50 Harbor Street. Debbie Macomber

of the Seattle skyline across Puget Sound, had been an inheritance from his grandfather, and Jon had devoted countless hours to landscaping the grounds. The house was everything Maryellen could possibly want. It had spacious rooms, high ceilings, fireplaces and balconies, and a wide oak staircase to the second floor. A sweeping panorama of the water and the city lights beyond was available from every room. Her artist husband had designed and then painstakingly built the place, at the same time he was making his mark as a professional photographer. Maryellen loved her husband heart and soul, reveling in his many talents.

      “I’ve got dinner started,” Jon told her as she stepped inside the house and was met by the scent of roasting chicken. On top of everything else, Jon was a gifted chef. Maryellen had to pinch herself every day, marveling that she was loved by such an extraordinary man.

      “How was your day?” he asked, as Maryellen hung up her coat and tended to Katie.

      “Busy.”

      “I’d rather you were home with me.”

      “I know—I’d like to be here, too.” The money Jon earned from his photographs was impressive but not yet sufficient for all their financial needs. Then there was the question of medical insurance, which was currently provided through her employer. They’d already made one giant leap of faith when Jon left his job as chef for The Lighthouse restaurant earlier in the year. Maryellen had managed the Cedar Cove Art Gallery for the past ten years and the owners had come to rely on her. She hoped to train her assistant, Lois Habbersmith, to assume her role, but, so far, that hadn’t worked out as well as she’d hoped. Lois was a good employee but she didn’t want the responsibility of being manager. Only after several months had she finally admitted that to Maryellen.

      “I’m planning to leave by the end of next year,” Maryellen said as she reached for the mail, which Jon had placed on the kitchen counter.

      “Next year?” Jon yelped.

      “I know, I’m disappointed, too, but the time will go fast. It’s already autumn.” Her fingers stilled as she came across the envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jon Bowman. One glance at the return address told her the letter was from Jon’s father and stepmother in Oregon. It remained unopened.

      When Maryellen looked up, she found her husband watching her, almost as if he’d anticipated her reaction. “It’s from your family,” she said unnecessarily.

      “I know.”

      “You didn’t open it.” This, too, was obvious.

      “No,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “And I won’t. If it’d been strictly up to me I would’ve tossed it in the garbage. But your name’s on it, too.” Anger burned in his eyes. Years earlier, his parents had betrayed Jon and lied in order to save their younger son, Jon’s half brother, from a prison sentence. In saving Jim, they’d sacrificed Jon. While Jon, innocent of all charges, served seven years in prison, his younger brother continued to abuse drugs and eventually died of an overdose.

      After he was released from prison, Jon had supported himself by working as a short-order cook. When he wasn’t working, he was taking landscape photographs, which began to receive good reviews and significant interest from buyers. Among other places, his work was displayed in the Harbor Street Art Gallery, where he met Maryellen. Their courtship was long and tempestuous, and only after Katie was born did they marry.

      At the time of her daughter’s birth, Maryellen was convinced she didn’t need or want a husband. She’d married young and unwisely while in college, and it had been a disaster. When she discovered she was pregnant with Katie, she was determined to manage on her own. Other women were single mothers; she could do it, too. She’d quickly learned how wrong she was. Katie wanted her daddy, and Maryellen soon realized she needed Jon in their lives. After their marriage, they were blissfully happy for a short time. Then Maryellen had stumbled upon a stack of unopened letters from Jon’s parents.

      Although she knew Jon would disapprove, she’d secretly contacted the Bowmans and mailed pictures of Katie. As Katie’s grandparents, Maryellen felt they had a right to know about their only grandchild. Her letter, unfortunately, had heightened their efforts to make peace with their son, which had only infuriated him. Jon refused to have anything to do with them. And he saw her actions, in contacting them, as another betrayal. He’d been enraged with her. Her duplicity and his stubborn unwillingness to forgive had almost ruined their marriage.

      At the time, Maryellen had just learned she was pregnant. She hadn’t told Jon. How could she, when he shut her out—no matter what she said or did? Having failed at one marriage, she believed her actions had killed his love for her and that her second marriage was doomed, too. It was then, at the lowest point of her pain and loss, that she miscarried her baby.

      That had been six weeks earlier. Six weeks during which they’d carefully avoided the subject of Jon’s parents. Together they grieved over the loss of this pregnancy and clung to each other, but their ability to trust was still shaky.

      Maryellen studied the envelope. Jon hadn’t immediately thrown the letter away, or hidden it, as he had previous ones. That was progress, she supposed. Over the intervening weeks, they’d had numerous talks on forgiveness, and she felt he was finally willing to listen. This letter would be the proving ground.

      “What would you like me to do with it?” she asked.

      Jon buried his hands in his pockets and gazed up at the ceiling. “You don’t want the answer to that.”

      “Yes, I do,” she told him calmly.

      “Burn it.”

      She’d hoped and prayed that he’d conquered some of his bitterness. “But you didn’t burn it.”

      “No,” he admitted reluctantly.

      Maryellen noticed that he stood about as far away from her as he could and still be heard. “Why not? I need never have known about this letter. Even if my name is on it.”

      He laughed, but it was a defeated sound. “You’d know. I’m incapable of keeping anything from you.”

      Maryellen moved from behind the kitchen counter and tentatively stepped closer to her husband. “Jon?” she asked again, keeping her voice gentle. “Tell me what I should do with the letter.”

      “Don’t look at me like that,” he demanded.

      She paused. “Like what?”

      “Like I’m such a disappointment to you.”

      “Never that,” she whispered. Maryellen wrapped her arms around his waist and lowered her head to his chest. Words weren’t necessary to convey her love and her pride. He was her world, her life, and nothing, not even his relationship with his family, was worth risking the heaven she’d found in him.

      It didn’t take long for Jon to slide his arms around her. The tightness of his embrace told Maryellen what she already knew—that he didn’t want to risk losing her, either. After several moments of holding each other, Jon exhaled a long, deep breath.

      “Go ahead and read it. I know that’s what you want to do.”

      “It is,” she whispered.

      “But don’t tell me what it says.”

      His response bothered her, but she wouldn’t rush him. That was the mistake she’d made earlier.

      When Katie toddled past on her way to the kitchen, Maryellen left Jon to swoop her daughter into her arms. She set Katie in her high chair and handed her a graham cracker, then reached for the letter.

      Jon turned away as if he couldn’t bear to see Maryellen tear open the envelope.

      The letter was brief. Jon’s father had suffered a stroke. Fortunately, he’d received medical attention in time, so there was no permanent damage. Jon’s stepmother felt Maryellen would want to know and perhaps she could mention it to Jon.

      “It’s about your father,”