Cedar Cove Collection

“What was that about?” Olivia asked him.

“Bob’s a friend.”

“You knew him before moving to Cedar Cove?”

He nodded absently as he watched the actors take their places on stage. “It was Bob’s way of encouraging me,” he muttered.

“To do what?” Olivia pressed.

Jack squared his shoulders. “To ask you to dinner.” He glanced in her direction. “Are you game?”

Are you game? was certainly an inventive invitation.

“Did you ask her yet?” Charlotte bent forward in order to get a better look at them both.

“I just did,” Jack answered.

“Ask her what?” Someone Olivia didn’t recognize called out from two rows back.

Mortified, Olivia slid down in her chair and hunched her shoulders.

Jack slid down, too. “Will you?”

She nodded. Well, why not? She’d already admitted that she was anxious to hear from Jack. Now he’d taken the next step. A dinner date.

She intended to have a very good time.

Cecilia woke Saturday morning feeling more than a little depressed. She hadn’t heard from Ian. She’d deluded herself, thinking he’d call. He might already be out to sea; she wasn’t sure whether the John F. Reynolds had left port, but then how would she know? She got her information from rumor and an occasional issue of the Chronicle. Nor had Ian mentioned being transferred from the submarine to the aircraft carrier. Apparently there was a lot he hadn’t told her.

Cecilia wished now that she’d made friends with other Navy wives. She’d tried early on, but had felt like an intruder. The women had already formed cliques and she was an outsider. Between her job and the pregnancy, she didn’t have the time or emotional reserves to socialize with them. She had declined the few invitations she’d received.

When Allison was born, no one had come to the hospital and after her daughter’s death, Cecilia had rejected all attempts—by the other wives, by Ian’s family in Georgia, by nurses and a Navy chaplain—to help her cope with the loss. As far as she was concerned, it was too little, too late. Her father hated anything to do with death and dying and avoided her entirely. Other than giving her the sympathy card, all he’d done was pat her on the back, mumbling a clichéd condolence or two.

And Ian…wasn’t there.

It did no good to brood about Ian, the pending divorce and past hurts, so Cecilia showered and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a worn, comfortable sweatshirt. As always, Saturday was reserved for errands, but today she lacked the energy for it. Once she got to the grocery, her sole purchase was a big bouquet of flowers.

The cemetery was on the outskirts of town. A dense fog had rolled in; it was impossible to see across the street, let alone to the other side of the cove and the naval shipyard. Cecilia had purposely chosen this burial site because it overlooked the naval base. Maybe that didn’t make sense, but she’d wanted their daughter to be close to her father, and this was the only way Cecilia knew to make that happen.

The lawn was spongy and damp, and her feet sank into the earth as she walked toward the grave. She squatted down and brushed a few dead leaves away from the small, flat headstone. The vase was too narrow to hold all the flowers, so she sorted through and removed the prettiest ones and arranged those inside. When she’d finished, she divided the remaining flowers among the other graves in the row.

Standing, she found Ian several feet back, watching her.

Neither spoke. He wore his thick Navy coat, with his white sailor’s cap. His hands were buried in his coat pockets, arms pressed against his sides.

“I saw you leave the grocery store,” he murmured.

“You followed me here?” She didn’t like the idea of that.

He nodded. “It isn’t a habit, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just happened to see you and wanted to talk.”

Cecilia thrust her own hands into her pockets, waiting, unsure what to say.

“I wondered if this was where you were heading,” Ian continued, “and I was right.” He paused, shrugging. “I thought we could talk.”

She stiffened. “What’s there to talk about?” The last time she’d seen him, he’d been drinking and argumentative.

Ian sighed, glancing past her, past the row of graves. “I want to apologize for showing up at the restaurant the other night.”

“Andrew told me you’re leaving on the John F. Reynolds.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, or explain the transfer.

“When did you get assigned to the carrier?”

“You’d know the answer to that if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to file for divorce,” he said with unconcealed bitterness.

“We couldn’t—can’t—even talk without snarling at each other.” Then and now. It hurt so badly to be standing on one side of their daughter’s grave while he stood on the other.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “I’m in the Navy—that hasn’t changed.”

She shook her head. The reasons were unimportant; he didn’t owe her an explanation. Defensiveness had become an automatic response, a means of keeping people at a distance. Especially him…

“Damn,” he said impatiently. “Why is it so hard to talk to you?”

Didn’t he already know? What else could she say?

“Like I said, I’m sorry about the other night. It won’t happen again.” He turned away, his movement abrupt.

“You’re leaving soon?” she called after him, not wanting him to walk off just yet.

He turned back to face her and nodded.

“I’d like to know about the transfer.”

He stared down at their daughter’s grave. “I requested it. If I’d been assigned to the carrier when Allison was born, I could’ve been airlifted home. To be with you…. It’s a moot point now, but I didn’t want to risk anything like that ever again.”

She hadn’t known such a transfer was possible.

“I’ll be away for six months,” he told her.

It sounded longer than a lifetime. Her reaction must have shown on her face.

“I can’t help that,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I suppose you’re worried about your divorce.”