Christmas on the Coast Page 3

  But making amends came first. She wasn’t nearly done with that.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure out what you want to do. I’m always here to talk.” Julie grabbed her purse and headed out the door, then paused. “You should think about going with Kirk to see those puppies.”

  Alone at last, Mary locked the door behind Julie and heaved a sigh. She liked solitude, found it relaxing, except when it got lonely. Automatically, she looked at the heart-shaped dog bed beside the counter, now empty, and sadness weighed down her shoulders. Baby hadn’t just been any dog and couldn’t be replaced by some puppy Kirk wanted to show her. The Maltipoo had gotten her through a lot of hard times, had stuck around when Mary had been truly alone in the world.

  She’d flicked off the lights and was heading toward the cash register when she heard a sound from the far side of the store.

  “Victims of violent crimes, huh?” The voice was female and oddly familiar.

  Heart pounding, Mary moved behind the counter where she kept her handgun. “Who’s there?” She hadn’t done her nightly walk-through yet, but the store was small. She hadn’t thought any customers were present.

  A fortysomething woman strolled out from behind the shelf of cozy mysteries. Dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, with dark dyed hair cut in an outdated shag, she approached Mary. Maybe she was more like fiftysomething, because she had deep grooves beside her mouth and wrinkles between her eyebrows. She looked... Mary’s heart nearly stopped.

  She looked like Imogene. Different hair, stockier, older, but...

  She was Imogene.

  Mary sank down onto the stool behind the register, sliding her handgun back into the drawer. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she rasped out.

  One side of the woman’s mouth quirked up in a sarcastic smile. “You’ll be thrilled to know I’m in town for a few days.” She turned toward the door, then looked over her shoulder. “I just wanted to let you know I’m around. We’ll talk soon, Stepmommy dearest.”

  * * *

  AMBER KNELT IN the sandy dirt outside her cottage, using the little trowel she’d brought out, trying to open a package of bulbs and to ignore the nervous feeling in her stomach.

  “There she is, Daddy!” Davey’s voice drifted from the cottage next door, and she turned to see him walking beside Paul, nearly hidden by the huge bouquet of flowers he was carrying.

  She watched them come in her direction. Davey was chattering about something, and Paul’s head was bent to the side, listening. Paul wore jeans and a polo shirt, but he managed to rock the plain, conservative outfit because of his impressively muscular frame. One of those triangle ones—broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Not that she was looking, really.

  She hadn’t seen the pair of them at all yesterday, which had been just fine. After their late-night visit on Wednesday, she’d slept in and taken it easy. Stamina still wasn’t her strong point. And she had to admit she’d been disconcerted by the whole episode. Unable to figure out if Paul was cool and attractive or a complete basket case. Well, he was obviously attractive—Amber had a weakness for the handsome, haunted ones—but that didn’t matter. There was no way she was getting into any relationship, especially not with Paul. Not when she knew a secret he could never, ever find out about.

  The pair of them came up her front walkway. “We brought flowers to ’pologize!” Davey thrust the big bouquet at her.

  “Wow, thank you!” She buried her face in a mix of mums, sunflowers and minicarnations in fall colors. “I love flowers. That’s what I’m planting now.” She looked up at Paul. “But you didn’t have to.”

  “We intruded the other night, kept you up late. It’s the least we can do.”

  Davey sat down beside her and picked up the trowel she’d been using. He poked at the dirt a few times and then, when he saw her watching him, put it down. “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked. “Don’t be sorry, buddy. Dig a hole for me. Dig a whole row of them if you want.”

  “Really?” Davey looked at his father as if he needed a second vote of approval.

  “If you’re sure,” he said. He sounded almost as surprised as Davey had.

  “Of course! Hold these a second.” She handed the bouquet to Paul and then leaned over beside Davey. “Just dig a little hole, about as deep as the shovel is, like this.” She dug one to demonstrate and then handed the shovel to Davey. “We’ll put one of these lumpy brown balls in each hole, and cover them up, and next spring, they’ll grow into beautiful flowers.”

  “Cool!” He got to work immediately.

  “It’s the Tom Sawyer strategy,” she said to Paul as she retrieved the flowers. “Why do your own work if you can get someone else to do it for you?”

  “You’d better tell him where to dig, or you’ll get a haphazard mess.”

  She lifted a shoulder, curious about his apparently rigid set of standards for someone else’s garden. “Haphazard is fine. They’re daffodil bulbs.” She stood. “Let me get these into water. I’ll be right back out.”

  Inside, as she found a vase and cut the stems, she found herself smiling. She did love flowers, and it was sweet of them to bring them over. She poked the flowers into the vase, arranging them until they looked balanced, and set them on her kitchen table.

  A glance at the wall clock stole her smile. Twenty minutes until she had to make her call. And she shouldn’t worry, wasn’t supposed to be worrying, but she couldn’t help it.

  She squared her shoulders and walked back outside, determined to enjoy every moment of rare November warmth and sunshine. Davey and Paul were still digging—holes in neat rows, she noticed—and a big dark pickup had pulled up in front of their cottage. As she walked down her porch steps, a silver-haired man got out and hurried around to help a woman climb down from the passenger seat.

  “Looks like you have company,” she commented to Paul and Davey.

  Davey looked over. “Grammy! Grampa! Over here!” He waved the shovel back and forth, flinging dirt onto Paul.

  “They said they were coming for the weekend, but I didn’t know that meant Friday morning.” Paul stood and brushed himself off, a muscle tensing in his face. “Come on, Davey. Let’s get cleaned up and go see them.”

  “I wanna dig more holes,” the child protested.

  “They’re welcome to come over here and sit on my porch,” Amber offered, since they were already headed this way. “I’ll go inside and you can visit while Davey digs.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Paul said, but the older couple had already reached her sidewalk and were headed toward the house.

  She guessed, from Paul’s reaction, that they weren’t his parents, but Wendy’s. They were older than she would have expected given Wendy’s age, the man with fully white hair, the woman blonde but walking carefully, holding her husband’s arm. He wore beige slacks and a sport coat, while she was chic in white pants and a sweater that looked like cashmere. Country-club clothes.

  “Look, Grammy, Grampa, I’m diggin’ holes!” Davey stood to greet them, gesturing with his shovel, flinging a little more dirt. He didn’t hug them.

  “So you are,” the woman said, and leaned down so he could kiss her cheek. The man ruffled Davey’s hair. Then they both looked expectantly at Paul.

  “Ferguson, Georgiana,” he said, “I’d like for you to meet Amber Rowe.”

  Amber held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure,” she said, and after a slight hesitation, Ferguson shook her hand. Georgiana didn’t offer her hand at all.

  “Thought your place was next door,” Ferguson said to Paul.

  “It is,” Paul began.

  Davey had gone back to digging, but he looked over his shoulder. “This is Miss Amber’s house,” he said.

  “Oh!” Georgiana sounded taken aback.

  Paul’s face reddened. “We’re just here for a quick visit,” he said. “We
can head over and you can see our new cottage.”

  “Da-ad,” Davey whined, “I wanna dig!”

  “Seems I may have created a monster,” Amber said when none of the others spoke up. “Tell you what, Davey, you can come back another time and dig me more holes.”

  Davey’s lower lip stuck out.

  “You were a big help.” She smiled at him and held out her hand for the little shovel.

  “Come on, Davey,” Paul said. “We need to show Grammy and Grampa your new room. And find out about that new truck they’re driving.”

  Davey thrust the digger into Amber’s hand and turned, still sulking.

  “I know who you are,” Georgiana said suddenly. “You’re the woman who wrote that book.”

  Amber smiled. The publisher had insisted on putting her picture on the book’s back cover, and there had been a few small news stories about the book. Georgiana must have seen one of them, or else picked up the book—which would make sense, given that her daughter’s story was in it. “That’s right, I am. Did you read it?”

  “Yes.” Georgiana’s voice was stiff, and then she pressed her lips together.

  Okay, then.

  “Of course, you didn’t really know her.” Georgiana frowned. “I shouldn’t be surprised the section about her was so off base.”

  Heat rose up Amber’s neck. But then she remembered that this was a grieving mother and father. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “Wendy seemed like a lovely person.”

  Georgiana’s chin quivered. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

  Amber bit her lip to keep from spouting her credentials: she’d lost a family member to cancer, had gone through treatment herself, not once but twice, and now...realization jerked at her and she slid out her phone to check the time. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I have a phone call to make.” She was ten minutes late, and she could only pray she hadn’t missed Dr. Weber. “It was nice to meet you,” she added over her shoulder as she hurried up the stairs and inside.

  She called the doctor and learned, with relief, that she was still in, but with a patient. “Yes, I’ll hold,” she said.

  Through the open window, she could hear arguing.

  “It was all so negative,” Georgiana was saying.

  “Our Wendy wasn’t like that,” Ferguson added.

  “C’mon, let’s go see my room!” That was Davey’s loud voice, and when she looked out, she saw that they’d headed off, their voices fading as they continued to argue.

  She fingered through her travel brochures. She was going to get away from here, and that little family and its arguments and sorrow would be a thing of the past for her. By the time she returned from her trip, Paul and Davey might well be done with their three-month stint at the Healing Heroes cottage.

  “Amber?” came Dr. Weber’s voice on the line. “Good news and bad news about the biopsy.”

  Her stomach twisted. “Tell me.”

  “The good news is, it’s not invasive carcinoma,” she said. “It’s what we call atypical endometrial hyperplasia. An accumulation of abnormal cells, which isn’t cancer, but can be a forerunner. Given your history...”

  Amber pushed out words through a tight throat. “Can the cells be removed?”

  “No need, right now, since it was an excisional biopsy. Everything is probably fine. But we’d like to keep an eye on it and do regular retesting, that’s all.”

  Amber cleared her throat. “I’ve been planning a trip overseas.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t go. Where and how long?”

  She cleared her throat again. “India and the Far East, for several months right after the holidays.”

  “Hmm.” The doctor was quiet for a moment. “We could retest again right before you go. And of course, there are doctors and hospitals everywhere.” But there was reservation in her voice.

  “Be honest with me. What do you think I should do?”

  Dr. Weber paused. They’d been through a lot together, and knew each other well, and Amber appreciated that the other woman wouldn’t dismiss her concerns, but neither would she argue the most conservative route just to be safe. “You should give it some thought,” she said finally. “If the travel is a bucket list item, then you should go. But you also want to consider your daughter, and—”

  “I have to do the safest thing possible, for her sake,” Amber interrupted. “Which would be staying stateside. Right?”

  Dr. Weber sighed. “Right. Especially since your chemo caused some compromised lung function. You’re in good shape now, but if you were to contract a virus...well, as I said, give it some thought. Maybe there’s a modified type of trip you could take.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Amber said, disappointment pressing down on her. She already knew the answer. She’d have to stay home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PAUL LED HIS IN-LAWS back toward his cottage, worrying about Amber. She’d hurried off so fast. Had she been offended by Georgiana’s remarks about her book?

  It looked like he might have another apology to make to Amber, and truthfully, he didn’t hate the thought of that.

  He lifted his face to the warm fall breeze and let his gaze rest on the bay. Sunlight from the east slanted over it, making its surface like a mirror. He could see a fishing boat, and beyond that, a little hummock with what looked like a duck blind built atop it.

  “I just don’t like that woman,” Georgiana said, making it clear that Amber was still on her mind, too. “Those tattoos and that attitude. Keep Davey away from her.”

  “Now, Georgie,” Ferguson said. “You know all the young people have tattoos nowadays. And what attitude? She was perfectly friendly.”

  “Of course you’d like her,” Georgiana said, causing Ferguson to roll his eyes. Paul had no idea what that was all about.

  He hated that Georgiana had been rude to Amber, but he couldn’t bring himself to make an issue of it. Ferguson and Georgiana had been so good to Davey, especially in the months right after Wendy had died. Davey’s grandparents had set aside their own grief to spend extra time with Davey and make sure he was okay. They’d paid for a well-known child therapist to have several sessions with Davey, and while Paul usually tried to avoid taking money or expensive gifts from them, in that instance, he hadn’t protested. They’d been right: whatever would help Davey was what they should do.

  Overhead, geese honked their mournful cry as they flew in a neat V shape. A cool wind whistled through the pines next to his cottage. It all sounded lonely.

  Or maybe that was just him projecting his own feelings. “I’m glad you came to see Davey,” he said, pausing to give the pair a chance to catch up with him and Davey.

  “We didn’t just come,” Ferguson said. “We brought Davey a present.”

  “I like presents,” Davey said promptly. “Where is it?”

  “It’s in the back of the truck.”

  Which meant it was big. Ferguson and Georgiana didn’t even own a truck, so they must have borrowed or rented this one.

  Davey ran toward the truck, but Ferguson called after him. “Uh-uh. You wait beside Grandma and close your eyes. Paul, give me a hand here.”

  Paul smiled, even though he was half groaning inside. What had Davey’s indulgent grandparents bought him now?

  Ferguson opened the back tailgate and slid a ramp out, and Paul grabbed the other side. Ferguson was known for overdoing it with his already-bad back. They eased the ramp to the ground and then Ferguson grabbed some kind of remote from the truck’s bed and started pushing buttons. “You can open your eyes now,” he called to Davey.

  Davey and Paul gasped in unison as a child-sized, cherry-red ride-on jeep made its way down the ramp. “For the beach,” Ferguson said.

  Most grandparents would have bought their grandchild a bucket and shovel for the beach.

  “Can I
drive it now?” Davey asked.

  “You sure can,” Ferguson said.

  “Wait a minute,” Paul said. “It’s beautiful and we appreciate it, but I’m not sure it’s safe for a boy as young as Davey.”

  “I’m big,” Davey said, a sulky edge entering his tone. “I’m almost five.”

  “An adult can control everything through this remote,” Ferguson explained, holding it out so Paul could see.

  “But I’ll need to supervise him every second,” Paul said as Davey climbed into the jeep and started examining it. “Because he’ll definitely want to ride it every second.”

  And it’s way too expensive, he added to himself. But that was par for the course.

  “You’re just here to do some rehab, right? So you’ll have plenty of time to supervise him.” In Georgiana’s voice was a slight edge of disapproval. They didn’t really understand PTSD, didn’t think it was a legitimate illness.

  Paul hadn’t, either, not really, until he’d experienced it for himself. “I’ll be doing a volunteer gig here. I’ll find out more about it in the next few days.” Things were still a bit up in the air, from what he understood. “Davey will be going to prekindergarten, just like he did back home.”

  “Public school?” Georgiana asked, her eyebrows shooting up.

  “Actually, no,” he said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with public school, and that’s likely where Davey will get most of his education. But there’s a private school connected with the program I’m doing, and they provide free tuition as part of the package.”

  Georgiana considered that while Ferguson showed Davey all the details of the little red vehicle and got him driving it, slowly, up and down the driveway.

  Sarge let out a loud, deep baying bark from inside. “Uh-oh,” Paul said, glad for a moment’s escape from his mother-in-law. “I’d better bring Sarge out so he can join the fun.” He opened the front door and Sarge ran out.

  After lifting his leg by a clump of weeds, Sarge trotted over to the jeep. He was so well trained that Paul didn’t keep him on a leash, especially in this low-traffic neighborhood.