“Okay, sorry I asked,” Shirley muttered.

The phone rang and caller ID said it was a private number. As usual, Tanni answered after a solitary ring. Two or three seconds later her daughter shrilled down the hallway, “It’s for you!”

“Who is it?” Shirley asked. If she didn’t get this casserole in the oven, dinner wouldn’t be ready until eight.

“I don’t know. Some man.”

“Some man” probably translated into Will Jefferson, but if that was the case Tanni should have recognized his voice. He certainly phoned often enough.

Sighing, she reached for the phone. “This is Shirley.”

“Shirley, it’s Larry Knight. Am I calling at a bad time?”

Shock and delight rippled through her. “No, not at all. This is perfect.” Any time he called would be perfect as far as she was concerned. She hadn’t dared to hope she’d hear from him.

“I wanted to tell you what a pleasure it was to meet you last week.”

“The pleasure was mine.” The expression was commonplace, but she meant it sincerely.

“I’m going to be in the Seattle area again soon.”

“That’s…wonderful.” She wished her voice wasn’t so breathless.

“It’s another show.”

“Of your work?”

“No, a friend of mine.”

Shirley waited for him to continue.

“I’m calling to ask if you’d be free to join me.”

“I would,” she said, regardless of the details.

“It’s on Sunday the twenty-seventh.”

“That’s perfect.” She bit her lip, embarrassed that she no longer seemed to know any other words.

“I can get a third invitation if you’d like to include Will.”

“No. No, that isn’t necessary.”

“You’re sure?” Larry asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“I arrive early Saturday and fly out Monday morning.”

“Would you like to come to Cedar Cove?” she asked, and immediately regretted it. She imagined how awkward it would be if they ran into Will Jefferson.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I have commitments in Seattle on Saturday.”

Of course he would. Shirley felt gauche for having made the suggestion. Larry was an important artist, a celebrity, and he had better things to do than visit Cedar Cove.

“Would it be possible to see you on Sunday? Have dinner after the show?”

“No…I mean, yes, it would be possible.” Every time she opened her mouth she seemed to say something stupid. She had to wonder why Larry wanted to see her at all.

“Great.” He sounded pleased, which only added to Shirley’s delight.

“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you, and, well, I’m…more than a little flattered.” It was probably all wrong to tell him that, to be so effusive, but she didn’t care.

They talked for another five minutes while they made arrangements. He’d send a car for her and, if he could manage it, he’d come with the car, although at this point that looked doubtful. As he spoke, Shirley got a pen and pad from the kitchen junk drawer and wrote it all down, certain that if she didn’t she’d forget every word.

As soon as she was off the phone, Shirley rushed down the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom and threw open the door. Tanni lay on her bed, cell phone in hand, text messaging.

“You’ll never guess who that was!” Shirley cried.

Tanni looked up with a bored expression. “Hugh Jackman.”

“No, silly. Larry Knight.”

Tanni gaped at her. “The Larry Knight. The artist?” Shirley nodded.

“Did he say anything about Shaw?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Shirley to ask. “No, he didn’t,” she said, feeling a little guilty.

The hope that had flared in Tanni’s eyes was quickly extinguished.

“He asked me on a date,” Shirley told her.

“A date with you?”

Shirley knew it probably sounded as inconceivable to her daughter as it did to her that Larry Knight had asked her out.

“You’re going?”

Shirley nodded, trying not to act too happy when her daughter was so miserable over Shaw. Still, she couldn’t quite contain her joy as she hurried back to the kitchen.

She could hardly wait to tell Miranda about this.

Sixteen

Charlotte sat in her favorite chair, doing her favorite thing—knitting. Her fingers were as busy as her mind and although she’d knit this same sweater a number of times she kept making small mistakes that she had to rip out, kept needing to refer to the pattern. She’d been so distracted and forgetful. She blamed it on this stress caused by her husband’s son, David.

Ben had turned on the television and sat staring at it, apparently engrossed, although she doubted either of them was concentrating on the evening news.

“Ben,” Charlotte finally said.

He glanced away from the TV and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Let’s ask Olivia. She knows about the law in situations like this.” She didn’t elaborate; there was no need to. Ben knew very well that she was talking about David’s daughter, Noelle.

Ben’s mouth thinned. “Let me think about it.”

Charlotte had no intention of pressuring him. Ben loved his little granddaughter and had already taken financial measures to secure her future. His son’s actions had devastated him—and this wasn’t the first time. David had a history of hurtful and irresponsible behavior, which included “borrowing” money from Ben. Money that was rarely ever repaid. A “sponger,” her own son had called him. Maybe Will’s behavior hadn’t always been exemplary, either, but compared to David he was a paragon.

Charlotte knew Ben had been hoping David would do the right thing, the responsible thing, and support his child. That hadn’t happened and probably wouldn’t. Instead, David had obstinately insisted Noelle wasn’t his child, even after admitting it earlier. But he could no longer deny his paternity, since a DNA test had proven it conclusively.

They’d spoken with David on Saturday. Now he’d started claiming that DNA testing wasn’t infallible and that Mary Jo was some kind of fraud. Or—and he’d also claimed this—she was promiscuous, although he’d put it more crudely.

Ben wasn’t having any of that and neither was Charlotte. He’d urged Mary Jo to file a paternity suit. For David to acknowledge his responsibility and accept it would be the honorable course of action, but as Charlotte had learned, David Rhodes was not an honorable man. “Maybe it would be a good idea to discuss this with Olivia,” Ben said after several minutes.

“She deals with similar cases every day in court, or she did,” Charlotte amended, “when she was working.”

“The problem is…” Ben let the rest of his thought fade.

Charlotte knew better than to prompt him. Ben often broke off in the middle of a sentence while he considered a dilemma or mulled over a solution.

“The problem is,” he began a second time, “I don’t know if Mary Jo is willing to take our advice.”

Charlotte was knitting at a frantic pace, ignoring any errors she might be making. The poor girl had arrived at the house late Saturday afternoon, so upset she’d hardly been able to speak; they got the story out of her in bits and pieces. From what Charlotte recalled of the conversation, David had confronted Mary Jo and more or less threatened her if she pursued child support.

Charlotte was outraged whenever she thought about it. She didn’t say anything because it would only upset Ben, and he’d already endured about all he could from his youngest son.

“I was thinking I’d make up a batch of that soup you like. The one with the meatballs and fresh spinach.” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name of it.

“Italian wedding soup,” Ben said.

“Yes, that’s the one. I bet Olivia would enjoy it, too. I’ll make a big pot and we’ll bring it over tomorrow afternoon for lunch.” She’d spend the morning baking a loaf of oatmeal molasses bread and would add that to her basket.

Ben reached across the space between their two chairs and took her hand. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Why are you thanking me, Ben Rhodes?”

He answered her with the sweetest of smiles. “For your love and patience.”

“I vowed to love you, and I do, and as for the patience part, you don’t need to thank me for that. You’re a good man, and a good father, too.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel like one.”

“Nonsense. We can’t take on the faults of our children. As adults, we all make our own decisions and live our own lives.”

“That’s true,” Ben agreed. “But it’s still hard to see our children acting badly.”

Charlotte couldn’t argue with that.

The following afternoon, Ben drove Charlotte out to Lighthouse Road. As they walked to the back door, she studied the small vegetable garden and the strawberry patch, dotted with succulent red berries. She’d pick some later and make Olivia that freezer jam she liked.

“Anyone home?” Charlotte called out as they entered the house.

“Mom?” Olivia’s voice came from the spare bedroom. “Oh, is it lunchtime already?” She hurried into the kitchen with a measuring tape around her neck and a pair of scissors in one hand. She must be working on a quilt. Ever since Olivia had started to recover, she’d been designing and sewing quilts for her grandchildren. They were lovely, too. It was an activity that occupied her time and gave her a creative outlet.

Ben set the Crock-Pot filled with soup on the kitchen counter and plugged it in.

“As promised, we brought lunch,” Charlotte announced. She opened the kitchen cupboard, taking down three soup bowls and three bread plates. “Is Jack going to be joining us?”

Olivia nodded. “Have you ever known my husband to miss one of your meals?” She got another bowl and plate, while Ben efficiently collected the silverware. “He’s been taking time off every day to drive home and check on me. Oh, he makes it sound like he’s just home for lunch, but I know that man and he’s watching over me.”

“As well he should,” Charlotte said. She approved of Jack’s less-than-subtle approach to caring for her daughter. She was grateful he kept a close eye on Olivia; the cancer was bad enough, but they’d very nearly lost her last fall, and the scare had put them all on edge. The memory of those weeks always sent a chill down Charlotte’s spine.

As if he’d been able to smell the fresh-baked bread, Jack pulled into the space behind Ben’s car. He bounded out of his vehicle and came through the kitchen door, clutching a copy of the latest Cedar Cove Chronicle. “You’ve got your very own delivery boy,” he said cheerfully, handing it to Olivia. “Hi, everyone.”

They all greeted him and Charlotte smiled at him fondly.

“Do I smell lunch?” he asked, glancing expectantly around. He kissed Olivia’s cheek and walked straight past her to the Crock-Pot on the counter. Lifting the lid, he closed his eyes. “Mmm. Homemade soup?”