92 Pacific Boulevard (16 page)

“Ben Rhodes has generously set up a trust fund for Noelle, like he did for David’s other daughter. He also offered to help me financially, knowing his son either couldn’t or wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I remember. Are you sure you should turn him down?”

“Yes,” Mary Jo was quick to tell him. “I wouldn’t feel good about it.”

Mack understood—and shared—her point of view.

“I really like this town,” Mary Jo said next in a transparent effort to change the subject. “From the moment I stepped off the ferry on Christmas Eve, I felt at peace here, almost as if…as if I belonged. I suspect that when I asked to visit this afternoon, I was secretly hoping to find a way for Noelle and me to live here.”

“I’d be happy if you did.”

Their eyes held and Mack felt the tension building between them. Under other circumstances he might have kissed her but he was afraid of frightening her off.

Mack was a patient man, though. He knew what he wanted, and every minute he spent with Mary Jo and Noelle made him more aware of what that was.

C
harlotte Rhodes worried about Ben as she poured his first coffee of the day while he retrieved the morning paper from the porch.

Ben just hadn’t been himself since returning from the cruise. Even her special homemade coconut cake didn’t interest him, and that was
highly
unusual.

When they’d come home from the Caribbean, she’d assumed his malady was physical. In the weeks since, she’d realized that what ailed him was emotional. Her husband was depressed.

“The Seniors’ Potluck is this afternoon,” she reminded him as she carried in his coffee. Harry, her cat, had curled up on Ben’s lap and made himself comfortable. Harry hadn’t initially accepted Ben, but once he had, the cat had become her husband’s constant companion.

“Would you mind if I skipped it this time?” Ben mumbled from behind the paper.

Charlotte started to protest, then stopped herself. “Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked, sitting on the ottoman by his chair. She rested her hand on his knee and gazed up at him, wanting so desperately to help.

Ben lowered the paper and looked at her briefly, then stared into the distance. “I’m fine,” he said with a halfhearted smile. “I’d just prefer to stay home this afternoon.”

“All right, dear, if that’s what you want.”

“I do.” He reached out his hand to squeeze hers. “Thanks for understanding.”

After lingering for a moment, Charlotte returned to the bedroom, where she dressed and got ready for her day. She’d never, ever thought Ben would purposely avoid the Seniors’ Potluck. It was the social highlight of their month, when they saw their dearest friends. Half the widows in town were in love with Ben, and Charlotte knew why. He wasn’t only handsome, charming and witty, he was a man of integrity. He’d truly blessed her life.

All their friends were bound to ask about him and she wasn’t sure what to say. Well, she’d think of something. Poor Ben. She had to assume his depression stemmed, at least in part, from his son David’s appalling behavior. She wished she knew how to help him through this, yet she felt at a loss. Offering comfort and reassurance was all she could do.

As soon as she’d finished dressing, Charlotte went back to the kitchen to prepare her contribution for that day’s potluck. As in most family homes, the kitchen was the center of activity. Not only did she do her cooking and baking there, but her best thinking took place while standing in front of the sink, washing dishes. Most serious discussions with her children had taken place here, as well.

What to bring to the potluck? Her broccoli lasagna had been a huge hit in January, and she’d received numerous requests for the recipe. In fact, these meals generally
turned into a recipe exchange. Some of her favorite ones came from the potlucks, and from wakes, too. The recipe for the best casserole she’d ever tasted had come from the wake for her husband Clyde’s dearest friend, Sam. Every time she served it, she thought of him. Of
both
of them.

“Ben,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen as she tied her apron around her waist. “Should I bring the stuffed peppers or my chicken potpie?”

He didn’t respond right away, as if he was considering the decision. “The potpie.”

“Good. I was leaning toward that myself.”

He nodded.

“I’ll make three, so there’ll be plenty for you, and I’ll take one over to Olivia and Jack this afternoon.”

“Great idea.” He set aside the paper to pet Harry, who slept contentedly in his lap.

Charlotte returned to the kitchen and got out the flour and lard. None of those store-bought piecrusts for her! She had the time and a recipe she’d inherited from her mother, one that couldn’t be matched.

“Come and chat with me,” she called out to Ben as she kneaded the flour and lard. The dough was soft and supple; her mother had always warned her not to knead it too long, but the timing had become a matter of instinct. Charlotte sighed. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been a wonderful cook.

Some of the recipes she’d been collecting for Justine and her new restaurant were from Charlotte’s mother. Admittedly, there were a few that were a bit challenging to translate for a modern kitchen—and a cook who couldn’t spend all day preparing them!

“What’s so amusing?” Ben asked as he slid into a kitchen chair.

“Oh, I was just thinking about my mother and her recipe for dumplings.”

“Oh?”

“For years she told me it was a secret family recipe. Some secret. Flour and water were the two main ingredients.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, there are a couple of other things, but no big deal. The real secret was in cooking them for a good long while. That’s what she used to say—a good long while. I decided that was too vague and imprecise for Justine, so I left the recipe out.”

“Have you given them to her yet?”

“No, but the collection’s nearly ready.” Many of the original recipes had been lost over the years—or never written down—and Charlotte had to reconstruct them from memory. The project had helped fill the dreary winter days. With Ben so depressed lately, she’d stayed close to home.

“I feel guilty using grilled chicken from the deli in this potpie,” Charlotte confessed. She’d picked up two of them the day before, since they came in handy and never went to waste.

Ben dismissed her concern. “No one will know.”

“I will, but it’s nearly as tasty and it does save me time.”

Ben got up and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “I heard from David yesterday afternoon.”

Charlotte’s hands momentarily stilled. The call must have come while she was out getting groceries. She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she felt compelled to remain silent. Ben would tell her as soon as he was ready.

“He wanted another loan.”

That was hardly a shock. The only time his youngest son called was when he needed financial assistance. David was a user and had no skills when it came to money management. No ethics, either—he’d lie about anything to anyone, including that young girl who’d just had his baby. And his father.

“What did you say to him?” Charlotte asked.

“I told him no.”

“And he got angry with you.” This was a pattern. Ben had held firm to his stipulation. He refused to lend his son any more money until David paid back the loans he’d already made. Over the course of their marriage, Ben had received a few checks from David, but they’d all bounced due to insufficient funds.

Nothing had upset her husband more, however, than discovering that his son had fathered a child and then abandoned the mother—and this was after his divorce. Naturally David denied that he was responsible for Mary Jo’s pregnancy, but given his history and given the girl’s sincerity, that denial was just another lie.

“We had an argument,” Ben murmured, obviously distraught.

Charlotte dumped the pie dough on a floured board. “I have a son who’s disappointed me, too,” she said, wanting to reassure him that many parents faced such trials. She rarely referred to Will as a disappointment, but the fact that he’d been repeatedly unfaithful to his wife had distressed Charlotte deeply. Like any mother, she wanted to believe the best of her child. Sadly, she recognized that was no longer possible with the man Will had become.

Ben shook his head. “Will’s transgressions are bad enough, but they don’t come close to David’s.”

“I suppose so…” At least Will hadn’t tried to steal from her or, she was positive, anyone else. And he’d been a good brother to Olivia during her illness.

“I keep wondering what I could’ve done to set David straight when he was young,” Ben said.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Charlotte countered quickly, “any more than I can blame myself for Will’s…weaknesses.”

Ben seemed to agree with her. “Intellectually I know you’re right, but that doesn’t wipe out the regrets.”

Charlotte identified with his sorrow. When she’d learned how Will had taken advantage of Grace Sherman, how he’d lied and misled her, she’d been horrified. Acknowledging character flaws in one’s child was a dull ache in a parent’s heart.

“Besides, Will’s straightened out his life,” Ben said. “It sure looks like it, anyway.”

Charlotte fervently hoped that was the case, but she couldn’t be positive. He’d never shown her that deceitful side of himself. Outwardly he was the perfect son but she couldn’t ignore the less-than-salutary aspects of his behavior.

“I talked to him recently,” she said, “and the gallery seems to be doing well. It’s good to see him excited about what’s happening there.”

“I heard he’s seeing Shirley Bliss.”

Charlotte had heard that bit of local gossip, too. The artist had immediately caught her son’s eye. She hoped this relationship was right for them.

Ben wandered back to the living room and his paper, and Charlotte continued her cooking. After she’d placed the bottom crusts in three different casserole dishes, she made the gravy and added the cut-up chicken and sautéed vegetables. When she’d finished, she poured the mixture into the piecrusts, arranged the strips of lattice on top and set all three dishes in the oven.

She threw a load of laundry in the washer, then joined Ben in the living room. He was doing the crossword puzzle and she sat across from him and picked up her knitting. For forty-five minutes they worked quietly while the pies baked, lost in their own thoughts.

Just before eleven-thirty, Charlotte removed the hot dishes from the oven, put on her coat and retrieved her purse. This was the first potluck she and Ben hadn’t attended as a couple since they were married.

Ben carried the warm chicken pie to the car and kissed her before she left. “Have a good time.”

She kissed him back. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“No need to rush. Harry and I will hold the fort.”

Despite his encouragement to linger and visit with their friends, Charlotte returned to the house two hours later, her head buzzing.

Ben met her at the door and took the empty casserole dish from her hands. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, yes, I always do. Everyone asked after you and I said you were a bit under the weather.” Thankfully, she’d managed to sidestep other questions. A number of their friends had pressed her for details, certain Ben must be suffering from a nasty virus currently going around. She’d reassured everyone that Ben was fine, and physically he was. Emotionally, that was another story.

He brought the empty dish to the kitchen sink and looked at her, frowning slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing’s
wrong,
but I do have some interesting news.”

“Sit down and tell me.”

Charlotte pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sheriff Davis stopped by to speak to the group,” she said.

Ben reached for the notice mailed once a month to seniors who belonged to the center. Charlotte had propped it on the kitchen table. He quickly scanned the details. “It says here that Grace was supposed to be the guest speaker.”

“Oh, she was, and she did a fabulous job.” Although Charlotte volunteered at the library, it never ceased to astonish her how many books she hadn’t noticed. “Grace was kind enough to bring in a box of bestsellers and she gave a short synopsis of each. Oh, Ben, they all sound like such good stories. I made a list of several I knew we’d both enjoy.”

“When did Sheriff Davis speak?”

“After Grace. He came by unexpectedly and asked to address the group.” Troy visited once or twice a year but generally as a scheduled speaker. Charlotte had always been fond of him and appreciated his tips for seniors.

“What did he have to say? Another warning about not giving out personal information over the phone?”

“Not this time. He asked for our help.”

“How so?”

Charlotte drew her chair closer to the table. “You remember reading about the remains in the cave outside town, don’t you?”

“Of course. It was a little before Christmas. And there’ve been a few press and TV stories since.”

“Yes, and now there’s additional information. According to the coroner’s report, the remains are those of a young man who had Down syndrome. The sheriff asked if any of us remembered a family with a Down syndrome boy.”

“Was someone able to help him?” Ben asked.

Charlotte shook her head. “There was plenty of discussion, and Bess had a vague recollection of a woman with such a child. I do, too, but for the life of me I can’t remember who she was.”

“I’m sure you will in time.”

One of the most annoying effects of aging was this forgetfulness, these infernal memory gaps. The name was there, right on the edge of her consciousness, but it remained just out of reach. This was going to bother her until she came up with it.

“You’ll probably think of it in the middle of the night,” Ben said.

His confidence in her was reassuring.

“After Troy left, Bess and I talked about who it might be. We threw around a few names but none of them felt right. It seems to me the woman was a relative of someone who once lived here—a cousin, aunt or some such. Why can’t I remember?” She tapped the side of her head with her index finger.

Ben sat back in his chair. “Tell me what you
do
remember and maybe that’ll jog your mind.”

“I know I met the boy once.”

“Just once?”

“Yes, his aunt had him, I believe…At least, that’s what I seem to recall. She complained to me that his mother kept him inside most of the time. The mother, whose name has completely escaped me, was terribly
protective of him, sheltering him from just about everyone. She was something of a recluse herself, I believe.”

“When was this?”

Charlotte shook her head. It’d been so many years now…“I can’t say for sure, three or four decades ago. Maybe more. His aunt or whoever it was had taken him to the waterfront park. He was enthralled with it. She said it was probably the first time he’d ever set foot in a park.”

“What were they doing?”

“Even now I can see that boy on the merry-go-round. He was laughing, so happy to be outside in the sunshine.”

Her memory was slowly coming back. Talking about it was helping, just as Ben had suggested.

“Go on,” he urged.