6 Rainier Drive (14 page)

E
ver since the phone call from Anson, Allison had been waiting, waiting for him to contact her again. It'd been almost three weeks, and she was afraid she wouldn't hear from him a second time. As graduation grew closer, she hoped and prayed that the investigators would uncover
something,
anything, to prove his innocence.

“Dinner,” her mother shouted from the kitchen. Allison reluctantly left her bedroom. After her parents had remarried, they'd insisted on eating as a family every night. Sometimes, like this evening, Allison considered it a major pain, but mostly she enjoyed it. Silly though it sounded, eating together had brought them all closer. With everyone's hectic schedule, the habit had fallen by the wayside, and Allison hadn't thought she'd really missed it. But if sitting down with her family at
dinnertime helped keep her parents' marriage intact, she'd do it.

Her mother had cooked Eddie's favorite meal tonight, spaghetti and meatballs. That should make her little brother happy, since food, computer games and basketball were his three passions. She remembered how much Anson liked Eddie and had even played basketball with him a few times.

Without being asked, Allison set the salad on the table and brought out two bottles of dressing from the refrigerator door. Her mother thanked her with a smile.

Her father sliced the French bread while Eddie sat at the table waiting. Typical boy attitude. Like it was his right to have everyone wait on him.

After saying grace, they passed everything around and Allison served herself some salad and just enough spaghetti to deter any comments or questions. Her appetite hadn't been good since Anson's disappearance and she'd lost several pounds. Again and again she'd reviewed their brief phone conversation. He'd told her so little, for fear of putting himself at risk. The less she knew, the better. Allison understood that. Still, she couldn't help worrying about him.

“How was school?” her mother asked.

Eddie shrugged, digging into his meal with unrestrained gusto. He was already taller than Allison and still growing. “Bor-ing.”

“Allison?” Her mother turned to her.

“Okay, I guess. I got accepted into the University of Washington.” The letter had come that afternoon.

Her father set his fork down and stared at her. “You're only thinking to mention that
now?
”

She nodded carelessly. “I knew I'd get in.”

“Such confidence,” her mother said, looking at Zach with a smile.

“Congratulations, Allison.” Her father raised his water glass, and the others joined in the toast.

Really, Allison couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Both of her parents had attended UW and it was expected that she would, too. She'd encouraged Anson to apply for a scholarship there, and if he'd stayed in school, if he'd pursued it, she was positive he would've been accepted.

No one seemed to realize how intelligent Anson was. He picked up languages easily, as she'd mentioned to his mother; he'd also helped Allison get through her chemistry class. Without him she would barely have passed. All that stuff came to him with very little effort.

“What about you, honey?” her mother asked, directing the question to Zach.

“I attended the Rotary meeting this afternoon and sat with Seth Gunderson.”

Allison's ears perked up. She kept a file with
whatever she could find out about the Gundersons, the restaurant and the fire. Obviously, she didn't possess the resources or the finesse of the authorities, but she collected every bit of information she could.

“How are Seth and his family doing now?” her mother asked.

“All right, it seems. He's selling boats.”

“Boats?” Eddie echoed, a smear of tomato sauce on his chin. “That's a switch, isn't it?”

“Not really. He was a fisherman before he went into the restaurant business,” Zach explained.

“Oh.” Uninterested, Eddie returned to his meal.

“Apparently the arson investigators found a cross in the fire,” her father added. “There was a picture of it in last night's paper. Seth hopes someone might recognize it and come forward.”

Allison froze. She hadn't read yesterday's paper.

“What an interesting twist.” Her mother met Allison's gaze, and Allison didn't dare look away.

“
Has
anyone come forward?” she asked, her heart in her throat. Anson had worn a pewter cross. That didn't mean anything, she was quick to tell herself. “But whoever wore it might not be responsible for the fire,” she said. “It could've belonged to anyone, right?”

Both her parents and Eddie stared at her.

“What makes you ask?” her father asked, watching her intently.

Allison lowered her head and swallowed hard. “No reason,” she mumbled. Only there was…. As soon as she could do it discreetly, she was going to find that newspaper and take a look.

No one at school had said anything about the article, not anyone, and Allison knew why. They were afraid to; afraid she'd get defensive and angry the way she always did when anyone dared suggest Anson was involved in the fire.

When dinner was over, Allison escaped to the privacy of her bedroom. Her mother, who had an uncanny ability to read her moods, came to see her shortly afterward. She held the local newspaper.

Allison pretended not to notice.

“Don't you want to see the picture?” her mother asked, sitting on the bed beside her.

Allison thought of lying and acting as if it didn't matter at all. Instead, she shrugged. “I suppose,” she said in a dispassionate voice.

“Anson wore a big cross, didn't he?” her mother asked gently.

“It's not his,” she said before she'd even glanced at the photograph. “And even if it is, that doesn't mean anything.”

Her mother was slow in answering. “It might not. But then again, it might.”

“He wouldn't do it, Mom,” Allison insisted and although her mother didn't argue, Allison wondered
who she was working so hard to convince—her family or herself.

Her mother handed Allison the paper, which was open to the picture. One look, and Allison closed her eyes, so sick at heart that she couldn't bear to read the caption or the article below the photograph.

“Anson wore a cross like this?” her mother asked.

Allison bit her lower lip hard and nodded.

“You need to tell the sheriff you recognize it as his, sweetheart.”

A sob threatened to burst from her chest, but Allison managed to hold it back. “I will.”

Rosie slid her arm around Allison's shoulders. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Unable to speak, Allison nodded again. “It's not him,” she said. “It's not Anson.” He wouldn't lie to her. He'd told her he hadn't started the fire and she believed him.

After a moment, her mother stood and left the room. Allison remained on the edge of her bed. She had to think, to sort everything out. Whenever she least wanted to remember it, the conversation with his mother kept running through her mind.

Playing with matches.
According to her, Anson had nearly burned the house down as a youngster. Later he'd started a brush fire with friends and then there was the toolshed at the park. Fires fascinated him; his mother had been quick to tell her
that. According to Cherry, he was just setting bigger ones now.

Even his own mother thought Anson was responsible for burning down The Lighthouse. The only person who still believed in him was Allison. And yet every shred of evidence she'd collected pointed directly at him.

For the first time, her faith in Anson wavered. She
wanted
to believe, and prayed that he was innocent. But how could she maintain her faith in the face of everything she'd learned?

The phone rang, and on the slight chance that it might be Anson, Allison leaped on it before Eddie could.

“Hello,” she said, hoping she didn't sound as breathless as she felt.

“Allison, it's Kaci. Did you get your acceptance from UW?”

“Yeah, I'm in.”

“Me, too. Want to go out and celebrate?”

Allison didn't feel much like celebrating. “Not really.”

“What's wrong? You sound really down.”

Kaci was Allison's best friend. “Anson,” she whispered.

“Come on, Allie, you've got to stop pining for him. He's the one who walked out on you. Remember?”

Allison didn't say anything,
couldn't
say anything.

“I didn't mean that,” Kaci said apologetically.

“I know,” Allison assured her and then, because it all seemed so hard, she started to cry. “Oh, Kaci, I think he might've done it.”

“No way! Hold on, I'm coming over.”

Before Allison could protest, the line was disconnected.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Allison didn't go out to greet her friend. If her parents saw her tears, they'd be asking questions and she couldn't cope with that right now. Kaci let herself into Allison's room and immediately flopped down on the bed. “All right, talk.”

Instead of speaking, she handed the newspaper to her friend. By now, Allison had read the short article two or three times. The cross had been found in the hallway outside the restaurant office and near the kitchen. Apparently it had fallen into a crack in the wood floor, protecting it from the worst of the fire.

Kaci read the piece and then set it aside. “Is it Anson's? He wore one identical to it.”

“I told you he came to me the night of the fire,” Allison said, keeping her voice low.

Kaci leaned closer.

“What I didn't tell you was that Anson smelled of smoke.”

As though horrified, Kaci pressed her hand over her mouth. Allison hadn't confided in anyone except Cecilia, whose silence she could trust. “I…I'd never seen Anson like he was that night. I asked him what he did—I was sure he'd done something. He said—” she stopped long enough to regain her composure “—Anson said it was better for me not to know.”

Kaci's shoulders sagged. “He did it, didn't he?”

“I…I don't know. I asked him outright and he swore he didn't. He asked me to believe in him. And I do, I do.” Her throat started to close up again. “He said I'm the only person in his life who's ever had faith in him.”

“If he asked you to help him now, would you?” Kaci asked.

Allison hung her head, unable to answer. What she had with Anson was more precious than any other relationship in her life, outside of her family. She loved him, but she had to stop deceiving herself. She couldn't continue to believe in him just because she wanted to. It was time to accept the fact that Anson might be guilty.

“C
ome here, Grammy's girl,” Ellen Bowman called, chasing Katie around the kitchen. Over the weeks, the formalities had been dispensed with. Joseph had become Grampa Joe and Ellen was Grammy.

Letting out a squeal of glee, Katie made her grandmother run after her in a mock game of tag. Jon's stepmother was endlessly patient with the little girl. Maryellen felt grateful—and deeply moved—to see how much Jon's family loved her daughter.

Nevertheless, Jon still kept his distance. Nothing Maryellen said or did seemed to help, so the situation continued unchanged.

“It's time for your nap, young lady,” Maryellen reminded Katie. The child had no interest in sleeping if Grammy and Grampa Joe were available—as they always were, at least on weekdays.
Katie had grown so close to her grandparents. Joe was just as enthralled with his granddaughter as his wife, and they spent countless hours entertaining the child; it was as if she'd become the focus of their existence.

“I'll take her up,” Joe offered.

“No, I will,” Ellen said.

Maryellen's father-in-law laughed. “How about if we
both
go upstairs with her.”

The three of them disappeared up the flight of stairs and Maryellen figured it would be at least an hour before Katie fell asleep. Katie would insist that her grandparents read to her first and then sing to her and heaven knew what else. Only after that would Katie consent to have her nap.

Maryellen treasured the peace and quiet. Since Joe and Ellen had arrived, the pregnancy had been almost free of problems. Her stress had all but disappeared, thanks to her in-laws. She missed Jon, who still held his job photographing students in Tacoma schools. Never once had he complained, but Maryellen knew he hated it. She hated it for him.

But there
was
good news from the research she'd done online. One of the largest licensing agents in the business had agreed to review Jon's work. This was no small success; if Jon was accepted as a client, it would change everything. His work would be licensed for use on book covers, calendars, ads,
all sorts of places. Jon might never know where or when his photographs would appear, which was a bit disappointing; however, the up-front money and the royalties would more than compensate for that. Maryellen was thrilled to know that someday they could be on the road and look up at a billboard and see Jon's work.

She hadn't told him yet because she didn't want to get his hopes up. For now, this was her secret and she held it close to her heart. One thing was sure: if he was accepted and his work became popular, their current money problems would be over.

Maryellen's general health had improved, and the doctor was pleased with how well the pregnancy was progressing. Judging by all the fetal activity she experienced, the baby was feeling just as good.

Caressing her abdomen, Maryellen felt fortunate to have carried this child as long as she had. In three weeks—but more likely two, according to Dr. DeGroot at her last appointment—she'd finally meet this baby of hers. As with Katie, she and Jon had decided they didn't want to know the sex of their child before the birth.

The phone rang and Maryellen answered as quickly as she could. Since he'd been hired by the portrait studio, Jon occasionally phoned to check on her. He didn't often, and she knew that was because he didn't want to risk talking to his parents.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi, Maryellen, it's Rachel. I was just calling to see how you're doing.”

“Hi, Rachel.” Maryellen responded, delighted to hear from her friend. “I'm feeling…pregnant.”

Rachel laughed. “Cliff came in to ask me if you're ready for another beauty treatment.”

Her stepfather was both kind and generous and he, like her mother, had been more than accommodating. Grace had joked that they'd hold the wedding reception, two baptisms and baby showers all at one time, during the summer. Her sister, Kelly, was due to deliver her second child a few weeks after Maryellen. The family had a lot to celebrate.

“I'm fine, actually,” Maryellen said. “My hair's still looking okay.” In fact, she planned to let it grow again. “I'll call Cliff and thank him.”

“What about your nails?”

Maryellen examined her hands and sighed expressively. “That, my friend, is a different story.”

“I thought so. Let me book you an appointment.”

“It's so far for you to come all this way,” she protested, although Maryellen would love to see her.

“Don't you worry about it. I'll be there at one o'clock on Wednesday.”

“Thanks—and when you get here be prepared to fill me in on all the gossip.”

“I will,” Rachel promised. Lowering her voice,
she added, “You heard about Teri and that chess player, didn't you?”

“You mean about her going over to Seattle and cutting Bobby Polgar's hair?”

“Oh, there's more. Much more.”

Maryellen sat up straighter. “Tell me now. I don't want to wait until Wednesday.”

Rachel gave a small giggle. “He came to Cedar Cove a little while after the chess match, which he won, in case you didn't know.”

Maryellen did. “To Cedar Cove? Bobby Polgar was in Cedar Cove?”

“Not once, but
twice.
”

“Twice.” This was even better than she'd imagined. “Tell me more.”

“Bobby's from somewhere back east. I can't remember where Teri said.”

“New York,” Maryellen supplied. Not that she was a keen follower of chess players—or chess, for that matter. But she'd read a lengthy article in the
Smithsonian
magazine about Bobby a few years ago, and for some reason remembered a lot of it. He'd been playing chess from the time he could walk. By the age of three, he was beating grown men in local chess clubs. It didn't take him long to gain recognition. She recalled one picture in which this child, this little boy, sat with his small hand extended across the chessboard for a sportsmanlike victory shake.

“Anyway,” Rachel continued, “he came to Cedar Cove the first time to pay Teri, something he failed to do when she went to Seattle.”

“I hope she took the money.” In Maryellen's view, Teri had earned it.

“She did, and they had a beer together, too.”

A beer? Somehow she couldn't picture the great Bobby Polgar drinking beer with Teri Miller. “What about the second time?”

“He came back a week later. They must've gone out to dinner but I can't say for sure because Teri's been very quiet ever since.”

“Teri? Quiet?”

Rachel lowered her voice even more until Maryellen had to strain to hear. “The truth is, I think she's falling for him.”

That was bad news. Bobby Polgar was the last man in the world Maryellen could see with a woman like Teri—irreverent and funny. She had a wicked sense of humor and a heart of gold. But Teri and Bobby Polgar, one of the world's intellectual geniuses? It'd never work.

“Speaking of romance, how's it going with you and Nate?” Maryellen asked.

“Good. I'll tell you all about it on Wednesday,” Rachel said.

“I can't wait.” For years Maryellen had watched the girls at Get Nailed bemoan the lack of romance
in their lives. Then within a year or so, they all seemed to be finding love, and in the most unlikely places, too.

Rachel had been attracted to Nate Olsen after the first date. But then Nate had informed her he was seeing a girl back home; disappointed, Rachel had tried to forget him and gone about her life. All of a sudden Nate was back and she'd fallen head over heels in love.

After her conversation with Rachel, the afternoon sped by. When Ellen brought Katie down, following her nap, she baked brownies, letting her granddaughter “help,” while Joe did some work in the garden.

“These are Jon's favorite,” Ellen said, cutting the brownies and setting them on a plate on the kitchen counter.

Conscious of the time, the older couple packed up their things and left by five. A half hour after they'd returned to their hotel, Jon came home.

Because the sun was still shining brightly and the garden smelled of lilacs, Maryellen had moved awkwardly outside to sit on the deck. She wanted to be in the fresh, clean air, enjoying the scents of spring. The deck afforded Katie a small play area, too, and Maryellen could keep an eye on her.

“Hey!” Jon said happily when he found the two of them outdoors. “How are my girls?” he asked, sweeping Katie into his arms.

Maryellen smiled as Katie wrapped her own arms around his neck and offered him a sloppy kiss. She chattered away, and Jon pretended to understand every word.

“She has a surprise for you in the kitchen,” Maryellen told him.

After hugging Maryellen and gently rubbing her belly, Jon went inside with Katie. “It's brownies,” he called out. “My favorite.”

Soon he was back, holding the plate aloft. “You mean to tell me my girls baked me brownies?”

Katie was so proud to see her father enjoying what she'd made—with her grandmother's notable assistance—that Maryellen let him assume she'd been in the kitchen herself. Jon broke off a corner and shared it with her. Katie poked it into her mouth and instantly wanted more.

“Greedy little girl, aren't you?”

Maryellen laughed. “And who's got that whole plate?”

Jon chuckled. “Point well-taken.” He sat down, relaxing in the wooden deck chair, and looked out over the view. Vashon Island was visible in the distance and so was the distinctive shape of Mount Rainier.

Legs stretched out before him, Jon slipped his arm around her shoulders. Maryellen savored the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

“I know this has been a difficult pregnancy for you,” he began. “I'm glad it's almost over.”

“It has been hard in some ways, and in others it's been…wonderful.”

Jon seemed taken aback by her comment. “Wonderful? How?”

“It's brought us together.”

“True,” he agreed.

“I don't know if I ever would've had the courage to leave the gallery. Everyone relied on me, and it was so easy to put off giving my notice. Then all of a sudden I didn't have any choice.”

“I'd like you to be home with our babies.”

“It's where I want to be—and with you, too.” Her love for Jon seemed tangible and strong.

Jon reached for a second brownie as Katie sat contentedly at his feet. “Once when I was in junior high, I ate a plate of these on my own.”

“I know. Ellen told me about it.” She'd mentioned his stepmother without thinking and felt him stiffen.

Jon stared suspiciously at the one in his hand. “She didn't bake these, did she?”

Reluctantly Maryellen nodded.

Jon threw the brownie back on the plate as if it had lost its taste. “I wish you wouldn't do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Set me up like that. What did you and Ellen do, sit around all afternoon making plans to break down my defenses? The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, right?”

“Jon, stop it,” she snapped. He'd ruined a very pleasant interlude. “We did nothing of the sort.”

She could tell by his lack of response that he didn't believe her. “I'm going upstairs to change,” he muttered, taking the brownies and walking into the kitchen through the open French doors.

It seemed so hopeless, Maryellen thought sadly. He refused to bend on this matter, refused to forgive his parents or accept their remorse.

A few minutes later, Jon was back, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “I think I'll mow the lawn,” he said as though nothing had happened.

Maryellen hoped physical labor would improve his mood. “Good idea,” she said curtly.

All at once Katie let out a cry and Jon rushed into the kitchen, Maryellen following at a slower pace. She discovered her daughter pulling the brownies out of the garbage can where Jon had tossed them.

“It's all right, sweetheart,” Jon tried to tell her.

“Grammy,” Katie cried, kicking and screaming on the floor. “I hate you. I want my Grammy.”

Jon looked at Maryellen for help, but she didn't know what to tell him. His thoughtless act had broken their daughter's heart.