74 Seaside Avenue Part 27

The marble headstone was polished and new. He bent down to run his finger along the carved letters. Sandra Marie Davis. That said so little about the kind of woman she'd been. Never in all the years that she'd battled MS had she complained. Nor did she curse her lot or question G.o.d. He'd been married to a very special woman and not once had Troy forgotten that. Not while Sandy was alive and not now.

Troy pressed his fingers to his lips and touched them to the gravestone, then walked slowly back to his car. Still unwilling to return to an empty house, he decided to visit his daughter and son-in-law.

Megan flew into his arms the minute she opened the front door. "Oh, Daddy, it's so wonderful to see you."

She looked much better than she had a few weeks ago, he thought, hugging her back.

"I can hardly remember the last time you came by," she said, and he heard the chiding in her tone.

Troy understood what had kept him away. Guilt. He was sorry he'd allowed that to happen.

His daughter had the same gift of hospitality as her mother. He was immediately ushered into the family room and handed a cup of coffee with extra cream and sugar, just the way he liked it. Megan had dessert out and had cut him a slice of pecan pie before he could protest.

"Craig and I are going to the ocean this weekend," Megan said, carrying in dessert plates for herself and her husband.

Craig thanked her and Megan sat down beside him. "I figured we could both use a weekend away," his son-in-law explained. "So I booked us into a place at Cannon Beach."

"Excellent idea." Troy probably exhibited more enthusiasm than warranted. Not only did he think this would be good for Megan, with his daughter away, he'd be free to enjoy Faith's visit. Okay, fine, so he had his own agenda. But he didn't want Megan hurt-and he wanted to see Faith. For the moment, he felt as if he'd been handed a reprieve.

Before he left, Troy got the name of the hotel where Megan and Craig would be staying. As soon as he got home, he ordered champagne for their room. A romantic weekend was exactly what his daughter needed-and so did he.

Sat.u.r.day evening, Troy was dressed by five o'clock. He shaved, combed his hair, then watched the clock for nearly three hours, pacing and periodically turning on the TV to pa.s.s the time. Precisely at eight, he parked outside Scott Beckwith's house on a street close to Rosewood Lane. He was just climbing out of the car when Faith opened the screen door and stepped outside to greet him. Her son, Scott, was with her and the two of them had a brief conversation. Troy recognized Scott from seeing him around town but hadn't known, of course, that he was Faith's son.

After a quick introduction, Faith ran in to get her bag, leaving Troy to exchange awkward remarks with her son. Troy was conscious of being carefully a.s.sessed but he didn't sense that Scott disliked him or disapproved. A far cry from Megan.

He and Faith walked to his car a few minutes later. She'd worn a simple green long-sleeved dress and had thrown a lacy knit shawl over her shoulders. Her beauty left him nearly breathless.

"You look..." He struggled for the right word. "Amazing," he concluded, convinced he sounded like a tongue-tied nincomp.o.o.p. Whenever he was around Faith, he had to remind himself that he was a responsible adult in a position of trust.

"You, too," she said with a light laugh. "Oh, I have your socks."

"I'll wear them every day." They'd remind him of her, not that he needed reminding.

He held open the car door for her, the same way he had in high school-the same way he had for Sandy. His father had drilled manners into him from an early age and they'd stayed with him all these years.

Once inside the car, Faith asked, "Are you ready to tell me where we're going?"

"You'll know soon enough."

"Okay." She smiled over at him.

Clutching the wheel with tense hands, Troy started his car. He wished he could kiss her right then and there, but he resisted. Not in front of her son's house! And not where Megan might hear about it...

After ten minutes of driving through back streets, Faith seemed to guess their destination. "Troy?"

"Yes?"

"You're not going where I think you're going-are you?"

He took the winding road up Briar Patch Hill. One surrept.i.tious glance told him Faith had figured it out.

"Troy! This is where we used to come to neck."

"I see you remember," he said softly, enjoying the tinge of pink that colored her cheeks.

"It had the best view of the lighthouse," Faith said, her voice husky. "I'm surprised someone hasn't built a house here."

"It's county property."

"I want to know how many other girls you brought up here," she said with mock sternness.

"None." That was true. Not even Sandy. "You're the only one. Ever."

"Remember the first time we parked up here?"

Troy wasn't likely to forget. His father had let him take the car. He and Faith had gone to a basketball game and afterward they'd attended the school dance. About halfway through, he'd suggested that since he had a car, they go for a drive. Faith had agreed. They'd parked up here, on the bluff overlooking the cove.

Troy, however, couldn't remember a single thing about the view; what he did remember was kissing Faith. Holding her... They'd returned to their favorite spot many times after that. He liked to consider this place theirs, although a lot of other couples had claimed it, too.

"What do you have in mind, Troy Davis?" Faith teased when he parked the car and turned off the ignition. It was dark now and the lights around the cove glittered brightly, reflecting on the water.

"It's a pretty view, don't you think?"

"Lovely," she whispered.

Troy stretched his arm across the back of her seat.

"As I recall, the last time we were here, there were no bucket seats and no console between us," she said.

"We can compensate for that." Troy leaned toward her. Faith s.h.i.+fted closer to him and their lips met. Although it was a bit clumsy, his arms came around her and she leaned into him. The kiss was everything he'd antic.i.p.ated, everything he wanted it to be.

When they broke apart, Faith's head was on his shoulder. He certainly wasn't comfortable in that position, but he didn't care. Faith was in his arms. Again.

"I think time has only enhanced the experience," he whispered.

Faith responded with a sweet smile. "I couldn't agree with you more."

Because it was too tempting to resist, Troy kissed her again. They were both breathing hard when he finished.

"I took your bra off here, remember?"

"Honestly, Troy." She sounded fl.u.s.tered that he'd reminded her of that. In retrospect, it'd been a comedy of errors. He'd wanted to be sophisticated, pretending he knew all about a woman's intimate apparel. As it turned out, the closure had been at the front, not the back, and taking pity on him, Faith had finally aided his addled efforts. No matter how much he'd embarra.s.sed himself, though, the result had been worth it.

"Oh, yeah, you remember." And so did he-every detail.

"I don't suggest trying the same technique this time," she said.

"Oh?" He didn't intend to, but the memory was a pleasant one.

"I wear support bras now and they're even more complicated than the ones I wore as a teenager."

"Heaven help me." He couldn't refrain from touching her, just to see. Then they were kissing again, reveling in each other.

All at once there was a flas.h.i.+ng blue-and-red light behind them.

Faith pulled away from him and fumbled with the front of her dress. "Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness." She sounded seventeen again.

Troy dragged a calming breath through his teeth, then stepped out of the car.

The young officer instantly paled. "Sheriff Davis."

"Everything's all right here, Payne."

"Yes, sir. S-sorry, sir." The kid was almost inarticulate in his desperation to escape.

"That's fine. You were just doing your job."

"Thank you, sir." The patrolman was in his car as fast as his feet would move. Within seconds, he'd driven away.

Opening the car door, Troy got back inside. Faith looked at him and they both dissolved into giggles.

Twenty-Eight.

Maryellen Bowman was so excited she could barely contain herself. Two important phone calls had come that afternoon, each one bringing good news.

Nursing Drake while Katie sat next to her holding a book and pretending to read to her baby brother, Maryellen let her mind race with the possibilities for Jon and his future as a photographer.

Just a couple of weeks earlier, Maryellen had received news that had distressed her. The owners of the Harbor Street Gallery had definitely decided to close their doors. She felt as if the years she'd spent as the gallery manager, building up the clientele and forging relations.h.i.+ps with local artists, had been for nothing. Apparently, without her there to oversee everything, sales had fallen off to the point that it was financially infeasible to continue the business. Lois Habbersmith, who'd a.s.sumed Maryellen's role, felt dreadful and blamed herself. She'd never been comfortable in a managerial position and admittedly wasn't as good with either the artists or the customers as Maryellen.

Still, Maryellen had hoped sales would pick up during the summer, but that hadn't happened. Aware of her distress, Jon had suggested she return to work part-time. The owners had wanted that, too.

Maryellen had agonized over that decision, but in the end she knew she couldn't. Not with a newborn and a toddler. Her primary concern had to be her own family. When she told Jon, she saw the relief in his eyes-but if she'd wanted to go back to work, her husband would have honored her decision. Thankfully, Jon desired the same things she did. Family came before anything else, even if that meant sacrifices.

The first call was from Will Jefferson, the brother of her mother's best friend. Will said he was interested in buying the Harbor Street Gallery and asked if he could stop by later that afternoon to discuss it. Maryellen felt slightly uncomfortable about this; Will, after all, was the man who'd come between Cliff and her mother. But if he bought the gallery, he'd make a real difference to Cedar Cove, a positive difference, and she was grateful for that possibility. So naturally, she'd agreed to the meeting, although she'd made it plain that she wouldn't be able to work for him.

The second exciting call followed within the hour. During a ten-minute conversation with artists' agent Marc Albright, Jon's financial future had changed. Marc wanted to represent Jon's work. The opportunities, he said, were endless. Maryellen had researched artists' representatives and e-mailed a number of the most reputable, then sent them samples of Jon's photographs. It had paid off.

Now Jon would be able to devote all his working time to photography. While she was pregnant with Drake, he'd found employment taking school pictures. Maryellen knew how much he hated that, although he'd never complained. He was doing what he had to in order to pay the bills.

Her biggest fear was that the job would kill Jon's love for photography. Until the fire that burned down The Lighthouse, he'd supplemented their income by working as a chef. With that fire had gone his employment. The restaurant had provided a steady-and reasonably good-salary, so they felt the financial loss immediately.

And yet, in unexpected ways, the fire had actually been a blessing.

If not for the arson, the rift between her husband and his parents might never have been settled. If not for the fire, Jon might've been content to work as a chef and keep his photography as a sideline business.

Behind a camera, Jon came alive. His photographs of the rainforest were so vivid, viewers felt that if they reached out and touched the print, their fingers would come away moist.

Until they'd started seeing each other, he didn't often take photos of people. But after Katie's birth and then Drake's, he'd taken thousands of family pictures. Maryellen had to admit she was self-conscious about the photographs he'd done of her but when she looked at them objectively, she could see what other people did. A man's love for a woman. A mother's love for a child. Still, her favorite was a picture of his father gazing down at the infant in his arms. Joseph's craggy face, juxtaposed against the smooth, soft lines of the infant's, was so moving it could bring her to tears.

But Jon's scenic work was where he truly excelled. One of his best-known was of an eagle in flight, wings in a graceful arc, poised above the blue-green waters of Puget Sound. Another was of a ferry crossing with Mt. Rainier in the background. An art gallery in Seattle routinely sold his work, as did the Harbor Street Gallery; unfortunately, the money he made as a photographer hadn't been enough to support their family. That, however, was about to change.

Shortly after Drake was born, Jon had begun another job as a chef, working at Anthony's Home Port in Gig Harbor. It meant he could quit his job with the photo studio, which was a plus, but the hours were a problem. Because he had the evening s.h.i.+ft, Maryellen was alone with the children most nights. The benefit was that her husband could spend the mornings with Katie and Drake. Maryellen loved him all the more for the way he treasured their children.

She heard a car door slam and eased a sleeping Drake onto her shoulder as she went to the door. When she didn't recognize the man who stepped out of the car, she a.s.sumed it must be Will Jefferson. As quickly as she could, she straightened the living room, collecting toys, cups, books and magazines, and rus.h.i.+ng them to the kitchen. Katie attempted to help, but her efforts only added to the general chaos.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, slightly out of breath.

"Maryellen Bowman?" the man asked.

She nodded and nearly tripped over her daughter, who grabbed hold of her leg. "Katie," she chastised, moving the little girl out of her way. "Watch where you are." Her reprimand had no effect. Katie wrapped her arm around Maryellen's thigh and clung to her mother.

"You must be Will Jefferson," she said, choosing to ignore the child hanging from her leg.

"I am." Will smiled at Katie, who finally stepped aside. He came into the house.

Looking at the living room through his eyes, Maryellen felt compelled to apologize. "Please excuse the mess, but as you can see I've got my hands full here."

"I understand. Don't worry about it."

They sat down on the sofa and when she offered him refreshments, Will declined. Just as well, because all she had was apple juice and graham crackers.

After some casual conversation, Will produced a pad and pen and asked a series of detailed, intelligent questions. Maryellen answered them to the best of her ability. Judging by the things he wanted to know about the gallery, the local artists and the sales when she was manager, Will Jefferson would do an excellent job-if he bought the place. The fact that he lavishly praised Jon's work endeared him even more.

"I do hope you give this serious consideration," Maryellen told him when he'd finished. "The gallery's been part of this community for a long time. Everyone is upset that it's going to close."

Will glanced over his notes. "After I talk to a couple more people, including my accountant, I'm going to contact the owners and see if we can come to an agreement. This sounds like exactly the kind of opportunity I was hoping to find."

"It would be wonderful to see the gallery back the way it used to be," she said wistfully.

Just as Will was getting ready to leave, Maryellen heard another car door close. She hadn't had company in several days and two guests in the same afternoon was certainly unexpected.

"I'd better be going," Will said, coming to his feet. He smiled at Katie again and the little girl shrieked and buried her face in the sofa.

Shaking her head, Maryellen saw him to the door and noticed Cliff Harding, her stepfather, climbing out of his truck. They stared at each other, and Maryellen remembered again what she'd heard about Will Jefferson-and her mother. Now the two men were meeting face to face. In her front yard.

Not sure what to do, Maryellen shut the door and stepped over to the window to watch. At first, both men maintained a respectable distance from each other. From the set of Cliff's shoulders, Maryellen could tell he was tense. But gradually his shoulders relaxed and after a few minutes, the two men approached each other and shook hands. Maryellen saw, to her astonishment, that they were smiling.

Will left first, and then Cliff came up to the house with a box of clothes Kelly had asked him to drop off for Drake. He couldn't stay. She didn't ask about his exchange with Will Jefferson; the way Maryellen figured it, whatever had taken place was their business.

That evening she received several other phone calls, including one from her mother, but she managed not to even hint at any of her exciting news. It just didn't seem right to tell anyone else before she spoke to Jon. She had to wait until Jon got home, though. Maryellen decided not to call him; he was too busy at the restaurant, and she wanted to see his face when she told him about Marc Albright. By the time the children were both asleep, she was pacing the floor, eager to talk to him.