50 Harbor Street - Debbie Macomber [69]
Every thirty seconds, she glanced at her watch, wondering what had held him up. When Cliff was twenty-five minutes late, she was convinced he’d had an accident on his way into town. Black ice often covered the roads in the winter months; he could’ve hit a patch and driven into a ditch.
At six-thirty, she couldn’t stand it any longer and phoned the ranch. Cal picked up on the second ring.
“Grace?” He sounded surprised.
“Cal, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m worried about Cliff. He isn’t here yet. Can you tell me when he left?”
“Cliff is-s here.”
“He hasn’t left yet?” Her heart sank to her knees and stayed there.
“Here,” Cal said, “talk-k-k to him.”
Oh, she’d talk to him, all right.
“Grace?” Cliff was on the other end of the line. “Dinner was tonight?”
Closing her eyes she tried to quell her anger. “Did you forget?” she asked ever so sweetly. “Again?”
“I’m afraid I did. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.”
She wouldn’t lie. “As a matter of fact, I did.” She restrained herself from telling him she’d been cooking for two days, although she should probably let him know. “When did you think dinner was?” she asked instead.
“I thought I’d written it down, but apparently I didn’t. I’m sorry, Grace. Is dinner ruined?”
In more ways than the obvious. “Yes, I believe it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry! That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“You’re angry and—”
“I’m angry? What gave you that idea?” The man was nothing if not perceptive.
“I’ll drive into town so we can talk.”
“Don’t bother,” she said forcefully. “It doesn’t matter…It just doesn’t matter.” Unable to say anything more for fear she’d burst into tears, she replaced the receiver.
She was too furious to sit still. Pacing helped. He’d forgotten dinner on New Year’s Day! That took effort on his part. Real effort. She’d taken her stand and she had her answer.
Collapsing into a chair, she hid her face in her hands. Buttercup came to lie on the carpet next to her, gazing up piteously, as if she understood how Grace felt.
All at once, Grace was angry again—only this time it was with Dan, the husband she’d buried. She hated this, hated living alone, hated all the adjustments his death had forced her to accept. Her marriage had never been completely happy, but at least she’d been contented. Over the years she’d learned how to deal with Dan’s mood swings because, underneath it all, she’d recognized that he loved her and their daughters. In that moment she would’ve given anything to have her husband back, anything for her life to return to the way it was before his year-long disappearance…before she found out he was dead.
The doorbell chimed and she glared accusingly at the front door. Cliff. He’d made record time driving into town. Perhaps they should have this out now, face-to-face. It would be over then, and they could both go back to their own lives.
Grateful that she hadn’t given in to the compulsion of tears, she walked to the door and opened it. As she’d suspected, Cliff Harding was standing there.
“Let’s talk,” he said. With a repentant look, he removed his Stetson, holding it in both hands.
“Yes, I think we should,” Grace agreed, stepping aside to let him in.
Cliff surveyed the dining room table, set with china, crystal and candles, and exhaled slowly. “I can see I messed up big-time.”
“Yes, you did,” she said, “but the truth is, I’m just as glad.” She swept into the kitchen.
Cliff was right behind her. “Glad?”
Opening the oven door, she took out the Beef Wellingtons, warming on a cookie sheet, and unceremoniously dumped them in the garbage. Buttercup’s big round eyes followed Grace’s movements, silently pleading with her to consider the dog dish instead.
Cliff squatted down beside the golden retriever. “I think I’m in the doghouse now, girl,” he whispered loudly enough for Grace to hear.
She wasn’t amused.
“Are you going to toss anything else? Because I was