50 Harbor Street Read online

  “Any particular reason?” Cliff asked when she phoned him at the ranch. He seemed to guess that this wasn’t an ordinary invitation.

  “It’s New Year’s Day.” Grace couldn’t very well admit she planned to propose to him. That would come over thick slices of homemade apple pie served with French vanilla ice cream, his favorite. Or maybe she’d do it during a romantic champagne toast…

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Grace just hoped he’d be as easily persuaded when she asked that all-important question.

  Not wanting to speak without forethought or reflection, she carefully wrote out what she intended to say. She wanted to review their relationship, starting with the early days when they’d first begun seeing each other. They’d met due to a credit card mix-up three years ago—had it really been that long? After thirty-five years as Dan’s wife, she’d been nervous and uncertain about entering into a new relationship, and in some ways she still was.

  She remembered how gentle Cliff had been with her. Following Dan’s memorial service, she’d collapsed from grief and fatigue, and Cliff was the one who’d stayed with her, who’d comforted her, who’d encouraged her to grieve for her husband. She’d buried Dan that day, and so much more—all the memories, good and bad. Through it all, Cliff had been at her side, a constant support.

  They’d been separated for a while and during those long, lonely months Grace had understood how foolish she’d been and how much she loved Cliff. She’d made an error in judgment. She was sorry about it. Either Cliff accepted that or he didn’t; it was time to find out.

  For dinner Grace went all out. The most elaborate meal she could think of was individual Beef Wellingtons, along with a baked potato casserole and fresh young asparagus shoots. The salad was a special recipe from the Food Channel, with greens, blue cheese and roasted spiced pecans. She blew a good third of her monthly food budget on this meal alone, but it would be worth it.

  Cliff was to arrive at six. The table was set with her mother’s china, used only on the most momentous occasions. The wine—a French Merlot that came highly recommended—was open and breathing. She hadn’t spared any expense on that, either. The candles were ready to light.

  “What do you think, Buttercup?” she asked the golden retriever, who lay on her dog bed in the kitchen. Buttercup wagged her tail enthusiastically—approving, Grace was sure, of her plans. Sliding her hand inside her apron pocket, she fingered the half-dozen index cards she’d placed there. These cards were her security and her talisman. On them she’d written her feelings—her love for Cliff, her hopes for them both.

  At ten minutes after six, Grace stood in the living room looking out the window, waiting for Cliff’s truck. Sherlock, her cat, lounged on the back of the couch, undisturbed by Grace’s nervousness.

  Every thirty seconds, she glanced at her watch, wondering what had held him up. When Cliff was twenty-five minutes late, she was convinced he’d had an accident on his way into town. Black ice often covered the roads in the winter months; he could’ve hit a patch and driven into a ditch.

  At six-thirty, she couldn’t stand it any longer and phoned the ranch. Cal picked up on the second ring.

  “Grace?” He sounded surprised.

  “Cal, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m worried about Cliff. He isn’t here yet. Can you tell me when he left?”

  “Cliff is-s here.”

  “He hasn’t left yet?” Her heart sank to her knees and stayed there.

  “Here,” Cal said, “talk-k-k to him.”

  Oh, she’d talk to him, all right.

  “Grace?” Cliff was on the other end of the line. “Dinner was tonight?”

  Closing her eyes she tried to quell her anger. “Did you forget?” she asked ever so sweetly. “Again?”

  “I’m afraid I did. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”

  She wouldn’t lie. “As a matter of fact, I did.” She restrained herself from telling him she’d been cooking for two days, although she should probably let him know. “When did you think dinner was?” she asked instead.

  “I thought I’d written it down, but apparently I didn’t. I’m sorry, Grace. Is dinner ruined?”

  In more ways than the obvious. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry! That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  “You’re angry and—”

  “I’m angry? What gave you that idea?” The man was nothing if not perceptive.

  “I’ll drive into town so we can talk.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said forcefully. “It doesn’t matter…It just doesn’t matter.” Unable to say anything more for fear she’d burst into tears, she replaced the receiver.

  She was too furious to sit still. Pacing helped. He’d forgotten dinner on New Year’s Day! That took effort on his part. Real effort. She’d taken her stand and she had her answer.

  Collapsing into a chair, she hid her face in her hands. Buttercup came to lie on the carpet next to her, gazing up piteously, as if she understood how Grace felt.

  All at once, Grace was angry again—only this time it was with Dan, the husband she’d buried. She hated this, hated living alone, hated all the adjustments his death had forced her to accept. Her marriage had never been completely happy, but at least she’d been contented. Over the years she’d learned how to deal with Dan’s mood swings because, underneath it all, she’d recognized that he loved her and their daughters. In that moment she would’ve given anything to have her husband back, anything for her life to return to the way it was before his year-long disappearance…before she found out he was dead.

  The doorbell chimed and she glared accusingly at the front door. Cliff. He’d made record time driving into town. Perhaps they should have this out now, face-to-face. It would be over then, and they could both go back to their own lives.

  Grateful that she hadn’t given in to the compulsion of tears, she walked to the door and opened it. As she’d suspected, Cliff Harding was standing there.

  “Let’s talk,” he said. With a repentant look, he removed his Stetson, holding it in both hands.

  “Yes, I think we should,” Grace agreed, stepping aside to let him in.

  Cliff surveyed the dining room table, set with china, crystal and candles, and exhaled slowly. “I can see I messed up big-time.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, “but the truth is, I’m just as glad.” She swept into the kitchen.

  Cliff was right behind her. “Glad?”

  Opening the oven door, she took out the Beef Wellingtons, warming on a cookie sheet, and unceremoniously dumped them in the garbage. Buttercup’s big round eyes followed Grace’s movements, silently pleading with her to consider the dog dish instead.

  Cliff squatted down beside the golden retriever. “I think I’m in the doghouse now, girl,” he whispered loudly enough for Grace to hear.

  She wasn’t amused.

  “Are you going to toss anything else? Because I was just thinking that dinner looks too good to waste.”

  Grace planted one hand on her hip. “I’m not going to be cajoled into forgetting this.”

  “Come on, Grace,” he argued. “It’s just a dinner. I blew it, but I’m genuinely sorry.”

  “Wrong!” she cried. “This wasn’t just a dinner. It was far more than that.” Her throat was clogged with tears, and she paused in an effort to regain control. “Perhaps you should sit down for a minute so I can explain.”

  He did as she suggested and chose the sofa. Grace sat in her favorite chair. Buttercup trailed them into the room, but seeming to sense their mood, she paused, then returned to her bed in the kitchen.

  Grace knew what had to be said; inhaling, she tried to work out how to begin. Her index cards were no use now.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Cliff said again.

  She waved aside his apology. “I know. I don’t mean to be flippant but, Cliff, I’m past that. This—forgett
ing dinner with me, and not for the first time, either—is very indicative of your true feelings.”

  He shook his head. “I should’ve written it down on my calendar. I don’t know why I didn’t. I could kick myself.”

  “Stop.” She didn’t want to hear it. “I had a lot of expectations for this dinner. But I guess that’s my problem, not yours.”

  He frowned. “What kind of expectations?”

  “You might find this laughable…. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but I planned to set the stage by serving you the dinner of your life. I was hoping to soften your heart toward me so I could—propose.”

  His eyes widened. “Propose…marriage?”

  “It’s rather comical, isn’t it? Me cooking for two days, a nervous wreck, seeing to every detail, practicing how to tell the man I love that I’d like to spend the rest of my life with him. I’d hoped you’d feel the same way, and we could set a date for the wedding.” Her voice did crack then, and she struggled for composure.

  “Grace,” Cliff whispered, his eyes warm, “I love you, too.”

  Afraid of embarrassing herself further, she swiped at the tears that were running down her cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’m—I’m not going to propose.” She pulled the index cards from her apron pocket. “Look, I even made notes in case I got too nervous to speak. Funny, huh?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “There was no need for any of this. No need whatsoever.”

  Cliff’s shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” She took a deep breath. “Something occurred to me recently. You and Dan are actually more alike than I thought. He did this, too, you see.”

  “Forgot dates?”

  “No.” She attempted a smile. “He had a way of letting me know how he felt without saying a word. A counselor once explained that it’s passive-aggressive behavior.”

  “I’m not like that,” Cliff insisted, stiffening at the implication.

  “You’ve forgotten dinner dates. When we do manage to go out, you fall asleep during movies, and whenever I visit the ranch—generally at your invitation—you’ve got more important things to do than talk to me. Okay, there was a real emergency that one night, but what about the other times? Except for Thanksgiving, you seemed completely indifferent to my being there. Well, I got your message, Cliff, loud and clear. You haven’t forgiven me. And maybe you never will.” She stood then, her heart heavy. “You don’t have the courage to do this, so I’m going to. I didn’t lie when I said I love you, but for your sake as well as mine, it’s over.”

  He looked stunned and remained speechless.

  “This isn’t a ploy. It isn’t a game. I’m sincere when I say it would be best if we didn’t see each other again.”

  He sat where he was for another few minutes. “Will anything I say change your mind?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head.

  “I see.” He reached for his hat.

  “I wish you nothing but good things, Cliff.”

  He nodded.

  “Goodbye.” She opened the door for him. He walked past, then stopped, bringing his finger to her cheek. She didn’t close the door until he was off the porch and down the steps. A shudder went through her as she sagged against the wall and waited for the pain to pass.

  Twenty-Eight

  Roy McAfee said little to Corrie, but he knew she was right, felt it in his gut. These mysterious postcards had come from the child he’d never known. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten there was a baby. The fact that he had a third child was always with him, hidden in the back of his mind.

  When Corrie had told him, all those years ago, that she’d given birth to his baby, he’d been shocked, then angry. Later, he’d experienced deep sadness and a sense of bereavement. He felt that same emptiness now. He’d never blamed Corrie, and he still didn’t. His own insensitivity and arrogance had led to this, had forced Corrie to make the decision she had.

  There was nothing she could tell him about the baby. Not even if they’d had a son or a daughter.

  He recalled the year after she’d left him—over a rumor about another girl, a rumor that was only half-true. Her loss, he’d figured. And then there’d been his sudden fall from favor, when the pros were no longer interested and the scouts stopped talking to him. His decline had been rapid and humbling.

  Before their reconciliation, he’d seen her in the library one day and remembered all the things he loved about her. Her honesty. Her warmth. Her beautiful dark-brown hair, falling thick and straight to her shoulders. The way she used to kiss him…

  The next day he was back, hoping to see her again. If she happened to be there on two consecutive days, he decided, he’d consider it fate.

  Sure enough, at the same time as the day before, he saw her outside the library, walking with another girl. It took courage to follow her inside, to call out her name. Roy wondered if she’d ever realized what it had cost him. He’d put every bit of his remaining pride on the line that day. But whatever the price, it was nothing compared to the value she’d given his life.

  Roy recognized that he wasn’t an easy man to love. He tended to be stubborn; admitting he was wrong didn’t come easy. Not then and not now.

  He’d never forget the day Corrie told him about the baby. He’d wanted to rant at her for withholding the information; he’d had a right to know she was having his child. But he soon acknowledged that he hadn’t given her much choice—and that he wouldn’t have had the maturity to deal with the situation.

  Still, he hated the fact that she’d been left to make these life-altering decisions on her own. When he thought about what Corrie and her family must have endured, it made him ashamed. The girl he’d loved and used had given birth to his child alone because she knew, even if he didn’t, that he couldn’t cope with a pregnancy.

  Having the baby had changed Corrie. She was as beautiful as before, perhaps more so. However, the changes had come about not in her appearance but in other subtle ways. She’d matured. Already miles ahead of him in that area, she’d developed a dignity and a gentle wisdom that made him yearn to be with her even more.

  She didn’t tell him about the baby until they were engaged. He used to wonder why she’d waited. But now he understood that if she’d told him before, she’d never be sure whether his proposal had been offered out of love—or guilt and regret. Waiting until she was utterly convinced of his love might have saved their marriage.

  Roy leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. His best detective work was done in this old chair, a relic from his police days. The department had wanted to toss it, but Roy had saved it from a junkyard death, rolled it out to his car and brought it home. He’d been sitting in this chair ever since. Corrie hated it, pleaded with him to get rid of it. He wouldn’t.

  The office door opened and then closed. “Dad?”

  Roy let his feet fall to the floor. “In here,” he called out to his daughter.

  Linnette walked into his office and threw herself onto the chair opposite his desk. “Where’s Mom?”

  Roy had exactly the same question. “Apparently she took an extended lunch hour. I guess that’s what I get for hiring family,” he joked.

  “Oh.” Linnette looked as if she wanted to weep.

  “You need to talk to her?”

  His daughter nodded. “Dad,” she said, straightening, “did you always love Mom? I mean, was there ever a time you had questions about the way you felt?”

  “Sure,” he admitted, a little taken aback by the question, so close to his own recent thoughts. “Just the other day,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. He wasn’t much good at giving advice. That was Corrie’s specialty.

  “Dad, I’m serious.”

  “I know you are,” he said, somber now. “Relationship problems?”

  Linnette shrugged. “I screwed up.”

  Roy hated to turn his daughter away, but he wasn’t comfortable with this heart-to-heart stu
ff. “You’d better talk to your mother.”

  “She isn’t here. You are.”

  “In other words, it’s any port in a storm?”

  She gave him a half smile. “You could say that.”

  “All right.” He tried not to sigh. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Pulling off her gloves, Linnette stood up for a moment and removed her coat.

  “I did something I regret,” she said bluntly.

  “What?”

  “Mom bought me a date with this guy in that Dog and Bachelor Auction last summer. Cal, his name is, and he’s a horse trainer. We went out, mainly because Mom pressured me into it. I didn’t want to, but I finally agreed.”

  “Was it so bad?”

  “Not at all. I enjoyed dinner and later, I went out with him again. I had an even better time, and then he kissed me and—”

  “Hold on a minute.” Roy raised one hand. “I don’t want to hear any of that. Otherwise, I might be tempted to bash his teeth in.”

  Linnette looked up and smiled. “You’re such a father.”

  “Sorry, can’t help it. You’re my baby girl.”

  “I am not a baby.”

  “All I can say is wait until you have your own children and then decide.” He gestured for her to continue.

  “I liked the way Cal kissed me—don’t worry, I’m not going to say any more about it, except that when he kissed me I got scared.”

  This got Roy’s attention. “Did he try any funny stuff?”

  “No, nothing like that. He didn’t scare me—I’m explaining this badly. What I mean is, I knew that if he kept on kissing me, I’d want to see him again, and I couldn’t because there was someone else I liked better.”

  “Hmm?” That was about as profound a comment as he could make. He was finding all this a bit difficult to follow. So she liked this horse guy but she didn’t? And who was the “someone else”?