16 Lighthouse Road - Debbie Macomber [37]
Cecilia sighed. “It isn’t that.” The truth of it was she did want to see him. More than anything.
“Then set the day and time.”
Cecilia closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her brow as she tried to think.
“Do you want my attorney to contact your attorney?” he asked.
“No!” she flared, angry he’d even suggest such a thing.
“Then tell me when I should come over.”
“You want to come here?” That put a whole new slant on the invitation.
“Fine, we can go somewhere else,” he said. “Anytime, anyplace. You just tell me. I’m not asking again, Cecilia.” His voice held an edge that hadn’t been there earlier.
“All right,” she whispered. “How about next week? Someplace in Bremerton? You choose.”
His relief was palpable, even over the phone. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
But it was, damn hard, and Ian knew it.
“When are you free to meet?” she asked, barely able to get the words out.
“I’ll let you know. All right? It depends on what’s happening with the John F. Reynolds, but it’ll be soon.”
This wasn’t exactly anytime or anyplace, but then he was in the Navy, and the military ruled his life—and consequently hers.
Six
Thursday afternoon was the monthly potluck at the Jackson Senior Center, named after longtime Washington State senator Henry M. Jackson. Charlotte looked forward to these get-togethers with her dearest friends. It was a time to visit, catch up on each other’s lives, share a fabulous lunch and listen to a speaker. Generally it was someone from the community. A local politician had spoken in January—a real windbag, as far as Charlotte was concerned. In December, the sheriff had discussed safety tips for seniors, and his talk was one of the best received in months. He’d been both interesting and informative.
It just so happened that the speaker for the first week in February was Jack Griffin. Charlotte wouldn’t have missed it for the world. She arrived early, secured a table for her knitting friends and made sure the spot next to her was saved for Jack.
“Yoo-hoo, Laura,” Charlotte called, waving her hand so her friend could see where she was sitting. The ladies in the knitting group always ate together at these functions. As the unofficial head of the group, Charlotte was expected to arrive early and claim the table—not that she minded.
Laura nodded in her direction and carried her dish of deviled eggs to the buffet table. Her friend made the most incredible deviled eggs. She didn’t fill them with the standard yolk-and-mayonnaise mixture. Instead, Laura stuffed hardboiled egg whites with a crabmeat-and-shrimp salad. Every month, her platter was among the first to empty.
Charlotte had brought the broccoli lasagna recipe she’d picked up at Lloyd Iverson’s wake. She’d experimented with it and added her own personal touch—mushrooms to the crumbled bacon, and cheddar cheese as well as mozzarella. She hadn’t been sure what to bring, seeing that she’d collected several excellent recipes lately. That was what happened when she attended three funerals in as many weeks. The dessert recipe she’d gotten last Monday, made with lemon pudding and cream cheese, was worth sitting through the two-hour wake, even if she hadn’t been all that fond of Kathleen O’Hara’s husband.
Laura joined her, and Evelyn and Helen followed. As soon as they were seated, they reached for their dessert plates, headed for the buffet table and took their pick. Everyone did. Charlotte disapproved of the practice, but choosing your dessert early was the only way to guarantee you’d get one.
“There’s Jack now,” Charlotte said, hurrying down the narrow aisle between the tables.
“Jack!” she called out. It was important after all the bragging she’d done that her friends know the newspaperman considered her his personal friend. She made a show of hugging him and was gratified when he returned the gesture.
Mary Berger, president of the Senior Center, joined them and held out her hand. “I’m so pleased you could be with us today, Mr. Griffin,” she said formally, frowning at Charlotte.
“The pleasure