Cathryn. Shannon Waverly

he’d much rather eat alone at his uncle’s house where no one’s problems but his own existed to give him indigestion. But he couldn’t very well leave Cathryn in her current state.

      “Not yet. Have you?”

      “No. But I’m not hungry. Please let me get something for you, though. There’s leftover stroganoff in the fridge, and homemade chicken soup, and tons of stuff in the freezer. Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza…”

      “Pizza sounds good. Which freezer?”

      “The chest.” She started to get up, swayed and gripped the table.

      “I can get it. Frozen pizza is a bachelor’s specialty.” Tucker noticed she didn’t argue this time. She smiled feebly and sat.

      Tucker opened the freezer and his mouth gaped. It was full of food, the kind of food he’d forgotten existed—roasts, pork chops, whole chickens, huge economy-size bags of vegetables, ice cream bars, homemade pies, gallons of milk. He didn’t even know milk could be frozen.

      His aunt used to shop in bulk, too, stock up on the mainland a few times a year. He remembered the sense of security he’d felt looking into her storeroom, the sense of wealth, of provenance and self-sufficiency. Those feelings had been all new to him when he’d first arrived. Back in the Bronx, he’d often had nothing to eat at home and survived mostly by stealing.

      He’d tried doing the same on Harmony, although he’d no longer had a need to. Stealing had just become a way of life. He’d gotten caught, of course. Here, proprietors recognized their customers and knew when stock had been tampered with.

      He’d expected to be taken to the police station and then hauled off to juvie. But to his amazement, no one had prosecuted. Instead, they’d talked to him, helped him understand there was a different way to live. In exchange for his doing odd jobs, they’d given him spending money. Thus, he’d learned the value of working for a living; he’d learned decency and the true meaning of the phrase, “It takes a village…”

      “Not the microwave!” Cathryn yowled. “That’ll make the pizza inedible!”

      Tucker shrugged diffidently and moved to the stove. On the wall above the burners hung a plaque that read, Martha Stewart Doesn’t Live Here. But Cathryn McGrath Does!

      With the pizza in the oven cooking properly, he turned and noticed Cathryn reaching for the bottle of brandy again. In three strides he arrived at the table and scooped the bottle away from her. “I think you should eat something. Drinking’s only going to give you new problems.” Hypocrite. If he’d been in Cathryn’s shoes, he’d already be passed out on the floor.

      “Tuck, I can’t eat.” She did look kind of queasy.

      “I know, it’s hard. You’re hurting pretty bad. But think of your kids, Shortcake. In the days ahead, they’re going to be hurting, too, and looking to you for comfort. To take care of them, you’ll have to be strong, and whether you want to face it or not, emotional strength and physical strength go hand-in-hand.” Tucker wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was talking about, but she seemed to buy it.

      “Okay. Um…Soup, I guess.”

      Tucker warmed a bowl of her homemade chicken soup—she conceded he could use the microwave for that—and set it on the table. “Eat slowly,” he admonished, donning a cow-shaped oven mitt before fetching his pizza.

      Cathryn ate about half of her soup dutifully before sitting back and raising her hands in surrender. Tucker didn’t push the issue. He polished off his pizza with another of Dylan’s weak-as-piss beers, cleared the table and thought longingly again about going home. He needed to go home, needed to sit on the porch, clear his head in the cold night air and figure out how people became married, not separated.

      But that would have to wait a little longer. While putting their plates in the dishwasher, he’d noticed Cathryn’s gaze drift toward the display of family photographs in the hutch, and there it remained.

      “Cathryn?” he asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He wasn’t sure if the coordinated cloth towels were meant to be used.

      She swallowed, turned and forced a teary smile. “Yes?”

      “Are you still friendly with that redheaded girl? What was her name? Laura?”

      The question surprised her and dried her tears. “Lauren?”

      “Lauren. That’s it. Is she still around?”

      “As a matter of fact, yes. She returned to Harmony just last year to buy her mother a house and ended up marrying her old boyfriend, Cameron Hathaway.”

      Tucker, about to toss the wad of damp paper into the wastebasket, swung around in astonishment. “The kid who got her pregnant?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, I’ll be damned.”

      “Why do you ask?”

      Why? Because he needed help here. Because the situation was soon going to be more than he could handle. “Maybe we should call her, ask her to come over and stay with you.” Primarily he was thinking about getting Cathryn showered and put to bed. He’d watched her trying to stand a couple of times and knew she’d had too much brandy.

      “Calling wouldn’t do any good,” Cathryn said, yawning widely. “Lauren and Cam went to Boston. They’re seeing Rent tonight. Not coming home till tomorrow.”

      Tucker kept his curses silent. “How about your other friend, the one who used to do that show up at old man Finch’s crazy little radio station? She still around?”

      It pleased him to see Cathryn smile. “Julia came back, too.” Her smile widened around another yawn. “Better watch out, Tuck. All she planned to do was attend a funeral, too, and she ended up marrying the editor of the island newspaper.”

      “Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to keep up my guard. In the meantime, do you know Julia’s phone number offhand?”

      “Forget it. Jules now owns Preston Finch’s crazy little radio station and is presently, even as we speak, doing her show. She won’t be off the air until eleven.”

      Tucker’s heart sank. He knew enough not to ask about the other classmate who’d been Cathryn’s friend. He’d heard about her death. “Looks like I’m IT again,” he muttered in an undertone.

      Cathryn blinked at him groggily, uncertain if he’d spoken. She looked so tired, he was sure that if he walked out now she’d fall asleep right there, head on the table, soiled clothes still on her back. Not that the clothes really mattered. But she might tumble off the chair and hurt herself. At the very least she’d wake up with a stiff neck.

      “Okay, Shortcake,” he said, clapping and rubbing his hands as if he were about to propose a great adventure. “How about we head to the bathroom and get cleaned up for bed.”

      She blinked again, her eyes widening with sudden alertness.

      “I mean you,” he said quickly. “You get ready for bed. I’ll just be close by if you need help.”

      Her face flushed a deep pink. “Thank you, but you’ve done more than enough already. You should go home.” Bracing on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet, and the color in her cheeks drained to ash.

      Tucker flew around the table and supported her, one arm around her back, one under her elbow.

      After a moment, she said, “I’m okay.”

      “Great. I’ll hang on to you, then.” That earned him a gratifying chuckle—and compliance.

      He escorted her through the living room, up the stairs to the bedroom she’d shared until now with Dylan. An oil portrait of them, twelve years younger and resplendent in wedding gear, hung over one of the washed-oak dressers. Ever so slowly, she gathered up her nightgown, slippers and robe. Tucker remained at her elbow, urging her onward whenever her path crossed