204 Rosewood Lane. Debbie Macomber

to you,” Goldie assured her with a wink.

      “Thanks,” Cliff said.

      “Yes, thank you, Goldie.”

      Now that he had her attention, Cliff stared down at his coffee, avoiding eye contact. “I have a fairly good notion of how you’re feeling just now.”

      Grace sincerely doubted that. “You do?”

      “You’re nervous, a little agitated and your stomach’s full of butterflies. Am I close?”

      Actually, he was. “Close enough. How’d you know?”

      “Because I’m feeling the same way.”

      “You said you’d been divorced five years?” Did that mean this state of tension in the presence of the opposite sex went on indefinitely?

      “Yes.”

      “Do you want to discuss it?” It’d help if he talked about himself because she had no intention of spilling out the private details of her life.

      “Not particularly.”

      “Children?”

      “One daughter. She’s married and lives on the East Coast. We talk every week, and I make a point of flying out to see her once or twice a year.”

      At least he kept in contact with his child, unlike Dan who’d abandoned both Grace and their daughters.

      “Susan—my wife—fell in love with a colleague from work,” Cliff said. His hand tightened around the mug and she noticed a spasming muscle in his jaw. “According to what she said at the time, she’d never been happy.”

      “Is she now?”

      “I wouldn’t know. After the divorce I retired and moved to Olalla,” he said, mentioning a local community ten miles south of Cedar Cove.

      “The locals call it Ou-la-la,” Grace told him.

      “I can understand why. It’s beautiful there. I have forty acres and raise quarter horses.”

      “It sounds lovely.”

      “It is, except for one thing.” His eyes locked with hers. “I’m lonely.”

      That was something Grace understood far too well. Her marriage had never been completely happy, but over the years Grace and Dan had grown content with each other. There was a lot to be said for contentedness—conversation over dinner, a night out at the movies, a repertoire of shared experiences. Dan had usually been there to greet her when she walked in the door after work. Now there was only Buttercup.

      “I’m looking for a friend,” Cliff told her. “Someone who’d be willing to attend a concert with me every now and then, that’s all.”

      The idea appealed to Grace, too. “That would be nice.”

      “I was hoping you’d think so.” His tone was gentle and encouraging.

      “But,” she hurried to add, “only after the divorce is final.”

      “All right,” Cliff said.

      “One more thing.” She met his eyes again. “I’ll call you next time. Agreed?”

      He hesitated. “Agreed, but does that mean you don’t want me going into the library?”

      “You’re always welcome,” she told him. “Just as long as it’s on library business.”

      “Sure.” He reached for his mug and raised it to his lips, but not before Grace saw a smile lift the edges of his mouth.

      She had the sneaking suspicion that he was about to become a frequent library patron.

      Things had been strained between Rosie and Zach ever since the night of Eddie’s open house at school. Rosie blamed her husband for that. Zach simply didn’t appreciate how much she did. He seemed to think she sat around the house and watched soap operas all day while he was at the office. He didn’t understand how complicated her life was. She was so busy she sometimes left the house before he did and didn’t return until late in the evening. Now Zach expected her to cook a four-course dinner on top of everything else, she thought angrily.

      She’d asked him to attend Eddie’s school function and he’d been annoyed with her for days afterward. Eddie was Zach’s son, too, and meeting his teacher was a small thing. Yet Zach had complained the entire evening. First about ordering pizza for dinner, then about the green peppers, and he hadn’t wanted to wear his suit to the school meeting, and… Later that night, despite her best efforts, their discontent with each other had escalated into a full-blown argument.

      They hadn’t resolved it in the days that followed, either.

      After two weeks of this nonsense, one of them had to make a conciliatory gesture. Despite the fact that she’d been up past midnight reading over the committee report for the PTA planning meeting scheduled that evening, Rosie rose at the crack of dawn and fried bacon and eggs. She used to take the time to cook a real breakfast for her family. She hoped Zach would realize she was trying and that would appease him.

      Rosie broke the eggs into the pan once she heard Allison stir. The kids were on different schedules now that Allison was in high school, which made coordinated meals more difficult. But if it was important to her husband that she spend half the morning in front of a stove, she’d do it in order to maintain the peace.

      “I have eggs cooking for you,” she told her daughter when Allison stepped into the kitchen.

      “I hate eggs,” Allison said, slamming her backpack onto the table.

      “Since when?”

      Her daughter eyed her as if Rosie were mentally lacking. “Since forever.”

      “I forgot.” Vaguely Rosie could recall long-ago battles over breakfast. “What about some bacon then?”

      “Yuck.” Her daughter opened the refrigerator and pulled out a soda.

      Rosie was appalled. “You can’t have that!”

      “Why not?” Allison looked at her with disdain. “I have a pop every morning. Why can’t I now?”

      “Fine, if that’s what you want.” It wasn’t worth a fight. All the books Rosie had read about raising teenagers recommended carefully choosing your battles. Giving in on the soda seemed minor compared to not letting Allison pierce her nose.

      Rosie turned off the burner and slid the fried eggs onto a couple of plates, together with the fast-cooling bacon. Walking down the hallway she knocked and opened Eddie’s bedroom door. His room was an environmental disaster area, and as much as possible, she averted her eyes. Her son was sprawled across his bed, comforter on the floor.

      “Are you interested in breakfast?” she asked.

      Eddie lifted his head and blinked at her. “Mom?”

      “Do you want breakfast?” she repeated.

      He sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “Yeah,” he said with enthusiasm.

      This was more like it.

      “The chocolate ones are my favorite.”

      “Chocolate what?”

      “Pop-Tarts.”

      “I fried you bacon and eggs.”

      Eddie wrinkled his nose as if she’d suggested he dine on slugs. “No, thanks.” He flopped back on his pillow and reached for the comforter on the floor.

      All right, so much for that. Venturing toward the master bedroom, she found Zach just as he was coming out of the walk-in closet, dressed in his suit and tie.

      “I cooked breakfast,” she said, a bit stiffly.

      He nodded as though he approved.

      “Are