16 Lighthouse Road. Debbie Macomber

town,” Charlotte told him, leaning forward to pat his hand. “You’re going to like it here so well.”

      She started out the door and saw that her new friend didn’t have a lap robe. The ladies at the Senior Center would soon fix that. These halls got downright chilly, especially during Cedar Cove’s damp winters. How sad that this man didn’t have anyone who cared enough about his welfare to see that he had a basic comfort like that.

      “I’ll be back soon,” she told him again.

      Tom nodded and gave her a rakish little grin. Oh, yes, he’d been a charmer in his day.

      As she walked out the main door, Janet stopped her. “Did you introduce yourself to Tom Harding?”

      “I did. What a dear man.”

      “I knew you’d think so. You’re exactly what he needs.”

      “He doesn’t have any family?”

      “There’s no next of kin listed in his file. It’s about five years since his stroke, and apparently he’s never had visitors.” She paused, frowning. “But then, I don’t know how much we can trust the record-keeping at Senior Haven.”

      “How long was he there?”

      Janet shrugged. “I don’t recall exactly. At least five years. After he was released from chronic care.”

      “Oh, the poor man. He’s—”

      “In need of a friend,” Janet finished for her.

      “Well, he found one,” Charlotte said. She’d always been a talker. Clyde used to say she could make friends with a brick wall. He meant it as a compliment and she’d taken it that way.

      On second thought, she wouldn’t ask the women at the Senior Center to knit Tom a lap robe; she’d do it herself, just as soon as she finished the baby blanket. By her next visit, she’d have something to give him, something to keep him warm—the lap robe…and her friendship.

      Judge Olivia Lockhart had a difficult time with divorce cases, which were her least favorite duty in family court. She’d served on the bench for two years and figured she’d seen it all. Then there were cases like this one.

      Ian and Cecilia Randall were asking to rescind their handwritten notarized prenuptial agreement. As soon as that was out of the way, they would file for the dissolution of their marriage. The attorneys stood before her with their clients at their sides.

      Olivia glanced at the paperwork, noting that it had been dated and signed less than a year ago. How a marriage could go so wrong so quickly was beyond her. She looked up and studied the couple. So young, they were, both of them staring down at their feet. Ian Randall seemed to be a responsible young man, probably away from his home and family for the first time, serving in the military. The wife was a fragile waif, impossibly thin with dark, soulful eyes. Her straight brown hair framed her heart-shaped face; the ends straggled to her shoulders. She repeatedly looped a strand around her ear, probably out of nerves.

      “I must say this is original,” Olivia murmured, rereading the few lines of the text. It was straightforward enough if unusual. According to the agreement, the spouse who filed for divorce would assume all debts.

      Apparently they’d had a change of heart in that, as well as in the matter of their marriage. Olivia glanced over the brief list of accumulated debts and saw that they’d been evenly split between the couple. If the marriage had lasted longer, of course, the debts would have been more punishing—a mortgage, presumably, car payments and so on. Which would have provided the discontented spouse with an incentive of sorts to stay in the marriage, Olivia supposed. In any event, the current debts amounted to seven thousand dollars. Ian Randall assumed all credit card bills and Cecilia Randall had agreed to pay the utility bills, which included a three-hundred-dollar phone bill and oddly enough, a two-hundred-dollar charge to a florist shop. The largest of the debts, she noticed, was burial costs, which they had agreed to share equally.

      “Both parties have reached an agreement in regard to all debts accumulated during the time of their marriage,” Allan Harris stated.

      Clearly there was more to this situation than met the eye. “Was there a death in the family?” she asked, directing the question to the attorney who’d spoken.

      Allan nodded. “A child.”

      Olivia’s stomach spasmed. “I see.”

      “Our daughter was born premature, and she had a defective heart,” Cecilia Randall said in a barely audible voice. “Her name was Allison.”

      “Allison Marie Randall,” the sailor husband added.

      Olivia watched as husband and wife exchanged glances. Cecilia looked away but not fast enough for Olivia to miss the pain, the anger, the heartache. Perhaps she recognized it because she’d experienced it herself, right along with the disintegration of her own marriage.

      The two parties continued to await her decision. Since everything was in order and both were in agreement, there was little to hold up the procedure. This hearing was simply a formality so they could proceed to the dissolution of their marriage.

      “Seven thousand dollars is quite a lot of debt to accumulate in just a few months,” she said, prolonging their wait.

      “I agree, Your Honor,” Brad Dumas inserted quickly, “but there were extenuating circumstances.”

      Olivia caught sight of her mother in the viewing chamber. She often sat in the front row, almost always occupied with her needles and yarn. But Charlotte wasn’t knitting now. Her fingers clenched the needles that rested in her lap, as though she, too, understood the significance of what was happening.

      Olivia hesitated, which was completely unlike her. She was known for being swift and decisive. What this couple needed was a gentle, loving hand to guide them through the grieving process. Ending their marriage wouldn’t solve the problems; personal experience had taught Olivia that. If the Randalls insisted on going through with their divorce, Olivia would be helping them pave a one-way road to pain and guilt. However, she had no legal reason not to rescind the agreement.

      “I’m going to take a ten-minute recess…to review this agreement,” she announced. Then, before the members of either party could reveal their shock, she got up and headed toward her chambers. She heard the rustle of the courtroom as everyone stood, followed by a flurry of hushed whispers.

      Sitting at her desk, Olivia leaned her head against the high-back leather chair and closed her eyes. It was inevitable that she’d see the comparisons between herself and Cecilia Randall. Fifteen years ago, Olivia had lost her oldest son. All those years had come and gone, but the pain of Jordan’s death had never faded, and it never would. In the twelve months after the drowning accident, her entire world had crumbled. First she’d lost her son and then her husband. Over the years, small problems had crept into her marriage—nothing big, nothing overwhelming or unusual, just the typical stress experienced by any couple with dual careers and three demanding children. But after Jordan’s death, that stress had multiplied tenfold, had become insurmountable. Before Olivia could fully appreciate what they were doing, they’d separated. Not long afterward, Olivia and Stan found themselves standing in front of a judge, and the divorce was declared final.

      Three months later, Stan had shocked her and everyone else by remarrying. Apparently he’d been confiding his problems to this other woman for some time, keeping the relationship a secret from Olivia.

      A knock sounded at her door and before Olivia could answer, her mother let herself in.

      Olivia straightened. She should’ve known her mother would take this opportunity to speak with her. “Hello, Mom.”

      “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

      Olivia shook her head. Her mother knew the door was always open as far as she was concerned.

      “Oh, good.” Charlotte immediately got to the point—her point. “What a shame it is, that young couple