sed. "The reason I ask is that my daughter Justine and I were in town and a man in a car stopped and asked for directions to Rose Harbor Inn. I told him I didn't think there was a B and B in town with that name."

"Yes, I decided to change the name."

"Unfortunately I didn't know you had, and he got rather upset."

"With you?"

"With the world in general." She frowned. "I ran into Sheriff Davis a little later and mentioned the incident. Did the man find you?"

I nodded. "Unfortunately he did."

"Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes." I was half-tempted to mention Mark's unexpected visit but held back.

Olivia stood and reached for her tab. "I apologize if he was a friend of yours."

"He wasn't ... isn't. I doubt he'll be coming back anytime soon."

"Good." Grace frowned and looked concerned, too. "Both Olivia and I have been single women on our own so we know what it's like. Don't ever hesitate to give a holler."

"Women need to stick together," Olivia added.

I couldn't agree more.

The two left then and I tasted my soup. It wasn't anything exotic or fancy, just good home cooking. The roll remained hot to the touch and when I ripped it open, steam rose from inside. The b.u.t.ter melted and ran onto the plate. It was every bit as good as it looked and smelled.

When I finished my lunch the crowd had thinned out considerably. I paid at the cash register and headed for the dry cleaners, which was a couple of blocks over.

As I walked down the street I noticed several curious glances in my direction. A number of people smiled and nodded as though to acknowledge me.

I found the dry cleaners and left the shams. From there I headed directly to the library, where I intended to sign up for my library card.

Chapter 24.

Josh watched as Mich.e.l.le quietly slipped out of Richard's bedroom, being careful to close the door with the least amount of sound possible. She looked toward him and sighed expressively. "He's much worse than yesterday."

"I thought so."

She lowered her head and was quiet for a moment, as if she was struggling to get out the words. "Despite what Richard says he wants, I think we need to contact hospice. I'm worried that he's in pain, and hospice can help us make his last days more comfortable."

Josh agreed with her. He also knew Richard's thoughts on the matter. "Richard won't like it."

Mich.e.l.le agreed. "He's in no condition to argue. He's sleeping fitfully, and frankly, I don't think he has much longer. Hospice will have a better perspective than me, though. We need to be sure he shouldn't be taken back to the hospital." Her words trembled with emotion.

Josh walked into the living room and stared out the large picture window. In a matter of only a couple of days he'd witnessed a rapid decline in his stepfather's condition. It was almost as if Richard had waited for Josh's arrival before he was willing to let go.

When Josh had first walked into the house, Richard had had the energy and resolve to shout at him, but this morning, his stepfather barely had the strength left to breathe.

"I'll make us lunch," Mich.e.l.le said from behind him.

It was that time of day already. Josh wasn't interested in eating. "Don't make anything for me; I'm not hungry."

Mich.e.l.le acted as if she hadn't heard him. She went into the kitchen and after a few minutes Josh heard the teakettle whistle. She returned moments later with two mugs.

"I called hospice," she said.

Josh took the mug from her hand and they sat across from each other. The recliner where Richard spent the majority of his time remained empty, although he was very much present in their thoughts.

"What did they say?" he asked.

Mich.e.l.le set the tea down on a coaster and leaned back in the chair. "The woman told me they'd send someone out this afternoon to check on him."

Richard wouldn't like it, but as Mich.e.l.le had said earlier, the old man was in no condition to protest. He'd asked to die alone, and for just a moment, Josh wondered if they should abide by his wishes. But he suspected Mich.e.l.le would refuse to leave her neighbor.

Truth be known, Josh would like to climb into his rental car and drive as far away from Cedar Cove as a tank of gas would take him. In the back of his mind he had hoped to spend at least part of his time off at the ocean.

One of the happiest memories of his childhood had been a short trip with his mother to Ocean Sh.o.r.es. Josh must have been around ten years old. After his father had left there'd never been extra money for luxuries like vacations. Finances were always a struggle. Yet somehow his mother had managed to eek out a few extra dollars for gas. They'd packed a cooler, loaded the car with pillows and blankets, towels, plastic buckets and shovels, and driven to Ocean Sh.o.r.es. They couldn't afford a hotel room, so they'd parked on a sandy stretch of beach.

Josh had raced up and down the sh.o.r.eline, running headlong into the oncoming waves with boyish glee. They'd purchased a cheap kite and Josh had loved how the wind had picked it up and carried it so high that it became little more than a speck on the horizon. He'd laughed until he was almost sick with happiness.

Together Josh and his mother had built a huge sand castle and then later that night they made a small fire with driftwood and roasted hot dogs. Even now, all these years later, Josh didn't think he'd ever enjoyed a better meal. That night they'd slept under the stars with the sound of the ocean in the background.

"You've gone quiet," Mich.e.l.le said.

Josh's gaze shot to her. Caught up in the memories, he had a difficult time bringing himself back into the present. "I was thinking about a trip I took with my mother as a kid."

"Before she met Richard?"

He nodded. "I was ten and we went to Ocean Sh.o.r.es. I'd hoped this matter with Richard would be done by now and I'd get a chance to visit the ocean. I know the town has grown up a lot since I was there, but the memories will never leave me."

"You never returned?"

"We did, once, with Dylan and Richard."

Mich.e.l.le seemed to be reading his mind. "It wasn't the same, was it?"

Josh had been fifteen and he'd had his driver's permit, which enabled him to rent a scooter. Richard had rented a second one and let Dylan drive it along the beach. In the beginning it'd been crazy fun. Josh had loved the freedom of the scooter, racing on the sand with his stepbrother by his side, the wind in their faces. Then Josh had crashed and the bike had been damaged.

Richard had reacted with such fury that for the first time his mother intervened, reminding her husband that it'd been an accident. Still, Richard had insisted Josh pay for the damage and they leave for home immediately, ruining everyone's fun.

The ride home had been intolerable, thick with tension between his mother and Richard. Dylan had been angry with Josh, too, and Josh had felt sick with the knowledge that he was the one responsible.

In retrospect he didn't fully understand Richard's anger. It had clearly been an accident. He'd paid for the damage to the bike from his paper route money and had accepted responsibility for his actions. No one had even seemed to care that he'd been lucky enough to walk away from the wreck. He almost wished he had been hurt. Perhaps then he might have gotten sympathy instead of a tongue lashing.

"You're deep in thought again," Mich.e.l.le said.

"Sorry."