Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series, Volume 3 (15 page)

Will sent her a look of sympathy. He'd heard about those skeletal remains; it'd been in the news for weeks. Every time there was the tiniest bit of information, it was blown out of all proportion, and interest was revived. One of the Seattle television stations appeared to be leading the way.

“You'd think, with economic problems, political scandals and natural disasters, there'd be more important things for them to report on,” he said.

“But that's exactly why this story is so interesting to people—it's a distraction. An escape. And it's local.”

“Yeah, I guess so. And everyone loves a mystery.”

“Those reporters have made life for Shaw just as difficult,” she went on, “catching him at Mocha Mama's, hounding him for more details. The poor kid doesn't know what to say or do. It's a mess.”

Will was finished with this topic—he didn't have anything else to add—but she seemed preoccupied and unsettled. The more she mentioned the incident, the more agitated she became. “The sheriff's doing what he can, but for heaven's sake, those bones have been there for years and years!”

Will nodded; that was true enough.

“All this negative attention has drawn Tanni and Shaw closer together. I think they both need breathing room. A break from each other.”

“It couldn't hurt,” Will agreed. After a moment, he said, “Shaw's a talented artist. Especially of portraits.”

“Tanni is, too,” she was quick to remind him.

“Definitely, although she doesn't want her work displayed.”

“I don't understand it. Ever since we lost…my husband, Tanni insists her work is for her alone. I'd hoped that once Shaw's portraits were displayed in the gallery, she'd be willing to place a couple of her pieces there, too.”

Will had also hoped for that. Not because he felt her work would sell easily. It wouldn't. Her paintings and drawings were dark, moody and didn't really appeal to him. But he believed in presenting a range of work. And if he were to display Tanni's art, he'd have more of an opportunity to talk to Shirley. Maybe not the most commendable of motives, but he couldn't deny it.

“When I saw Tanni before Christmas,” he said, “I talked to her about putting her art in the gallery.”

“You did?” Shirley's gaze shot to him.

“Yes. She's as good as Shaw, and she's more versatile.”

“She wasn't interested, right?”

“Right.” He supposed that eventually she'd agree, but he hadn't pressured her. The girl seemed to champion her boyfriend, wanting to give him the edge. She'd soon learn what a mistake
that
was, he thought cynically.

“I appreciate what you've already done for Shaw.”

He shrugged. Again, his motives had been far from pure. Yes, Shaw was talented, but Will knew very well that he might not have taken the kid's work to Larry Knight if not for his connection to Shirley.

“I might be able to help you,” he said, reaching for his wine.

That immediately got Shirley's interest. “How?”

“The friend I mentioned.”

“Yes?”

“It's Larry Knight.”

Shirley pressed her hand to her heart. “
The
Larry Knight?”

“Yes. He's from San Diego, but the two of us worked together on a charity function some time ago in Atlanta. We've kept in touch through the years.” Actually, Georgia, his ex, had done a lot of the work, heading up the volunteer committee. But she'd never been comfortable in the limelight, unlike Will, who enjoyed being the center of attention. So she'd asked him to handle the public functions.

“You mean to say
Larry Knight
—one of the best-known artists in the country—is the one who looked at Shaw's work?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my goodness…”

“I'm thinking I might ask another favor of Larry,” he said. Picking up his menu, he read through it, giving Shirley a chance to consider his words.

“What kind of favor?” Her voice was guarded.

Will glanced over the top of his menu. “As you know, Larry has a…certain amount of influence with art schools around the country.”

“Yes…I imagine he would,” she said breathlessly.

Will was determined not to offer; he wanted Shirley to ask, wanted her to understand that she was in his debt. He'd had plenty of experience at cajoling and persuading women. Interesting how those skills, for lack of a better word, kicked in so automatically.

“You…said he was impressed with Shaw's work?” she began.

“Larry had quite a bit to say about Shaw.” Will set his menu aside. “I believe I'll have the fried oysters. This says they're from the Shelton area.”

She nodded absently.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

“Decided?” Her eyes met his; a moment later, she appeared to realize he was referring to her dinner order. “Oh, sorry, I haven't looked.” She scanned the list. “Their crab Louie's always been one of my favorites.”

“You should try something different.”

Her brow creased in a frown. “Why?”

“Be…cause,” he said, dragging out the word, “if you're anything like me, you tend to order the same dishes from the same restaurants. Before you know it, you're in a rut.”

The lines on her forehead gradually relaxed. “You're
right. That's exactly what I do. I order chili rellenos when I'm eating Mexican and the chicken hot-sauce noodles when I order Chinese.”

“Consistency is comforting,” he said, “but every once in a while it's good to venture out, try something new. Take a risk.” He hoped she understood that he was talking about more than food—that he was referring to their relationship, too.

He guessed she'd been with one man her entire adult life and the thought of being with another intimidated her. Will hoped his advice would expand her view of more than just meal choices.

Shirley picked up the menu again and studied it carefully.

“I recommend the fried oysters,” he told her. “I had them for the first time a few weeks ago. See?” he said with a grin. “I tried something new and I liked it.”

She shook her head. “I already know I don't like oysters.”

Not easily discouraged, Will asked, “When's the last time you ate them?”

“I don't remember.”

“Then do it.”

She shook her head again. “I could order the seafood sampler—it includes oysters and shrimp and cod.”

“Excellent.”

“But all that fried food…” She frowned.

Will listened to her go through practically the entire menu, discussing each selection in detail and dismissing one after the other. The waitress returned three times before Shirley was finally ready to order.

She looked at Will and grinned sheepishly. “I'll have the—”

“Oysters,” he said, cutting her off. “The lady will try the oysters.”

“Actually, I won't,” Shirley said. “I'd like the crab Louie.” She threw Will an apologetic glance. “I'd rather stick to something familiar.”

He wondered if there was a message to him in these words—a response to his message. “I'll give you one of my oysters and you can try it.” That seemed a fair compromise.

“Okay.”

The waitress left and Shirley had a little more of her wine. “You were telling me about Larry Knight.”

“Ah, yes.” He rested his back against the polished wood bench and lifted his glass. “Like I was saying, Larry has a lot of sway with art schools around the country.”

Shirley soaked in every word. “Do you think he might open doors for Shaw? I mean, I don't know what Shaw's financial situation is. I seem to remember Tanni telling me his father disapproves of Shaw's dream of being an artist. He's an attorney and wants Shaw to attend law school. He'd probably need a scholarship.”

That was understood; one look at Shaw was enough to convince Will that the kid didn't have a dime to his name. “I figured he would.”

“Would you be willing to do that for Shaw? To ask Larry?”

But Will knew she also welcomed the prospect of Shaw's departure, for her daughter's sake.

“Only if
you
believe Shaw's talent is sufficient,” he said.

“Oh, I do,” she said earnestly.

Will set his glass on the table, holding on to the stem, gently swirling the wine. “I'm sure Larry gets these sorts of requests all the time.”

“I'm sure he does. I didn't mean to imply that he should
recommend Shaw unless his talent warrants such an advantage.”

He nodded. “I've already had him look at Shaw's work, so Larry's familiar with what the boy can do.”

“Then you'll ask?”

He nodded again, slowly. “I'll call Larry on Monday morning, then let you know what he has to say.”

Shirley's face lit up with a huge smile. “I can't tell you how grateful I am.”

He couldn't resist the thought that maybe, when the time came, she could
show
him. No, that was the old Will talking, he reminded himself. The new Will wanted something more genuine with this woman. Something lasting.

Their meal was splendid and, true to her word, Shirley sampled one of his oysters.

“Well?” he asked, confident that she'd order them the next time they dined at D.D.'s. “What did you think?”

She smiled across the table at him. “It was better than I remembered. But then, it's hard to find fault with anything deep-fried.” With a wry grimace, she added, “That's why I usually stay away from that kind of food.”

Will chuckled. “Me, too. But I allow myself extravagances on special occasions.” He wanted her to understand that being with her
was
one of those occasions.

“All in all, though…”

“Yes?” he said, eager to hear her verdict.

“I'll stick with the crab Louie.”

Fourteen

“C
ut off a little more on the sides,” thirteen-year-old Jolene instructed Rachel, examining her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Rachel had set her up in the small hallway bathroom for a haircut. Some of their best conversations came while she was busy with Jolene's hair.

Over the years, Rachel had developed a theory about why that was the case. When she was working on a customer's hair, Rachel was in that person's space—by invitation. This proximity created a sense of intimacy that made clients feel comfortable enough to share some of the most private details of their lives. She figured that was also why so much gossip got started—or at least spread—at hair salons.

“It looks really cute,” Rachel said.

Jolene turned her head from side to side. “You think so?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“I do.” Rachel plugged in the electric razor. “Lean forward and tuck your chin down.”

“Do you think Dad will like my hair this short?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel assured her, although she wasn't
sure. Jolene bowed her head, and Rachel clipped the hair at the base of the girl's neck.

When she'd finished, Jolene raised her head and their eyes met in the bathroom mirror. Slowly Jolene exhaled. “I'm not mad at you and my dad anymore.”

“Good.” It'd been an uncomfortable week or so after Jolene had caught the two of them in bed in the middle of the afternoon. Rachel could laugh about it now.

Not Bruce.

He'd been in such a state—of embarrassment, frustration and anger—that it'd taken him days to put the incident behind him.

Meanwhile, Jolene had given them both the silent treatment for nearly a week.

“I'm glad you're my stepmother,” she said.

“I'm glad I am, too.” Rachel held the girl's gaze in the mirror. “I like being your stepmother.”

Jolene pointedly broke eye contact. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to be mad?”

Rachel wasn't about to make that kind of promise. “I'll try not to be. Okay?”

“Okay.” With an exaggerated sigh, the girl repeated, “I'm glad you're my stepmother,” then added, “but I really wish you and my dad weren't married.”

The words stung and Rachel couldn't respond for a moment. “I love you and your father very much, Jolene. It's important for me to be part of your family.”

“I know. Dad needs you…and I do, too. I feel selfish and mean for…for complaining.”

“Then we should talk about it.” Rachel needed to put aside her own emotions and listen carefully to what Jolene was saying. “Tell me why you feel this way.”

Rachel sat on the edge of the bathtub, hands braced
on either side, ankles crossed, hoping that if she looked relaxed, she'd encourage Jolene to confide in her.

“But…I don't want you to get mad at me.”

Rachel shook her head and reached out to give the girl's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Jolene kept her head lowered. “Before you and Dad got married, I was afraid that if…if you moved into the house, Dad wouldn't have time for me anymore.”

“Do you think that's happened?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “Not exactly.”

That was good, because Rachel knew Bruce had put a lot of effort into spending extra time with his daughter. He did more than drop her off at basketball practice these days. Twice now he'd stayed and watched, just so Jolene would know he was interested. Naturally, when the actual games started, Bruce and Rachel would attend them together.

“What do you mean, not exactly?” she asked, unwilling to leave the smallest detail unexplored.

“It isn't just Dad,” Jolene whispered.

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“You were always my…special friend. I could talk to you about anything.”

“That hasn't changed.” At least, not to Rachel it hadn't.

“Yes, it has,” Jolene insisted.