The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (9 page)

Her chin quivered and her eyes glistened, but she was determined enough not to let a tear fall. Still, he could see she'd been afraid he was unfaithful. She couldn't depend on him. He felt as low as the soles of his boots.

“I wouldn't hurt you like that, honey,” he said, willing her to sense how much he meant it. Winning her back was going to be harder than he'd thought. He'd broken her trust in one area and now she didn't seem able to trust him about anything. “I'll be back tomorrow at eight-thirty to go with you to Carson's doctor's appointment.”

Before she could object, he turned and strode back to the cruiser. Sometimes, it was best to withdraw from the field and live to fight another day.

* * *

Anne watched Daniel pull away from the curb and drive slowly down the block. She was so hollow inside she didn't know how to name what she was feeling. Part of her ached to run after the cruiser and call him back. Part of her held firm. This was a fight worth fighting. She couldn't go back to him unless she won it.

“Did you tell him?” Her mother came up behind her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“No.”

“Lord knows I've no use for the man, but he deserves to be told. Might shake some sense into him.”

“He'll find out sooner or later. Probably sooner.” It wasn't a secret that would keep. When she was carrying Carson, she hardly showed at all until the end of her fifth month. But this pregnancy felt different. Like a balloon that had been blown up once, she suspected her tummy would pop out a lot quicker this time.

If Daniel knew she was pregnant again, he'd say anything to make her come home. But even if he did, how would she know if he really meant it?

How could she ever tell whether it was her he wanted or if the only tie binding him to her was his children? After all, he was only coming back tomorrow morning for Carson's appointment. Especially with Lacy Evans back in town, Anne needed to know Daniel loved her for her, not just because she was the mother of his son. Not just because he was chained to her by a wedding vow.

If she and Daniel couldn't re-form their circle of two . . . if their love wasn't enough to get Danny through this gambling problem . . . how could they ever hope to create a safe place between them, a sweet little hollow for their children to take shelter in?

 

—Marvin Tyler, beloved husband of Mary, father of Jacob, Laura, Steven, and Mark

 

 

J
ake cranked up the oldies station as he and Lacy headed east in his pickup on the highway that wound around Lake Jewel. On the town side of the lake, there was an expansive public park. Part of the Bates College campus was snugged up against its southwest cove. Once they passed the Coldwater Cove marina on the north side of the lake, thick woods rose up on either side of the drive.

Lacy had managed to get Thursday off from the paper, the same day that he was regularly free from the Green Apple. The fact that she was willing to arrange her life to suit his schedule was a good sign. All week, he'd been looking forward to being with her at the lake house.

With any luck, he could turn Thursdays into a standing all-day date.

Conversation flowed easily between them. Since his injury, it had been hard to talk to women for longer than he could make a cup of coffee last. Invariably, they wanted to hear him rehash what had happened to him in Afghanistan and how he
felt
about it. Even if he could name what he was feeling, what was the good in dredging it all up again?

Lacy treated him as if nothing had changed. If she had the slightest curiosity about his time in Helmand province, she kept it to herself.

She was full of stories about her first week at the
Coldwater Gazette
. They were sure never to make the paper itself.

“Turns out, there's a running feud between Wanda and Marjorie Chubb for some unknown reason,” Lacy said. “I don't remember them being at odds when I wrote for the paper before.”

“They may have been and you didn't notice. High school kids are generally too wrapped up in themselves to pay attention to what's going on with the adults around them.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Big Stuff,” she said. “I was sort of invisible in high school.”

“No, you weren't.”
Mr. Big Stuff, huh?
He liked that.

“OK, name one thing you remember about me.”

She'd been his best friend's girl and therefore off-limits. He and Daniel always had each other's backs, on the gridiron and off. But things were different now and he couldn't very well bring up Lacy's old boyfriend as an excuse for not remembering things about her in high school. He might be out of practice, but he was certain that was not the way to make points with her.

He pulled a nugget out of thin air. “I remember you played in pep band.”

“Oh, yeah. What instrument?”

“How should I know? They all sound like kazoos to me.”

She laughed. “I can see it now—the Fighting Marmots All-Kazoo Marching Band! They ought to book us for the Macy's parade.”

Jake laughed with her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shared laughter with a woman that wasn't forced.

“But anyway,” Lacy went on, “according to Georgina—the Queen Bee of Gossips at the
Gazette
—there is no chance Wanda will ever fire her longest-standing employee.”

“Why is that?” Jake asked.

“Not sure, but my theory is that since Marjorie is the captain of the Methodist prayer chain, she must know where all the bodies are buried.”

Jake chuckled. “She probably does at that, but Marjorie means well. I know it seems like she's spreading gossip, but she really does care about people.”

When he first came home and was adrift in the sea of changes his new leg had made to his life, Marjorie and her like-minded friends had prayed for him daily. And let him know they were doing so. It chafed at him in the beginning that other people thought he needed prayer.

But then it started to feel good to know that there were people who stopped what they were doing to think about him and what he was going through. Then once he settled in at the Green Apple, the gaggle of self-proclaimed prayer warriors sort of loved him into attending the Wednesday night chapel service for people whose jobs wouldn't let them go on Sunday morning.

He'd found a measure of peace there. And a community of folks who were willing to come alongside him while he found a way to feel like he belonged again.

“Oh, that's right,” Lacy said. “You've gone all churchy on me.”

“Nothing wrong with finding a little faith,” he said. “Hey, what's your problem? You were raised in that church.”

“Yeah, but I sort of outgrew it.”

“Nobody outgrows the need for something to believe in.”

“It's not about faith. It's just church itself. I mean, who needs everybody all up in everyone's business?”

“So it doesn't make you feel good to know you were being prayed for while you were in trouble back in Boston?”

“Of course not.” She glared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. “The prayer chain is just Coldwater's way of broadcasting my failures.”

“Everyone fails at something.”

“Yeah, I know. But it's almost like they're saying, ‘Who do you think you are? See? We knew you couldn't cut it in the big wide world.'”

The prayer chain wasn't saying that at all. That attitude was coming straight from Lacy herself.
She
evidently didn't think she could cut it.

“What else happened at the paper this week?” Jake asked to change the subject. This was far too serious a topic for a first date.

She grinned. “I got the biggest kick out of some of the weekly notices sent to the paper. Did you see the one from the library?”

Jake shook his head. He didn't take the
Gazette,
but now that Lacy was writing for it, he needed to fix that immediately. “I must have missed that one.”

“It went sort of like this.” Lacy closed her eyes, the better to remember the piece verbatim. “‘Head librarian of the Coldwater Cove Public Library, Rosa Mundy, reports that a certain patron has failed to return a book on time, along with two fishing rods. The borrower will be named in this report next week if the rods aren't returned before Saturday. Mr. Mundy is planning to enter the bass tournament at Lake Jewel and needs the gear.'” Lacy chuckled. “Notice Mrs. Mundy didn't seem a bit concerned about the book that's overdue. And what kind of library loans out fishing rods?”

“Oh, that's nothing. Henry Whiteside wanted to donate a chainsaw to the library once, but the town fathers put the kibosh on that. The town couldn't afford liability insurance for a loaner saw.”

“Oh! Speaking of being able to afford something, that reminds me. I did some research on your mom's Fiestaware and I was right.” From the corner of his eye, he saw she'd turned in her seat to face him so she could see his reaction. “How does eighty-five each sound?”

“Really?” he said, his brows arching. “That stuff is worth eighty-five dollars?”

“Only for the cobalt and mustard pieces,” she said with a grin.

“Mustard, huh? How 'bout that? I figured that might be what you'd call the yellow one.”

“You should have said so. See. You're not color-ignorant after all.” Lacy punched his shoulder playfully.

The punch was OK by him. In Jake's experience, if a girl gave him a swat, he was more likely to score than if she didn't. Of course, that percentage was pre-Afghanistan.

“The red bowl is probably worth ninety-five because who doesn't love red?” Lacy went on. “And—hang on to your hat!—your mom might get even more for the chartreuse.”

“The green one,” he said, happy to show her he remembered her four-dollar word for that particular shade.

“That's right,” she said approvingly, “the light green one. You mom could get as much as four thousand for the chartreuse.”

“Four freakin' thousand dollars? For a soup bowl? When you said the green one was worth more than the red, I was thinking maybe a hundred.” He never dreamed she meant a figure in the thousands. “Even eighty-five seems high for an old bowl. You're kidding, right?”

“I kid you not. Serious collectors will pay serious money for the right items. Chartreuse pieces in that particular style are rare, because the design was discontinued shortly after Fiestaware introduced it in 1959. Factor in the excellent condition of your mom's bowl and buyers will be willing to pay a premium for it.”

He shook his head. “Some folk have more money than sense. Of course, even if it's worth that much, if Mom puts that kind of price tag on her stuff at Secondhand Junk-shun, people will think she's crazy.”

“Well, all right. I doubt you can get that price here,” Lacy admitted. “But I have some contacts in Boston who would still do business with me. I bet I can find a collector for your mom's pieces. Want me to check on it?”

“Heck, yeah.” If there was a chance his mom could bag that kind of windfall for an old bowl, he was all for it. “Mom's booth hasn't sold anything in a couple of weeks, but just to be on the safe side, I'd better call Phyllis Wannamaker and have her set those bowls aside.”

Jake used the hands-free cell phone in his truck to place a call to the owner of Secondhand Junk-shun. When he explained what he wanted done, Phyllis acted as if she didn't understand and asked him to repeat himself.

“You heard me right, Phyllis. Don't sell
anything
from my mom's booth until I've had a chance to drop by tomorrow.”

“But there's a gentleman and lady here that come down all the way from Kansas City and they want your mom's Fiestaware. In fact, they're standing in front of me right this very minute with the green one in their hands.”

Jake hit the mute button with his thumb. “We called just in time.” Then he clicked the mute again so he could talk to Phyllis. “Tell them it's not for sale. Tell them I brought the bowls in by mistake.” Jake had a sudden inspiration and it happened to be true. “They belonged to my grandmother.”

“Everything in your mom's booth belonged to some relation of hers or other.”

“Yeah, but these are special. Thank the people from Missouri kindly, but my mom won't sell those bowls.”

Jake heard a few moments of indistinct mumbling because Phyllis had probably covered her phone with her hand. Then she came back over the connection loud and clear.

“They say they'll double your asking price.”

“I just bet they will,” Lacy murmured.

“Not this time,” Jake said to Lacy, then raised his voice so Phyllis wouldn't mistake his words. “What price can you put on a family memory, Phyllis? Tell those folks from Kansas City I'd as soon eat a bar of soap as take their money. Put Mom's bowls under your counter right now and I'll pick them up first thing tomorrow.”

He'd have to duck out of the grill for a bit, but Ethel could be counted on to keep the coffee flowing. His geriatric waitress would happily push the fresh cinnamon buns until he got back. Ethel always claimed his rolls would give Cinnabon a run for its money.

“All right, Jake,” Phyllis said in a miffed tone, “but just this once. You can't put things out for sale and then yank them back like that. It's not good business.”

“Duly noted. OK, thanks,” he said as if she hadn't just scolded him. “See you tomorrow.”

“I mean it. Tell your mom not to expect this kind of service again. I've got my reputation to con—”

Jake punched the off button just as Phyllis began another rant.

“She sounded upset,” Lacy said.

“She'll get glad the same way she got mad. Phyllis makes her money coming and going at the Junk-shun, you know. Not only does she charge all the vendors rent on their booth space, she takes a bite out of every sale, too.”

“Really? How much?”

“Last I heard it was fifteen percent.”

“Does she have any say on what sort of items the vendors bring in?” Lacy asked.

“Not as far as I know. Why? Are you planning to open a junk shop?”

“I'm not into yard sale castoffs.” That about summed up most of the Junk-shun's wares. “I suppose if I could convince my mom to clear out the unnecessary dust-catchers in her house, we'd have ready-made inventory for a shop. But a girl has to have standards.”

As long as her standards would include him, he was all for them. He glanced over at her and could almost see the wheels turning in her pretty little head.

“If I could make sure my shop was filled with quality pieces, I'd consider it,” she said, so low it was almost as if she were talking to herself. Then she raised her voice a few decibels to bring him into the conversation. “You know, things like your mom's bowls. They're really good design—sleek and functional as well as pretty.”

“Just because something's good doesn't mean people will like it,” Jake said. “But I know what you mean. Every now and then I feel a little guilty over the menu at the grill. It's almost like grease and salt is its own food group perched at the top of the Green Apple pyramid. But if I was to try to add tofu and sprouts, I'd get a lot of pushback.”

That was an understatement. The regulars might just burn the grill to the ground.

“You never know what will change until you try to change it,” she said with a smile that seemed full of promise.

Well, he was trying to change something now, wasn't he? He glanced again at her profile. The tip of her nose turned up ever so slightly. He wondered what it would be like to be so comfortable with each other, he could drop a quick kiss on that little nose. Of course, her full lips would be better, but he'd settle for what he could get. He jerked his gaze back to the winding lake road.