Cathryn. Shannon Waverly

Dylan and Zoe had apparently been discreet, for which she was extremely thankful.

      Overcome with self-consciousness again, she moved away, scraped the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes and inhaled shakily. “This must be so awkward for you.”

      “No, no…” he lied.

      “Please, why don’t you just go? This isn’t your concern.”

      “You made it my concern twenty years ago when you invited me to one of your parties—a clambake on the beach, I believe.”

      “What?” She scrunched her nose in puzzlement.

      “It didn’t matter that I was an outsider and a punk and the last person anybody would want at a civilized party. You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

      A weak smile briefly lifted her tear-wet cheeks. “Yes, but I was also relieved you didn’t show up.”

      Tucker clasped his heart and gasped. “And all this time I believed you were a saint.”

      Using her sleeve again, she blotted her eyes and cheeks and surreptitiously wiped her nose. No great loss, in his estimation. The sweater, the same one she’d worn to the funeral, was an overly bulky, blah-gray thing better consigned to the ragbag.

      He suggested, “How about I make us some coffee?”

      She shook her head.

      “Tea? Sure. You’d probably prefer tea.” He was reaching to switch on the lamp near him when Cathryn emitted a strangled groan and shot off the couch. In the sudden illumination all he saw was her back disappearing down a darkened hallway. The next moment he heard the sounds of retching.

      Whistling tunelessly, he bided his time until he heard the toilet flush. Then he got up, slipped off his jacket and went to help her. She was still hunched over the bowl, clutching her stomach and shivering. He found a washcloth in the undersink vanity, wet it with cool water and pressed it to her cheek. She nodded her gratitude and took it from him. Next he found mouthwash and poured a shot into a paper cup. After rinsing and spitting, she straightened and met her image—and his—in the lighted mirror.

      She mewled. “Oh, God!”

      He couldn’t refute her. Her cheeks were blotched, her eyes were swollen and her nose was red as a June strawberry. Groaning, she made a futile stab at her hair, most of which had escaped its elastic and now hung in loose, wild tangles. “What a wreck!” she choked out, her gaze grazing Tucker’s. “No wonder Dylan…” She let her sentence trail off, squinched her eyes shut and clutched the rim of the sink with desperate tightness.

      Standing behind her, Tucker studied her reflection curiously. She was a woman he hardly knew, a woman he hadn’t thought about in years and expected to forget again soon after he left. Yet, in those emotion-marred features he could still see the pretty little girl she’d once been, with bows in her hair, scabs on her knees, and a heart of pure gold. Although he’d often mocked her klutziness and fuss-budget ways, he really hadn’t minded her all that much. And he’d always appreciated her generosity toward him, her compassion—from the nerdy pom-pom hat she’d knitted for him his first Christmas on the island to the party she’d helped Winnie organize the day he left.

      Tucker smoothed her hair and smiled encouragingly. “If you’re feeling better, maybe we can move to the kitchen?” She pulled in a deep breath and nodded.

      Cathryn’s kitchen was much like the rest of the house, what little he’d seen of it, anyway—cabinets in light country oak, stenciled walls, ruffled curtains, and handcrafted doodads everywhere. Towels, place mats and chair pads coordinated. Cookbooks spanned the entire top shelf of a hutch. The rest held bric-a-brac, Valentines and photographs. Kids’ art and school papers patchworked the refrigerator, and a bulletin board that resembled command-central apparently kept everyone on track.

      “Where do you keep your tea?” Tucker asked her.

      “There. The cabinet by the fridge.”

      Tucker opened the door and a pantry unfolded. His eyes widened as he took in the well-stocked shelves. He was about to ask her what kind of tea she wanted—she had nine different flavors—when she said, “I really don’t want tea. I’d much prefer brandy.”

      He turned, frowning. “Can your stomach handle it?”

      “Yes. This nausea is all nerves. The brandy will actually help.” She shuffled toward a cabinet near the hutch. “Sit. I’ll get it. What can I get for you?”

      Tucker marveled that, even with her world tumbling around her, she felt obliged to play hostess.

      “No. You sit. Just point me in the right direction.”

      “No, I insist…”

      After going back and forth a few more times, she deferred to him and slipped shakily into one of the Windsor chairs at the kitchen table. Tucker poured her some ginger brandy and got himself a beer—Dylan’s beer, he thought, wanting to kill the bastard.

      “Do your parents know about this situation?” he asked, joining her at the table.

      Cathryn lifted her brandy snifter with two hands to minimize the trembling, took a careful sip and swallowed. “No. I phoned my mother and asked her to pick up the kids at school and keep them overnight, but I lied about why. I said…” Her jaw quivered. She took another sip. “I said Dylan had surprised me with a belated Valentine gift—dinner and an overnight stay at the Old Harbor Inn. I know the excuse has holes, but it was the only one I could come up with. Dylan and I were in the thick of our…our discussion.”

      Tucker nodded understandingly. “Have you called anyone else? A friend maybe? Is anyone coming over?”

      Cathryn bowed her head, tears gathering on her lower eyelids. “No.”

      Great. So he was IT, the ear for her to pour her troubles into, the shoulder for her to cry on. “Okay, Shortcake,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Tell me all about it.”

      Hugging her waist, she slowly tipped forward until her forehead rested on the table’s polished surface. Tucker sighed. The woman could not sit up straight to save her life. It was as if she’d lost all strength in her backbone.

      “Cathryn?”

      “Mmm.”

      “I understand your reluctance. I hate to talk about my personal life, too. But talking helps. At least that’s what they say.”

      Cathryn raised her head and reached for her brandy. She was quiet so long, staring at the glass, that Tucker figured she’d decided to disregard his suggestion. But then, in a small, dull voice she began.

      “IT ALL STARTED when I found a pair of earrings,” Cathryn said, uncertain if talking to Tucker was a good idea. Who was he, after all? she thought. At best, a distant acquaintance she hadn’t seen in years. At worst, a reprobate who probably endorsed extramarital affairs.

      Still, he was here, and nobody else was, and maybe he had a point. Talking would make her feel better, regardless of who was listening.

      Oh, but it was hard. She’d never talked about her marital problems before, and until now most of them had been minor. Her relationship with Dylan was sacred territory, not to be betrayed.

      Then again, she’d been the only one playing by the rules, hadn’t she? She went on with her story.

      “…Finally I simply confronted him with the fact that I’d found the earrings, and since he hadn’t given them to me…”

      The brandy she’d sipped between sentences was having its desired effect. She was warming from the inside out, knots of tension releasing.

      “I could see he was trying to invent an excuse but couldn’t. He had nothing to say, nowhere to turn, so he admitted the truth, he’s seeing her.”

      “And he’s been seeing her for a year?” Tucker said unobtrusively.

      “Fourteen