by Susan Fox
Gently she squeezed his arm, feeling the tension of rock-hard muscles. “It’s not fair to you. Not fair to Robin or the others who care about—”
“Robin?” He jerked his arm off the wheel, away from her, and glared at her. “You’re saying I’m not a good father?”
“Of course you are. But she sees how sad you are. Everyone sees it. They tiptoe around it; they try to cheer you up.”
Dave had turned to stare out the front window again. His face was so still that he could have been a statue.
“Your daughter’s eleven. She should be having fun with her dad, not having to be careful what she says to him.”
After a moment, he said slowly, “What do you mean?”
Cassidy bit her lip. She was hurting him. And if she kept going, she might lose his friendship, not to mention her job. But there were things he needed to hear. “She loved Anita too. You lost the woman you were going to marry and Robin lost the woman who was going to be her stepmom. She can talk to the rest of us about Anita, but you two were the closest to her. She told me she can’t even say Anita’s name to you, and that’s tough on her.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. As if weighing each word, he said, “Robin talks to you about Anita?”
“Yes. She told me about—”
“No!” He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear.”
“Ask yourself this,” she said quietly. “For three years, you’ve avoided talking about Anita. Maybe even tried to hold back the memories. Has it made you feel any better?”
He didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected him to. At least he had let her have her say without throwing her out of the Jeep.
Suddenly, fatigue swamped her. As she reached for the door handle, she realized that her left leg had gone numb. Determined not to let Dave see her weakness, she opened the door and turned her body sideways to face out. Keeping a tight hold on the door, she slid to the ground, letting her right leg take her weight until she got her balance.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, then closed the door.
She stood on the sidewalk and waited until he drove away. Then, moving slowly and cautiously with her gaze fixed on the path in front of her, she made her way to the side door that led to her studio apartment. It was tough walking when one foot didn’t feel the ground, but she was getting used to it.
Inside, she paused in the tiny kitchen area to drink a glass of cold water. She noticed that one of the freesia blossoms had fallen out of her pocket somewhere. The other was half wilted, still sweet smelling when she held it to her nose. She filled a smaller glass with water and stuck the poor thing in it.
Tonight, she couldn’t be bothered removing her make-up or brushing her teeth. It was all she could do to unfold the hide-a-bed and pull off her clothes before sliding between the sheets.
“Night,” she murmured to Pooh Bear, who sat on the end table.
She didn’t set the alarm on her cell. Thank heavens Madisun had given her the day off on Sunday. A good rest would get her healed up and reenergized.
On Monday she’d find out if she still had a job.
Sunday, Cassidy woke to the sound of firm knocking on the door of her apartment. Not the outside door, but the one that led into Ms. Haldenby’s house.
“Coming!” She rolled out of bed, warily testing her left leg, which now behaved just fine. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and she hummed as she grabbed her robe from a hook and wrapped it around her.
“Good morning,” she said as she opened the door.
Her white-haired landlady, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped shirt tucked into a blue skirt, greeted her with a frown. “Are you sick? There’s no excuse for lying in bed past nine o’clock unless you’re sick.”
Ms. H had a brusque manner, a keen intellect, a soft heart, and firm opinions on many subjects. She had no patience with wimps, and fortunately Cassidy wasn’t one. “How about working until past midnight?” Okay, it wasn’t exactly the truth, considering the nap she’d taken in Dave’s office, but close enough. “What time is it?”
“After ten. You have yesterday’s make-up around your eyes. Wash up and put on some clothes. Breakfast’s in ten minutes.”
“If that’s an invitation, I’d be delighted to accept.”
Humor danced in Ms. H’s sky-blue eyes, but all she said was, “Don’t be late.”
Under the warm spray of the shower, Cassidy mused about last night. Hopefully, Dave wasn’t too pissed off. She could live without having sex with him—though, man, dancing with him and kissing him had sure been a turn-on—but she’d hate to lose his friendship and her job. Maybe she should call and apologize, but she’d only said things he needed to hear. Surely he’d realize that. Best thing to do was show up for work tomorrow as if nothing had happened.
Resolved not to let worry spoil her day off, she dressed in shorts and a purple tank top worn over a pink bra. No make-up. With her coloring, she didn’t need it, so she wore it only on special occasions. With a couple minutes to spare, she put last night’s clothes in the laundry hamper, folded up the hide-a-bed sofa, and moved the coffee table back in place in front of it.
Her studio apartment had been created from the house’s original dining room and spare bathroom. The furniture wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and functional. The sofa and a reading chair were grouped with a coffee table, an end table, and an old TV. A small table with two upright chairs served either for eating or as a desk. The mini kitchen had a sink, fridge, microwave, and toaster oven. Her landlady had told her that, if she wanted to do any real cooking or baking, she was welcome to use her kitchen.
The place was perfect for a nomad like Cassidy, and she loved having her own space rather than sharing an apartment.
She gave a quick double-knock on Ms. H’s door, then entered the main part of the house. The welcome aroma of coffee and frying bacon met her. It had become a habit for the two women to have breakfast on Sundays if Cassidy wasn’t working at the Wild Rose.
“Mmm, smells good,” she called as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Most mornings, Cassidy had yogurt and some kind of Wild Rose leftover. Chef Mitch let staff take unsold goodies at the end of the day: cranberry bran muffins, peach Danish, gooey cinnamon buns, chocolate croissants. Delicious, but not the kind of real meal Ms. Haldenby believed in.
The woman, now wearing a navy bibbed apron over her blouse and skirt, turned from the stove. “I had some stale bread that needed to be used, so I made French toast.”
“That’s one of my faves.”
The woman’s lips curved momentarily, but then she straightened them and said briskly, “The word is ‘favorites’. If you’d been my student, young lady, you’d speak like a civilized human being.”
“Civilization’s highly overrated.” Cassidy noted that the table was already set. Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and a milk jug, sugar pot, pitcher of maple syrup. Bone china plates, cream colored with gold rims, and matching cups and saucers. Empty cups. She went to the old-fashioned drip-through coffeemaker on the counter, removed the cone and filter, then poured from the full carafe into the two cups. By the time she’d put the carafe back on the stove element with the heat set to low, Ms. H had dished out French toast and bacon and taken her apron off.
The two women took their usual spots at the table. Ms. H said a quick grace. She’d told Cassidy that it wasn’t because she was religious—she only went to church at Christmas and Easter—but because it reminded her of her mother.
And this ritual of turning Sunday breakfast into something special reminded Cassidy of how things had been when she and JJ were little kids and their parents were getting along.
“Tell me all about the wedding reception,” her landlady said.
Cassidy took her time swallowing a delicious bite of maple syrup–slathered French toast and crispy bacon. Then, as the two of them savored breakfast, she described Karen’s dress, everyone else’s clothes, the food, the toasts.
Over second cu
ps of coffee, Ms. H asked questions and shared snippets of information, including fourth-grade stories about some of the wedding guests. She was an astute observer, had the memory of an elephant, and was often wryly humorous but never cruel.
Cassidy rose to clear the table and refill their coffee cups. When she sat down, Ms. H said, “Well, I do hope Karen and Jamal will have a long and happy life together.” There was an unaccustomed note in her voice. Envy? Yearning?
For a moment, Cassidy felt something similar. “Me too,” she said quietly. Maybe the newlyweds would beat the odds and turn out like Dave’s parents rather than her own multidivorced ones. Then, because she and her landlady had hit it off from day one, Cassidy dared to say, “You never married, Ms. H. I can’t believe it’s from lack of opportunity.”
“A nice compliment.” The woman, who wasn’t normally a fidget, toyed with her coffee cup. “Lack of opportunity. In a way, I suppose that’s true.”
Cassidy let her eyes ask the question.
“There was someone. A special someone. When I was studying to be a teacher.”
And she’d carried a torch for almost sixty years? Had she not had sex in that long? The woman was worse than Dave Cousins. Cassidy kept that opinion to herself. “It didn’t work out?”
Those sky-blue eyes gazed levelly at her. “Her name was Irene. It was the nineteen fifties. We both loved children and wanted to teach them.”
And the world would have censured them. “I’m so sorry. That’s not fair. Wasn’t there any way?”
“If we wanted to lie. Pretend we were just roommates and friends. Live a life of deceit.”
Cassidy had learned how principled Ms. H was, so she knew that would have been impossible. “I can’t believe how ignorant and prejudiced people were. I wish you’d been born in a different time.” Today, she and Irene could get married and have children of their own.
“Wishes like that are a waste of time,” she said briskly.
“True. Did you keep in touch with Irene?”
She shook her head. “It was too painful for both of us. When we graduated from the University of British Columbia, I got a job here and she went to teach in Nanaimo. We never contacted each other again.”
“Things are different now. Did you ever think of trying to track her down?”
Her brows rose in a schoolmarmish look. “I never took you for a romantic, Cassidy.”
“A romantic? Give me a break. I know the statistics about marriages breaking up. My parents live those statistics. I just thought, if you’ve never forgotten Irene, never fallen for anyone else, then who knows, maybe it’s the same for her.”
“Would you like to calculate the odds of that?”
“You know perfectly well they’re incalculable.” And yet there was a spark of interest in those blue eyes. So Cassidy pushed a little. There was nothing Ms. H liked more than a challenge. “You probably couldn’t even find her. She could have moved a dozen times, she might have married and changed her name, anything’s possible.”
“She might be dead,” she said softly.
“If so, wouldn’t you like to know where she’s buried or her ashes are scattered?”
Her landlady rose, took her cup and saucer to the counter, and began to rinse dishes and load the dishwasher.
Cassidy got up to help.
Ms. H glanced at her. “Do you know what I like about you?”
“Not a clue,” she said cheerfully.
“You were never my student.”
Cassidy processed that, then grinned. “They’re too intimidated by you to act like adults around you.”
“Precisely.” She shot Cassidy a sideways glance. “However, they are better schooled in logical analysis.”
“Ouch. How much logical analysis can you teach a fourth grader? And what’s so wrong with mine?”
“The fact that your parents epitomize the statistics on divorce does not mean that you’re doomed to follow their example.”
“You can bet I won’t, because I never intend to get married in the first place.”
“Then you’ll turn out like me. Eighty-one, living alone, with only a handful of friends in my life to share an occasional meal.”
A sense of bleakness, loneliness, stole Cassidy’s breath for a moment. She forced it away and said brightly, “Eighty-one? I’m not thinking about being eighty-one, or fifty, or even thirty-five. One day at a time, that’s my way.”
Chapter Nine
Sunday morning, Dave finally got to sleep around five o’clock and woke a few hours later to find Merlin beside the bed, staring at him with a “take me out” plea in his eyes.
Dave groaned and threw on gym shorts and a tee, then took the dog downstairs for a run around the block. Often, on mornings when Robin wasn’t there, he and Merlin would go several miles, but today he felt drained, physically and emotionally. It was just as well that his daughter was at Jessie and Evan’s, yet he missed her and was glad she’d be back with him tonight.
As his shoes slapped the pavement and the poodle kept pace beside him, he wondered whether he was a good dad. Cassidy had suggested that he’d put his own needs ahead of his daughter’s.
He could ask Jessie. Confess to even more failings as a father. She thought he was overprotective and they sometimes argued over what Robin could and couldn’t do. But hell, he’d lost Anita, and then two summers ago, Robin had been hit by a car and could have died. That night had been sheer horror. No way could he bear the thought of losing his daughter.
And yet, while he’d been so busy protecting her body, had he put enough thought to her emotions? Her grief over Anita’s death?
Going in the back door of the inn, he said to the dog, “Too short a run for you, pal. Sorry. Later, we’ll go out with Malibu and meet up with Robin.” He got a brief bark in response.
Upstairs, Dave fed Merlin, showered, and dressed in his work clothes, and then the two of them went down to his office. His gaze went straight to the couch. No white-clad figure, just . . . He walked over and picked up a wilted, peach-colored blossom. As he lifted it to his nose, a hint of sweetness rose from it. Some crazy instinct kept him from tossing it out. Instead, he laid it on his desk beside the photo of Robin on Concha that he’d taken last summer. She was beaming.
He glanced at his office walls, where two of her horse drawings hung among various awards he and the Wild Rose had won. “She’s happy, right?” he asked the dog.
Merlin, who’d gone to lie in his usual out-of-the-traffic-flow spot, glanced up, then put his head down to rest on his paws.
Cassidy was a free-spirited drifter. What did she know about raising kids, about commitment, about anything serious? And yet—
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Brooke came in, cradling baby Nicki in a pouch-style sling. “Morning, Dave.”
“Hi.” He gave her a one-armed hug and dropped a kiss on the top of Nicki’s dark curls. There was another thing he’d lost when Anita died. They’d planned to have a child or two. Rather than give in to the ache, he focused on Brooke. “You’re here to pick up the presents?”
She nodded. “Jake got sidetracked by Mr. Bateman, who’s telling him that the pedestrian-crossing light on the corner isn’t long enough.”
“Yeah, like that’s RCMP business.”
“Caribou Crossing is definitely an adjustment for Jake after years of undercover work.” She gazed up at him. “The Wild Rose did a great job of the reception.”
“Thanks to Madisun.”
“And you.” A pause, then, “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Sally left early.”
He stifled a groan. “How many times do I have to say that we’re not dating?”
“You really aren’t? I’m glad to hear that.”
“What?” Would he ever figure women out? “Didn’t you say last month—the last time I said I wasn’t dating Sally—that you were glad I was seeing someone?”
“Yes, but now I’ve met her.”
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br /> “You don’t like her?” He felt offended on Sally’s behalf.
“Oh, she seems nice enough, but she’s not right for you.”
No, he wouldn’t ask why.
That didn’t stop Brooke. “She’s too somber. You need someone sunnier.”
“I don’t need anyone.” Only his daughter.
Was he being too needy when it came to Robin? He bit his lip. “Does Robin, uh . . .” Damn, it was hard to talk about this. “Does she ever say anything about Anita?”
Brooke’s blue-green eyes widened. “Yes. She tells me about things the two of them did together, or the three of you did, or advice Anita gave her. She misses her. Uh, why do you ask?”
“I don’t talk about her.”
“I know.” Her brow creased and she hugged Nicki closer to her chest. “I almost never talk about my ex-husband. That’s because so many of the memories are bad. I wasn’t a good person when I was with him. He wasn’t a good person either. We both hurt Evan, and we hurt each other too. But with you and Anita, it’s different. Your love for each other was so strong.”
“It’s too painful,” he said quietly.
“If you don’t talk about it, does the pain go away?”
It was the same question Cassidy had asked last night. He figured that Brooke, like Cassidy, knew the answer.
“Dave, we’re friends. You’ve been there for me when I needed someone to talk to. I’d be happy to return the favor if you ever—” She broke off as Jake strode through the door.
With Brooke supervising, the men got the wrapped boxes and gift bags loaded into Jake and Brooke’s SUV. Once Nicki was stowed in her car seat, Jake climbed in the driver’s side.
Brooke rested a hand on Dave’s arm, stretched up to kiss his cheek, and murmured, “The offer’s open. Any time.”
“Thanks.”
Right now, the person he really needed to talk to was his daughter. It would be tough. Really tough, for him. But if it made things easier for Robin, he had to do it.