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Cathryn
Shannon Waverly
CIRCLE OF FRIENDS: May the circle be unbrokenWhen the original Good Girl falls for the ultimate Bad Boy…Cathryn McGrath has a reputation to uphold in Harmony, Massachusetts–as the perfect wife, homemaker, mother and friend. Until her husband has an affair with another woman, and walks out on Cathryn and their kids…Tucker Lang has a reputation to overcome in Harmony–as the town's bad boy, tough guy and all-around rebel. He's been away for years, but reputations like that tend to stick, especially in places like Harmony. He's back now…just in time to catch the pieces of Cathryn McGrath's shattered life.He becomes involved, deeply involved, with her and her kids. And he shows her that there's life after betrayal, love after divorce.



“I’m going out,” Cathryn announced
“What?”
“Out. I don’t want to stay in tonight. I don’t want to be—” she looked around her living room with the eyes of a hateful stranger “—here.”
“Where are you going?” Tucker expected her to say Lauren’s or Julia’s, but instead she just shrugged.
“Out,” she repeated, heading for the bathroom. She returned a short while later with her makeup repaired. “It’s Saturday night, and I’m tired of playing by the rules. Why should I? No one else has.” Including my ex-husband, she might have said—but didn’t.
Uh-oh. Tucker’s eyes swept over her for about the thirty-seventh time, and a premonition of disaster hit him. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“Don’t try to stop me, Tuck.”
Tucker knew she was angry and in a hell-raising mood. But then, why shouldn’t she be? She had a right to rage for a night. And actually, a bit of rage might do her some good.
As long as she had someone to watch over her.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I just want to go with you.”
Dear Reader,
During the writing of Cathryn, several people asked me how I could possibly create a romance novel featuring an overweight, happily married stay-at-home mom whose hobbies include square dancing, sewing and choir. That was the Cathryn McGrath they knew from her brief appearances in Julia and Lauren (published in November 1998 and December 1999 respectively). Each time I was asked, my response was a rather smug “You’ll see,” accompanied by a slightly dirty laugh.
I knew something, or rather someone, they didn’t—Tucker Lang, bad boy extraordinaire, who drops into Cathryn’s life needing to change his ways just when Cathryn needs to change hers. From the very first line of the book, I recognized the potential within such a situation. With that line I also began my most enjoyable writing experience to date. I absolutely loved being with these two buoyant people.
Cathryn concludes CIRCLE OF FRIENDS, my series about a group of people who share the unusual experience of having grown up together on a small fictional island off the coast of Massachusetts. I hope you enjoy it.
My best to you always,
Shannon Waverly
Cathryn
Shannon Waverly


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Paula, who took a chance on me fifteen books ago. For your always-judicious editing, lofty standards and human understanding (especially each time I was late with a manuscript), thank you.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ue97cdde2-057f-518a-802b-aaddde42fb2a)
CHAPTER TWO (#u4f3ff6f4-a38d-5015-8fa6-b4045dcbadeb)
CHAPTER THREE (#uccda649b-12f0-5418-bad8-7b64826467c0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u58cd767c-d120-54de-87da-6f8ca63fa6e7)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
TUCKER LANG wasn’t the sort of guy good girls cared to be seen with. Not if they valued their reputations. Good girls went out with clean-cut, law-abiding guys, the ones who stayed in school and went to church and had plans for the future.
Being with Tucker Lang was another matter, however—as long as no one found out—and by the time he left Harmony at the age of twenty-one, not many girls remained who hadn’t joined him for a walk on the wild side. Tucker was trouble, all right, and nothing was more alluring than trouble.
Tucker even looked like trouble, from his long black hair to his scuffed biker’s boots, which he wore both winter and summer and even to the beach. He also favored shark-tooth jewelry, black leather jackets, and sleeveless T-shirts, to display his sinewy musculature.
The vehicles he drove, both of which he’d rebuilt himself, looked like trouble, too. The first was a big, loud Harley-Davidson; the other, a Trans-Am with flames painted on the sides. Auto repair was, in fact, his trade while he lived on Harmony, one he’d stumbled into simply because it happened to be the family business. His great-uncle Walter, who’d brought him to the island from the Bronx when he was thirteen, operated the island’s only garage, Lang’s Auto Repair.
To the distress of Walter and his wife, Winnie, trouble ran deeper than just appearances with Tuck, right from the get-go. He set off stink bombs in school, encouraged his classmates to smoke and swear, and pilfered candy and magazines anywhere he found them for sale.
Another reason the Langs turned gray so fast, beyond the fact that they were both sixty when they took Tucker in, was that he seemed perpetually involved in dangerous activities, usually on a dare. One day, for instance, he dived off Little Harbor Bridge—nothing unusual for island kids, except that in Tucker’s case his hands were tied behind his back. He once camped out all night in Morgan’s Hollow, where if the ghosts didn’t get you, the deer ticks would. But the incident that made Tuck an irrevocable Harmony legend was his getting struck by lightning, a gigantic bolt that passed right through him, yet left him totally unharmed.
Tucker was combative, too, a trait that became more prominent as he grew older and began hanging out in bars. He wasn’t the largest or strongest guy on the island, but he was arguably the toughest, and he never backed down from a fight.
In addition to all this, Tucker drank hard, swam nude, danced dirty and spent more than his fair share of nights in jail paying for his sins, the sum of which, alas, only added to his appeal and, in turn, the sullying of even more female reputations.
Not mine, though, thought Cathryn McGrath a bit smugly as she drove across Harmony on a slushy, colorless Valentine’s Day. She was on her way to attend the afternoon visitation at D’Autell’s Funeral Home where Walter Lang was laid out. Cathryn’s virtue had remained intact—although, to be honest, Tucker had never tested it.
For one thing, she’d been off-limits. She’d gone steady with Dylan from the age of fifteen until they were married four years later, and Tucker had respected that. Also, her parents and the Langs were neighbors. They did what good neighbors do—traded news and recipes and tools, and lent each other help whenever it was needed. For some odd reason, that bond seemed to affect Tuck’s attitude toward Cathryn. That, and his being four years older. When he wasn’t ignoring her, which he often did, he unfailingly treated her like a kid sister, someone meant to be endured and occasionally protected, but not seduced.
But even if he had hit on her, she was positive nothing would’ve come of it, because, quite frankly, the appeal of Tucker Lang, bad boy extraordinaire, was lost on her. Although other girls had swooned over his dark eyes and rugged unshaven jaw, Cathryn had much preferred Dylan’s blond and blue-eyed all-American looks. In fact, Tucker’s aggressive demeanor had sometimes scared her, and his behavior had positively turned her off.
She didn’t find Tucker Lang exciting or irresistible, the way other girls did. Cathryn’s idea of irresistible took the form of respect, loyalty, industriousness and being family-oriented, all of which Dylan possessed in spades. Rather, she considered Tucker confused, immature and pitiable, and the girls who allowed him to use them were fools.
Slowing her van for the stop sign at Four Corners, a central marker on the fifteen-square-mile island, Cathryn’s rambling remembrances also came to a stop, and she realized with some annoyance that she’d spent an unwarranted amount of time thinking about Tucker Lang today. She hadn’t seen the man in nearly fifteen years, and before that they hadn’t exactly been bosom buddies. He probably didn’t even remember her. Yet, from the moment she’d heard about his uncle’s death and realized he’d probably be home for the funeral, he’d been drifting through her thoughts like a low-grade obsession. Probably because, despite all his shortcomings, I liked the guy, she thought with a slow smile. We were oil and water, but we always got along.
Cathryn set her van in motion again and soon arrived at D’Autell’s, located near the cemetery rather than within the touristy harbor district, which the Chamber of Commerce seemed to appreciate.
There weren’t many cars in the parking lot, Cathryn noticed as she shut off the engine. Most people probably intended to pay their respects during the evening visiting hours. She sighed in dismay as she gathered up her purse. It would be easier to leave quickly and unnoticed if there was a crowd, and she definitely wanted to leave quickly. She was eager to get home and continue decorating the dining room.
Because it was Valentine’s Day, she’d planned a special dinner—beef stroganoff, Dylan’s and the kids’ favorite, with a heart-shaped raspberry-chocolate cake for dessert. Actually, she wasn’t aiming to make this Valentine celebration special; she was aiming to make it perfect. She already knew what Dylan intended to give her, and only perfection on her part would do.
She’d found the gift by accident last week. Normally she didn’t go into Dylan’s business files, but a supplier had phoned with a question about an order, Dylan had been out and she’d figured the information must be somewhere in the drawer.
It was. So were the diamond earrings. Not rhinestone, not cubic zirconia. Diamond, the real McCoy. The sales slip was in the bag, as well, and when Cathryn saw the bottom line, she’d suffered serious heart palpitations. Dylan’s landscaping business was doing well—but eight hundred dollars for earrings? Was he out of his mind?
But then she’d found the card, also hidden under the files, its verse so romantic and intimate it had brought tears to her eyes. And at that moment she’d decided that being impractical once in a while was perfectly forgivable in a man. In fact, it was perfectly…perfect.
She’d kept the discovery a secret, even from her best friends, Julia and Lauren, but it had been difficult. Heavens, diamond earrings! Usually Dylan’s Valentine gifts ran to flowers or chocolates. Was he finally going to say, yes, he’d like to have another child? Was this his way of making up for the disagreements they’d had whenever she’d broached the subject? God, she hoped so.
When Bethany, their youngest, had entered first grade in September, Cathryn had thought she might get herself an outside job. Dylan had thought the time was right, too. But after considering several positions and becoming mysteriously anxious and depressed, she’d come to the conclusion that she was just a natural-born, stay-at-home mom, a one-hundred-percent throwback to another era. Trying to be otherwise was fighting against type.
Her family and home were the core of her life, and unlike a lot of women she knew, she loved taking care of them. She loved everything domestic and was never happier than when she was cooking or sewing, gardening or helping with homework. And having a toddler underfoot just seemed like an integral part of the picture.
Smiling, Cathryn recalled that there was one more reason having another child would be fun. Last summer she’d jokingly proposed to Lauren and Julia that they all have babies at about the same time. That way, she’d said, they could share prenatal joys and woes, and later help each other with child-rearing. She’d seen the arrangement as great fun and a wonderful way to broaden their already deep, lifelong friendship. Her friends, however, had predictably considered the idea absurd. At the time, Julia had been content simply being a newlywed, and Lauren hadn’t even been dating anyone.
Well, Lauren’s baby was due in August, and, to no one’s surprise, Julia had recently announced that she was two months along. Now it was Cathryn’s turn, and she had a strong hunch that was the message behind Dylan’s extravagant gift. He’d just needed a little time to get used to the idea.
Cathryn suddenly felt the urge to skip the wake and hurry home. Unfortunately, though, some things couldn’t be sloughed off. Paying final respects to an old neighbor was one of them.
She angled the rearview mirror toward her, fluffed her long sandy bangs—and squeaked in horror. She was still wearing her Valentine earrings, the dangling hearts that looked exactly like candy. One said, Kiss Me, the other, Be Mine. Not quite right for a wake. After removing them and tossing them on the dash, she fingered off a tiny smudge of pink lipstick from the corner of her mouth and tried not to think about how much heavier Tucker was going to find her. Each of her three pregnancies had left her with ten extra pounds, then a couple more. Sly devils, had slipped in all on their own. Ah, well. There was nothing she could do about it right now. With a resigned sigh, she opened the door and stepped out into the slush.
Inside the foyer, Cathryn signed the guest book and took a bolstering breath before walking into the viewing room. It was overly warm and smelled of carnations and dusty velvet. Serene harp music, meant to create a celestial ambience, drifted from speakers poorly hidden behind the coffin. To Cathryn’s chagrin, her attention zoomed straight to Tucker. Not to poor Walter, the reason she was here. Tucker. He was sitting in the first chair in a short receiving line of relatives, talking quietly to the elderly woman on his right, Walter’s sister-in-law Sarah from Barney’s Cove Road.
Oh, Lord. He looks like a Mafia hit man, Cathryn thought. It was the maroon shirt that did it. With a white or otherwise pale shirt, Tucker’s charcoal sports jacket and fitted black pants might almost pass for normal. But that shirt, all that head-to-toe darkness, distinctly marked him as an underworld figure. Maybe not the underworld, but an underworld nonetheless.
Cathryn’s first glance also registered that he’d grown a beard, a feature that in her opinion added absolutely nothing to his appeal. Moreover, in disregard of current fashion, he still wore his hair long.
Cathryn changed her mind. Tuck didn’t look like a hit man; he looked like an aging rock star.
He was neither, of course.
She remembered her father once remarking that Tucker, being unusually charismatic and street-smart, had the potential to become somebody really special someday, a top-flight salesman, for instance, or a politician—if he got the right breaks. But with bad breaks, getting involved with the wrong people, for instance, he could turn into a bum, a hood or even a criminal. He was walking a precarious fence rail, her father had theorized. Tuck’s life could fall either way.
Like most people grafted to Harmony’s grapevine, Cathryn knew that Tucker had drifted through several trades before settling into the one that currently occupied him—stock-car racing. According to Walter, it was an occupation that provided Tuck with a good living and the opportunity to travel, so Cathryn surmised he’d “fallen” well. Not that she condoned his racing. She knew how much the old widower had worried about his great-nephew’s safety, but at least Tucker wasn’t living out of a shopping cart or doing time in San Quentin.
As for his personal life, Winnie and Walter had long ago given up on his ever getting married or settling down. They’d gone to their graves believing he’d be a skirt-chaser forever. And they were probably right.
Cathryn’s curious perusal, which couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, was cut short when Tucker turned to see who’d just entered. Quickly, she shifted her attention to the casket.
After saying a short, silent prayer and wishing Walter well in the hereafter, Cathryn made her way over to the family. Tucker got to his feet, one knee cracking.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she began with automatic formality, gripping Tucker’s hand while staring at the small garnet stud in his left ear.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to…” His polite response trailed off, and suddenly his dark eyes took on a rich gleam, their outer edges creasing as he broke into an unabashed smile that erased her earlier cynicism about his looks. “Shortcake?” he exclaimed, loudly enough to elicit chuckles from several people.
Heat climbed up Cathryn’s neck. Not that she disliked the nickname Tuck had pinned on her when she was young. The character Fonzie on the old TV sitcom Happy Days used to call Joannie Cunningham “Shortcake,” and that was clearly an expression of brotherly fondness.
“Hi, Tucker,” she said, dropping the formality. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”
“Not remember you? How long did we live next door to each other?”
“Eight years,” Cathryn answered and then winced, realizing the question had been rhetorical. “You’re looking well,” she said. And he was. Trim, fit, tanned.
“So are you,” he replied, and before she could refute him, added, “Married life agrees with you, I guess.” It seemed more a question than a statement.
Tucker had disapproved of her becoming engaged while still in high school. In fact, he’d called her crazy for agreeing to marry the only guy she’d ever dated.
“Yes. I’m very happy,” Cathryn replied.
He lifted his broad shoulders in a concessionary shrug. “You were right.”
“Uh-huh,” she hummed slowly and with just enough needling for him to hear her unspoken “And you were wrong.”
He asked, “Where are you living these days?”
“West Shore Road.” When his brow furrowed, she explained, “It’s new since you left.” Although she was brimming with questions, she was beginning to feel self-conscious. Standing in the condolence line at a wake was not the proper place for such a conversation. “Maybe we should catch up later, Tuck?”
“Oh. Sure.”
“Again, I’m really sorry about your uncle. He’ll be missed.”
Tucker nodded and let her move on to his great-aunt Sarah. Cathryn extended her sympathy, then told Sarah in an undertone, “I brought my coffee urn and warming trays.”
The elderly woman’s plump face crinkled with a smile. “Oh, wonderful. Thank you for remembering.” With a rustle of black crepe, Sarah turned to Tucker. “Cathryn’s lending us some buffet things for tomorrow’s brunch. Do you think you could move them from her car to yours?”
Tucker flicked a brief smile at Cathryn. “Sure,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready to leave.”
She nodded, made her way down the line quickly, then hurried to the back row of chairs. About a dozen people, all friends and neighbors, sat ahead of her conversing quietly, and some not so quietly. Walter had lived a long, full life and would’ve been the first to say there was no need to overmourn his passing.
The minutes ticked by slowly. When Cathryn checked her watch and found that a respectable amount of time had elapsed, she began to button her coat. Simultaneously, Tucker left his seat and headed in her direction. They said nothing until they were outside, under the portico at the front entrance.
“I thought you’d never leave,” he grumbled, reaching inside his jacket. “I’ve been dying for a smoke.”
“You haven’t quit yet?” Cathryn exclaimed incredulously as he struck a match and lit up. He didn’t bother replying, just took in a lungful of smoke. Watching him, Cathryn felt the urge to cough on his behalf.
He tossed the extinguished match toward the receptacle by the door. “You still ready to chew my head off?” He squinted at her, looking fierce, and for a moment Cathryn found herself holding her breath. But then his mouth tipped up at one corner, deepening a groove that on a less masculine face might be considered a dimple.
“You bet. You shouldn’t smoke, Tucker. It’s a terrible habit. It’ll take years off your life. And anyway, it’s so passé. Nobody finds it attractive anymore.”
He angled a glance at her that was full of devilishness, even as he drawled in exasperation, “You always were a pain in the ass.”
“Oh, please, no praise.”
He laughed and made a sweeping gesture toward the parking lot with the hand that held the cigarette. “Which one’s yours?”
“The blue van.”
“Figures.” He touched her shoulder and urged her forward. Although she wore several layers of winter clothing, she still felt the tingling warmth of his fingers. “So…how’ve you been?” he asked, as they tramped through the translucent slush, which only yesterday had been pristine snow.
“Great. How about you?”
“Oh, can’t complain.”
Cathryn noticed he was wearing black leather boots. Not quite the atrocities he wore as a teenager, but in the same general family of footwear.
“And Dylan?” he asked.
Cathryn beamed. “He’s just great.”
They arrived at her van and she slid open the door. “He runs his own landscaping business.”
“Oh, that’s right. He went off to some sort of agricultural college, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Four years of letter-writing and carrying on a long-distance romance, but somehow she and Dylan had endured. “When he graduated, he worked for another landscaper, but after a few years he ventured out on his own. It was shaky at first. We had a mortgage and a toddler and another baby on the way.”
“You have two kids?”
Cathryn reached into the van, batted away a basketball, pulled forward the box containing her thirty-five-cup coffee urn and deposited it in Tucker’s arms. “No. Three.”
“Three!” The box slipped a little.
“Yes.” Cathryn lifted two warming trays. “Where to?”
Pointing with the cigarette clenched between his teeth, Tucker indicated a black sedan, a rental, across the lot. They mushed on.
“Anyway,” she resumed, “before long, business picked up and Dylan hasn’t looked back since.”
“Doing well, I take it?” Tucker’s shapely winged brows lowered just enough to remind Cathryn that his disapproval had included more than just her early engagement. For reasons beyond her comprehension, he’d never seemed to care for Dylan, either. In fact, one afternoon just before leaving the island, having spotted her and Dylan on her porch, Tucker had crossed the lawn between their houses and stomped up the wooden steps in his trademark boots. “You be good to her,” he’d warned Dylan in a deceptively soft voice. “Or I’ll come back and break your kneecaps.” A joke, but oddly no one had laughed, least of all Dylan.
“Yes. He’s very busy,” Cathryn replied. “Very much in demand. Even today, only February, he’s consulting with a client about a spring project. Gone are the days when we had the winter months to ourselves.”
Tucker unlocked the trunk of his car and laid the box inside. Cathryn fit in the warming trays. When he began to lower the lid, she cried, “Wait. There’s more.” And they slopped across the parking lot once again.
As she handed him a large chafing dish, he growled, “Jeez, what do you do, Shortcake, run a restaurant?”
“No, I just—” she shrugged “—have things like this. Families often do, you know.”
Tucker grunted, and they headed back toward his car. “So, tell me about your kids.”
As usual, a request to talk about her children set off an internal geyser of love and pride. “Well, my oldest is named Justin. He’s eleven and into sports, big time. Cory is eight. He’s my scholar, quiet, always reading. And Bethany, who’s six, is my little shadow. She loves to bake and sew and do all the things I enjoy. Incidentally, she’s the reason I couldn’t attend Winnie’s funeral. I was in the hospital giving birth to her.”
“That right?” They’d reached his car. He tossed his cigarette, deposited the chafing dish, and after closing the trunk, turned his full attention on Cathryn. “Who do they take after?” he asked, bracing his foot on the bumper and leaning on his thigh.
“Justin clearly looks like Dylan, but the two younger kids are a blend. Each has features from both of us. Beth, for instance, has my hazel eyes and Dylan’s blond hair. Cory has Dylan’s smile, but my build.” She added “unfortunately” to herself.
“I bet they’re great kids.”
“They are, if I do say so myself.” Cathryn began to grow uneasy under Tucker’s close regard. While she spoke, he gazed straight at her, his eyes unwavering. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone, especially a man, had listened to her so interestedly or watched her so intently, and for a moment she thought she understood something of Tucker Lang’s fabled appeal. “So, what about you, Tuck?” she asked, hoping to deflect his attention.
“Me?”
“Yes. What’ve you been up to?”
He dropped his foot, straightened to his full six-foot height and shifted his attention to the fog swirling over the meadow across the road. “Oh, just the same old same old.”
She had no idea what that meant. “I heard you’ve taken up car racing…?”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded rhythmically for several seconds as if that might take the place of further conversation.
“So, where are you living?”
He shuffled his feet and added a few more inches to the distance between them. “Alabama.”
“Really? I’ve never been to Alabama. I haven’t been anywhere, really. Except Florida. We went to Disney World with the kids two years ago. Best vacation we ever took.” Only vacation we ever took. “Ever been to Disney?”
Tucker pulled out his cigarettes again, stared at them a moment and then repocketed them. “Uh…no.”
She swallowed. “Anyone special in your life these days?”
He didn’t actually answer, just made a face as if to say, “Are you kidding?”
Cathryn knew a stone wall when she was hitting one, especially when that stone wall was so familiar. Tucker hadn’t liked personal questions when he was a boy either, particularly when they involved his life in New York. A couple of times she’d heard him lie about it, but mostly he’d just clammed up, holding the truth, and all the pain that went with it, tight inside him. Until one day when she was ten and couldn’t take it anymore and admitted to him that she knew his background, knew his mother was a hooker and a drug addict. She’d overheard her parents talking. And if he wanted to discuss it or cry or go for a fast walk like she did when she was angry, that was okay with her. She only wanted to help, and she wouldn’t tell anyone about it, honest. Tucker, being Tucker, hadn’t cried. But he had talked. A little. And he had walked. A lot. Damn fast, too.
What did he have bottled up inside him now? she wondered. Anything? Nothing? And whose business was it, anyway?
Even as Cathryn was still musing, Tucker glanced over his shoulder toward the funeral home and said, “Well, I’d better get back inside before someone sends out a search party.”
“Oh. Of course.” She clutched her purse in two hands and caught her lower lip in her teeth. “It was good seeing you again, Tuck.”
His grin returned, all confidence and male sass. “I know.”
Cathryn laughed. Some things never changed, and she was just as glad they didn’t.
TUCKER STOOD under the portico of the funeral home, puffing on a cigarette and feeling a sense of loss after Cathryn drove away. Not that he wanted to continue their conversation, especially considering the direction it had taken. Rather, his sense of loss rose solely from himself. Cathryn’s role had simply been to remind him of it, of the life he’d made a religion of avoiding until now. Married life. The life of a husband and parent, home-owner and mower of lawns, coach to Little Leaguers and reader of bedtime stories—the life of a responsible adult. “And look where that’s landed you,” he muttered in self-disgust.
Clamping his cigarette between his teeth, he brushed aside his jacket, unsnapped the leather pouch at his waist and lifted his cellular phone. He’d pressed in half of Jenny’s number before remembering she was out of range. Way out of range. Cursing around his cigarette, he returned the phone to its case and paced the portico like a caged bear.
He wished there was someone he could call. Normally, he disliked sharing his problems. After fending for himself most of his life, he was accustomed to handling crises on his own. But right about now, it might be nice to bounce ideas off another person.
He considered the guys he hung around with and dismissed them as quickly as they came to mind. How could he admit to the yahoos he called friends that at the ripe old age of thirty-five he’d gotten a woman pregnant? They’d never let him live it down and they’d certainly be no help. Jenny didn’t want to marry him. What was the problem, man? To them, the problem would be if she did want to get married.
A car swashed into the parking lot and a moment later an elderly couple got out. Strangers to Tuck, they nodded, lips pressed in sorrowful regret, as they walked by him, taking careful little steps, and entered the building. He sighed. Ah, yes—Walter. Automatically his lips pressed in matching regret. This wasn’t the time to be thinking of Jenny or impending fatherhood. It was time to mourn the generous man who, together with his patient wife, had rescued his sorry-ass life and changed him from a punk into…less of a punk. And for that, Tucker was truly sad. He wished he could’ve turned out better more quickly for them. He wished he hadn’t caused them so much trouble—all those calls from the principal and Charlie Slocum, Harmony’s now-retired chief of police. He wished he had finished high school here, not in some far-off GED program, so they could’ve watched him receive his diploma. He wished Walter had seen him race at least once, even if he was just on the stock-car circuit. He wished he’d bought Winnie a clothes dryer before she caught pneumonia from hanging out laundry. He wished…he wished Jenny would change her mind and marry him.
And with that his thoughts went over to the other side again. A barrel-deep moan rose from his chest. He’d been embroiled in this emotional tug-of-war for days, caught between his sadness over his uncle’s death and his angst over his love life. Pulled in two directions, he was doing neither justice.
Well, he was tired of it. It was clearly time to focus. Or at least do something about one or the other.
Tucker dropped his third cigarette into the trash receptacle and headed inside. Old man D’Autell was sitting in his office at the end of the center hall, changing a tape for the P.A. system. More harp diddling. Leaning in the doorway, Tucker asked, “Is there a phone somewhere in this building where I can make a private call?”
The long-faced mortician gazed at him with a wariness that slightly offended Tucker. As far as he could remember, D’Autell had never been the target of any of his boyhood pranks.
“Will it be long distance?”
“Yeah, but I’ll use my calling card.”
D’Autell cranked himself out of his chair, giving the phone a slight push in Tucker’s direction.
“Thanks,” he said as the old man walked by.
In place of “You’re welcome,” D’Autell grumbled, “Don’t touch anything.”
Tucker closed the door, went to the phone and punched in a Missouri number. Jenny answered on the third ring.
Hearing her voice, Tucker tried to summon up an image of the woman who was carrying his child and was disturbed when he couldn’t. He could see short auburn curls and grass-green eyes and a pointy chin. And freckles. Yes, there were definitely some freckles. But he wasn’t able to put all the parts together and see a cohesive whole.
“Hey, Jen,” he began, sitting down in the chair D’Autell had vacated. “It’s me, Tuck.”
“Oh.” Her voice sank, leaving no question how she felt about hearing from him.
“How’s it going, darlin’?”
“How’s it going? I just spent the morning puking my brains out. That’s how it’s going.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you should be.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled again, wincing.
“So what do you want, Tuck?” Somehow she managed to sound both bored and impatient.
“Just to talk.”
She sighed heavily. He tried not to take offense.
“Are you coming over?” she asked. “Are you back in town?”
“No. No to both questions. I’m in Massachusetts. I had to fly home because of a death in the family.”
“Home?” Her surprise underscored how little they knew about each other. “You’re from Massachusetts?”
“Sort of. I was born in New York, but…” He felt himself closing the gates of communication. But if he and Jenny were meant to live the rest of their lives together, it was time to start sharing. “When I was thirteen, I came here to live with my grandfather’s brother Walter and his wife Winnie. Walter just passed away.”
“Oh.” Jenny’s uncertain exclamation betrayed an encouraging softening. “That’s too bad, Tuck.”
“Yeah, it is. He was a great old guy. Played a mean hand of whist.”
“What happened to your parents?”
He swallowed, faced with the question he’d had to answer all his life. “My father died in Vietnam when I was three, and when I was twelve my mother…was the victim of a drunk driving accident.”
“She died, too?”
Jenny was astounded and incredulous. As well she should be, he thought. It was an astounding, incredible story. A lie, actually. Not the part about his father dying in Nam; Tuck had worn the Silver Star posthumously bestowed on his father right until the day the clasp broke off. The part about his mother was a lie. He’d chickened out again. He couldn’t admit his mother had been sent to prison when he was twelve and had overdosed five years later.
“Anyway, I’m at the wake now, taking a break, and I had to call. You’ve been on my mind since last weekend.”
“Where in Massachusetts?” she asked, steering so sharply away from the subject, he could practically hear her tires screech.
He sighed. “Harmony. It’s a small island ten, twelve miles off the southeast coast. Not far from Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Harmony? Never heard of it.”
“Understandable. It’s small. Not many people here during the winter. Last I heard, the count was around seven hundred.”
“You lived on an island with only seven hundred people?” She infused every word with sarcasm.
“Yep. Peel away the outer layers and I’m really just a small-town boy at heart.”
“Yeah, right.” Not the sharpest comeback, but she made her point.
Tucker massaged a place on his forehead where a headache was gathering force. “About the discussion we had last week…” he tried again. “It’s been bothering the hell out of me, Jen.”
“Which part? You asking me to marry you, or me turning you down?”
“The last part. I don’t regret asking you to marry me. I’ll never regret that. I meant it when I said I want to do right by you and the baby.”
She laughed a tinkling, cascading laugh, hitting every note and nuance of condescension along the way. “Tucker Lang, you wouldn’t know right if it smacked you square in the face.”
Tucker drummed his fingers on the desk in mounting frustration. “I know enough to feel responsible for my kid and to want it to have a good home life.”
“And what’s that, Tuck? You being gone three-quarters of the time? You saying good-night over the phone from some motel room half a world away?”
“No!” Inadvertently he thought of the kind of home Cathryn must have, how loved and secure her children must feel. That was what he meant.
“No? You’re planning on quitting racing then?”
Tuck swallowed with difficulty. “That isn’t fair. You know racing is how I make my living.”
“Tell that to our kid when he’s ten and doesn’t know you.”
Tucker regretted calling without having prepared. He wasn’t doing very well. When it came to playing for keeps, he didn’t know the lines. “I can cut back. I can do other things….”
“It wouldn’t matter.” Jenny sighed dismally. “You’re just not father material, Tuck. And you certainly aren’t cut out to be anyone’s husband.”
“What do you mean?” As if he didn’t know. Hadn’t they met at a party swarming with racing groupies and hadn’t he flirted with her and arranged to call her, even while his date for the evening stood less than ten feet away?
“Don’t get me wrong, Tuck. You’re a great guy and a lot of fun, but frankly, I don’t trust you from here to the front door.”
Her accusations stung. “I’d be different if we were married.”
She burst out laughing.
“I would,” he insisted, realizing how serious he was, how deep was his desire to claim his unborn child and raise it well, protect it, be a good father. “Jenny, please, you’ve got to give us a chance. I swear on my father’s grave I’ll be…”
“No, Tuck. I’m sure your intentions are good, but you know what they say about the road to Hell.”
Tucker pressed a tightly clenched fist against his forehead. After a long cleansing moment of silent swearing, he took a different tack. “But what’ll you do? How will you get along? And don’t tell me you intend to go on welfare because I won’t allow it.”
She huffed impatiently. “Listen, Tucker, I have to go. I have to be at the restaurant in half an hour.” She paused. “A heck of a place to work when you’re having morning sickness, huh?”
“You could quit if we—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Really, Tuck. Thanks anyway, but you’re simply not the type of guy I hoped to marry. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you, you. And as for the baby, to be blunt, I’d prefer raising it without you. You’d only confuse our child, here today, gone tomorrow. And as it got older—” she swallowed as if this was difficult for her, too “—I can’t imagine you being anything but a bad influence. In fact, I’d prefer you don’t even visit.”
“You can’t mean that. I’m the baby’s father.”
“No. You’re the guy I had unprotected sex with one night last November after one too many margaritas.”
“Don’t reduce it to that. We dated.”
“And I’ll remember those dates fondly, but now it’s time for me to go my way and you to go yours. It’s for the best.”
Tucker started to protest but heard a click, followed by the insulting buzz of disconnection. Anger bubbled inside him. He wanted to hurl the phone across the room. Instead, he quietly dropped the receiver into its cradle and fought back the tightening in his throat.
Of all the ironies. After a lifetime of wanderlust and womanizing, he’d finally decided to settle down, and the mother of his child didn’t want him. Far worse, she didn’t want him anywhere near his child. He supposed there was a strange justice in the situation. He was reaping his due rewards.
But, hell, he didn’t have to like it, he thought, surging out of the chair. He didn’t have to settle for it, either. Fathers had rights. He’d take legal steps, and when his offspring came into the world next August, he was going to be right there to say, “Hey, son or daughter, this is your old man looking at you.”
He sank to the chair again, dropping like a popped balloon. Bad choice, bringing in lawyers and demanding rights. That road led to bitterness, spite and fighting back. And maybe she’d win. He had to remember what he wanted—to be a vital, ongoing part of his child’s upbringing—and the best way to do that was to convince Jenny to marry him. And who knew, maybe he could. He’d convinced a lot of women to do a lot of things they’d never dreamed of doing before.
Tucker didn’t have a clue how he intended to accomplish this, but he would. He had to. For the first time in his life, he had something worth fighting for.

CHAPTER TWO
CHOCOLATES. A five-pound box of chocolates. This wasn’t the gift Cathryn expected from her husband. Staring at the plastic roses that adorned the red-satin cover, she felt her smile crumble.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Dylan said, setting the heart-shaped box on her dinner plate and hurrying to his place at the head of the table. He was the last member of the family to sit. He had tumbled into the house forty minutes later than promised and had still wanted to shower. The stroganoff noodles had congealed into a big sticky pasta ball, and the green beans almandine had gone limp. Not quite the perfection Cathryn had been aiming for.
“Th-thank you,” she replied with forced cheer. Maybe the earrings were coming later, during dessert, or after the kids went to bed. Sure. That was it. After the kids were asleep. Dylan had bought her a special gift and obviously meant to create a special moment when he gave it to her. The chocolates were just a front.
She opened the accompanying card and nodded with a knowing smile. It was a simple generic greeting, not the gorgeous card with the touching verse she’d found at the bottom of the file drawer. But, of course, that would come later, too.
“Thank you,” she said again. “It’s very pretty.” She gazed at her husband across the candlelit table. He seemed bemused, his eyes fixed on the centerpiece. “Dylan?”
His head jerked up. “Huh?”
She chuckled. Sometimes he was worse than the kids. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” He waved his hand dismissively. “My pleasure.”
“Can I have some?” Justin asked, eyeing the box lasciviously.
“Hey!” Bethany complained. “You’ve got your own chocolates.”
“So do you, and I bet you want some of Mom’s too.”
“Whoa!” Dylan called. “Bring it down a notch.”
Cathryn pulled her red linen napkin from a ring made from construction paper decorated with glittery stick-on hearts. Beth’s contribution to the table. “Of course all of you can have some of my candy. Tomorrow. Any more sugar today—beyond dessert, of course—and you’ll be swinging from the curtain rods.”
Cory apparently found this funny and laughed. Milk came snorting out his nose.
“Eeiuw. Gross.” Bethany scooted as far away from him as she could.
Cathryn gave her brood a glare of mock impatience. “All right, settle down. It’s time to give thanks.”
Bottoms wiggled on chairs, throats were cleared, and a semblance of order descended.
“Thanks” was a casual ritual at the McGrath house, an observance more conversational than prayerful. During thanks, they passed food, dug into meals, and sometimes strayed off subject. But Cathryn didn’t mind. It worked. She could see a sense of gratitude taking root in her children, a mindfulness of the small blessings in their lives. With such an attitude, they’d be able to find happiness anytime, anywhere, no matter what calamity befell them.
“I’m thankful I got a seventy-five on my math quiz today,” Justin said, the first to volunteer. With a sheepish grin he confessed, “I didn’t study.”
Dylan growled at him scoldingly.
Chewing a slice of cucumber, Bethany mumbled, “I’m grateful Jason Toomey stopped chasing me in the schoolyard.”
“Yes, we’re all grateful for that,” Cathryn agreed, as she passed the basket of rolls.
Cory pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m thankful for all the cards I got today in school.”
Cathryn’s heart went out to her middle child—her Charlie Brown. Had he thought he wouldn’t get any?
“And I’m thankful for this table,” Dylan said. “The food, the flowers and decorations, everything. It’s wonderful, Cath. As usual.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mom,” Justin said, and the other kids chimed in.
“Your turn, Mommy.” Beth was the only one who still called her Mommy.
Cathryn had been so busy listening to others, she hadn’t really thought about her own contribution. Off the top of her head she said, “I’m thankful that I have such a thankful family, even when I serve pasta that needs to be cut with a chain saw.”
Everyone laughed and then settled into serious eating, and it was a while before Cathryn thought about the earrings again. Almost simultaneously she thought about having another child. The two ideas had become entwined. She and Dylan didn’t need another child. Neither did the overpopulated planet, which was Dylan’s strongest argument.
But maybe another child needed them.
Of course! They could adopt. She’d propose the idea tonight. How could Dylan object?
That night before going to bed, Cathryn showered, donned her prettiest nightgown and spritzed on Dylan’s favorite perfume. But when she waltzed into the bedroom, her husband was sprawled across three-quarters of the bed, already asleep. Swallowing her disappointment, she reasoned that falling asleep had been unintentional and surely he’d appreciate being roused.
She sat on the bed and gave Dylan’s shoulder a gentle shake. Nothing. She bounced and jiggled the mattress, which earned her a dull moan. She turned on the radio and flicked the light, but the only response that elicited was a mumbled, “For Crissake, Cath, knock it off,” before Dylan dropped deep into sleep once again.
With dismay pressing heavily on her, Cathryn slipped into bed and pulled the blankets to her chin. Where were her earrings? she implored the enshrouding darkness. Where was her mushy card? And what about the talk she’d hoped to have about another baby—to say nothing of the lovemaking she’d anticipated all week long?
Maybe tomorrow, she thought, sighing downheartedly. Putting off the surprise until the day after Valentine’s would be odd, but obviously Dylan had his reasons.
But the next day dawned, and Cathryn got the kids off to school, and she and Dylan attended Walter Lang’s funeral, and the likelihood of his presenting her with a belated Valentine gift grew more and more remote. During brunch at the Lang house afterward, she overheard him saying that as soon as he got home, he planned to change out of his suit and go scope out a new project.
Maybe tonight, Cathryn thought, struggling to keep her optimism buoyant. Maybe tonight…
Several guests had already left and Cathryn was helping Sarah round up used plates and coffee cups, when the front door opened and someone new arrived, a thirty-something blonde whom Cathryn recognized only vaguely. She certainly wasn’t a permanent resident of Harmony. After exchanging a few words with Sarah, the newcomer approached Tucker, who happened to be talking with Dylan.
The woman was sleek, graceful and attractive in a wealthy sort of way. She’d given her coat to Sarah at the door, and now stood before the two men in a cowl-necked, black, angora knit dress that made an absolute drama of her rich blond hair, peaches-and-cream complexion and turquoise eyes. It didn’t exactly detract from her figure, either. Cathryn felt like a frump in comparison, dressed in her high-collared Victorian blouse, gray cardigan and calf-length challis skirt.
For some irrational reason, she also felt she was needed at her husband’s side.
The woman extended her hand to Tucker. “Mr. Lang,” she said, her tone as soft and smooth as the angora that enveloped her, “I was unable to attend your uncle’s funeral, but I couldn’t let the day go by without coming over to offer my sympathy.”
“Thank you,” Tucker replied, one eyebrow arched and betraying the fact that he had no idea who she was.
“Zoe Anderson,” she said, introducing herself. “I have a summer home out on Sandy Point, and for the past three years I’ve trusted no one but Walter with my Land Rover. He was a marvelous mechanic. Marvelous. I’ll miss him terribly.”
Tucker’s eyebrow lifted higher. “You’re a cottager?”
“Yes. From New York.”
“What are you doing on Harmony at this time of year?”
She laughed musically. “The island has its charms, even in winter. In fact, lately I find myself spending as much time here during the off-seasons as I do during the summer.” Unexpectedly she turned her smile on Dylan. “Of course, this man knows all about that. Don’t you, Mr. McGrath?”
Cathryn glanced sharply at her husband. His face was flushed and he was widening his eyes at the woman. Cathryn was well acquainted with the expression, but didn’t understand it in its present context.
“Dylan is my landscape architect,” Zoe Anderson continued, her quick survey of Cathryn leaving her feeling invisible.
Cathryn glanced at her husband again. “Landscape architect?” she questioned him. Just when she’d adjusted to his upgrade from a simple landscaper to a landscape designer… he was changing what he called himself again?
Dylan shrugged self-consciously, avoiding her eyes.
“Last year,” the Anderson woman continued animatedly, “we made extensive changes to the backyard. New perennial borders, trees, arbors, walkways. It’s breathtaking. This spring we’ll be overhauling the front.”
“And that’s—” Dylan paused to clear his voice which seemed unusually dry and squeaky. “And that’s no mean feat, considering Ms. Anderson’s front yard is more than an acre.”
“But Dylan has been coming up with marvelous ideas. I hope you don’t mind how much time he’s spending on my project, Mrs. McGrath.”
Cotton-mouthed, Cathryn replied, “No. Why should I mind?”
The woman laughed, shaking back her hair, and suddenly Cathryn discovered there was a very good reason why she should mind.
There on Zoe Anderson’s earlobes sparkled Cathryn’s Valentine earrings.
She lost her ability to speak, to move, even to breathe. All she could do was stare at the familiar eight-hundred-dollar earrings. And there was no doubt in her mind they were the same ones. The setting was just unusual enough to be distinctive.
All at once Cathryn remembered the card, the intimate verse, the romantic phrases, and nausea brought the taste of bile to her mouth.
Someone touched her arm and quietly asked, “Are you all right?”
Mechanically she turned and saw that the person addressing her was Tucker. Remembering where she was, she concentrated on composing herself and nodded with a reassuring smile. “Just a little queasy. I…I’ve been fighting symptoms of the flu all morning.”
“Come sit down,” Tucker said, urging her toward the sofa.
“No, I think…” She glanced at Dylan and caught him exchanging a look with the other woman that seemed too familiar, too fraught with communication. “I think I’ll just go home.”
Dylan escorted her to the van with a solicitous arm around her waist, but it wasn’t concern she saw in his handsome, square-jawed face. It was fear. And guilt.
“Who is she?” Cathryn asked, her voice as shaky as her legs.
“Who?”
“That woman. Zoe Anderson.”
“She’s…a cottager. From New York. Weren’t you listening?”
“Yes, but who is she to you?”
He pulled in his chin, in innocence and perplexity. “To me? She’s a client, Cath. A client with a job big enough to pay for that sunroom you’ve always wanted.” He helped her into the van, went around to the driver’s side, and they started toward home under a cloud of tension, which he tried to dispel by turning on the radio and humming along with the song that was playing.
I should let it go, Cathryn thought. I could’ve made a mistake. Zoe Anderson might very well own earrings exactly like the ones I found. Although they were unusual, surely they weren’t unique. Besides, this is Dylan I’m having doubts about. Dylan.
But the windshield wipers hadn’t even had enough time to clear a decent wedge of road grit off the window when Cathryn decided she had to keep asking. She had to find out for certain who Zoe Anderson was. She wouldn’t rest easy until she did.
By the time Dylan was steering into their driveway, Cathryn had her answer. She stumbled from the van, heading for the house, but made it only as far as the walkway before doubling over and throwing up.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON Tucker set off with the back seat of his rental car rattling with cookware and serving dishes. Sarah had suggested waiting. She said he was tired and should get some rest. The neighbors who’d brought over food were bound to drop by eventually to reclaim their dishes. And even if they didn’t, he could always return them later in the week.
Trouble was, Tucker wasn’t planning to be around later in the week. There was a little woman in St. Louis who needed to be sweet-talked into marrying him, and the sooner he got to it the better. Right after Sarah had wrapped the last leftover, declared the kitchen suitably neat, buttoned up her overcoat and toddled on home, he’d put himself in gear and packed the car. There was still too much to do.
Returning cookware was the least of it. Far more complicated was the chore of sorting through his uncle’s belongings and deciding what to keep, what to throw out, what to sell or give away. That could drag on for days. Then there was the house itself. Walter had left it to him, and while Tucker was deeply moved by his generosity, the gift didn’t come without its problems—most notably, selling it. The garage presented problems, too, maybe more so than the house. Finding a buyer for a house wasn’t unusual. But for an auto repair shop?
Sure, he could put off returning pans and dishes, but anything he could knock off the list now would be one less thing standing between him and his leaving Harmony.
Tucker decided to drop off the items that belonged to Cathryn McGrath first, since they took up most of the back seat. He was also a little curious to know how she was feeling.
With an up-to-date map of the island on the seat beside him and West Shore Road highlighted with yellow marker, he set off toward what should have been a setting sun. Unfortunately a gloomy gray blanket of mist continued to muffle the island, and the only evidence he saw of the sun existed in a paler shade of gray to the west.
Still, the landscape wasn’t without its beauty, in a stark and empty way. Tucker turned off the radio and cracked open a window to better enjoy the mellow two-note bellowing of Harmony’s competing foghorns and the screeching of its gulls. The cold brine-scented air blowing in invigorated his body. The long vistas, both seaward and skyward, invigorated his soul.
He used to loathe this time of year when he was a kid. There was a stillness to February, a nothing-happening hush as nature hung idle between winter and spring, that used to drive him crazy. Funny, how time could alter a person’s perspective.
Tucker found Cathryn’s address with minimal trouble. She lived in an area of new midpriced homes, each set on at least two acres, with SUVs in the driveways and swing sets in the yards. The McGraths lived in an extended Cape Cod house with white shutters, natural cedar shingles, and well-tended shrubs out front. Kid-made paper hearts, framed by ruffled curtains, decked the windows. Cupids lined the walk, and a red-and-pink Valentine flag hung by the front door. There were window boxes stuffed with pine and holly, flower beds waiting for spring, and tucked here and there, stone squirrels and bunnies and ducks. It was picture-perfect. And perfectly Cathryn.
Tucker was standing at the door before he realized he should’ve called before coming over. Although it was nearly dinnertime, the house was eerily still. He heard no children’s voices within, no TV gabble, no clatter of pots or plates. He didn’t even see any lights.
He stepped back, peering toward the attached garage. The double door was raised, revealing only one vehicle. Maybe the family had gone visiting. Or maybe to a restaurant…although Tuesday was an odd night to go out to eat, and Cathryn had been feeling sick.
For a brief moment, Tucker worried about Cathryn. Something wasn’t right with her. She’d claimed to be fighting off flu symptoms all morning, but he’d seen her eating and nothing had been wrong with her appetite. He’d also noticed the abrupt change in her expression while the Anderson woman talked with her.
With a shake of his head, he tossed aside his suspicions. He was an inveterate cynic, seeing trouble where none existed, and that was all there was to it. Tucker set down the urn on the doormat where it couldn’t be missed, then returned to the car for the rest of Cathryn’s things.
With everything piled on the stoop, Tucker was ready to leave and head over to his next stop. But on a whim, he picked his way across the sodden mulch in front of the house, squeezed himself between two pungent evergreens and peered through one of the living room windows.
The room was dark, steeped in shadow, but he found an occupant anyway. She was curled into a fetal position on the sofa, as still as a shadow herself. Cathryn.

CHAPTER THREE
ALARM RIPPED THROUGH Tucker like a bullet, sending his heart racing. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Maybe she really is sick. You’ve played dead yourself a few times when you were under the weather and people knocked at your door.
Despite what common sense was telling him, Tucker scrambled back to the stoop and tried the door. It was unlocked. “Cathryn?” he called, stepping inside and peering into the living room. She didn’t move. With his heart caught in his throat and his imagination in overdrive, he crossed the room, dread in every step, and forced himself to touch her. “Cathryn?” he repeated, shaking her gently by the shoulder. It was warm, he realized with tremendous relief.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, like those of a person in shock. For a moment she simply stared without recognition. Then, “Oh, Tucker,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “I didn’t hear…I must’ve fallen asleep.” She made an effort to sit up, then sagged again.
Tucker wanted to accept that she’d been sleeping, but his cynical twin refused to let him. “What’s the matter? Not feeling well?”
She swallowed. “No. Not very.” Tucker did detect the faint odor of vomit drifting from her clothes. Not a pretty smell, especially when combined with the apple-cinnamon scent that pervaded the room.
The first strokes of embarrassment began to lash at him. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about walking in the way I did, uninvited. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“No.” She lay so still, as if moving might shatter her.
“I brought back your things, your coffee urn and stuff.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Mmm. I was planning to leave it all on the front step, but then, just for the hell of it, I tried the door.”
As if he’d strung together too many thoughts for her to process, she frowned and slowly massaged her skull, her fingers buried in her tangled hair.
With feigned nonchalance, Tucker cast his glance about the dusky living room. “Where’s Dylan?”
“Out,” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s…out.”
“And the kids?”
“With my parents.”
“Can I…do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“No. Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t be more…” She lifted the hand that had been massaging her head and held it limply poised, palm up, as if it contained the rest of her thought.
“I’ll just bring in those things then.” He backed up a step, turned toward the door when he heard her sniff. Damn! He retraced his steps. “Cath, where did Dylan go? Maybe I should call him or something.”
“No, it’s okay.” Her face cramped into a mask of anguish underlaid with embarrassment. “Really. He’ll…he’ll be back soon.” Her jaw began to tremble. She tried to steady it, but her lips took up the trembling instead.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Tucker squatted on his heels to be at eye-level with her.
“Nothing. Please…Nothing.” But two plump tears slipped from her eyes and soaked into the couch pillow.
Every instinct Tucker possessed screamed at him to take flight. He’d walked into a domestic cataclysm. But he listened to the voice of responsibility instead, a voice that had been growing stronger ever since he’d learned he was going to be someone’s dad.
“Cathryn?” he implored, brushing back her hair. It was softer than he’d expected. Her chest hitched and she made a tight hiccuping sound as she tried to suppress a sob. “Cath, at the risk of butting in, are you and Dylan having problems?”
The pain that scored her features answered him better than any words. Cursing under his breath, he gently pulled her to a sitting position and wedged himself into the space beside her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, wondering when he’d lost his mind.
“No.” She began to tilt in the opposite direction, heading for another pillow. Tucker put his arm around her to keep her upright.
“There’s nothing to say, really.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks as her mortification deepened. “I’m sorry, Tucker. Please, just go. This has nothing to do with you.”
So true. But, masochist that he was, he continued, “Does it have anything to do with that woman who showed up after the funeral?”
Cathryn had been trembling already, but now the potency of her tremors grew until they rattled Tucker, as well. He tightened his grip on her, felt the pressure building, until finally she seemed unable to contain it any longer and cried out, “Dylan’s having an affair.” With that she crumpled forward, covering her face with her hands, and wept with such misery that Tucker found his own throat thickening.
He rubbed her back, a feeble attempt to let her know he was still there. After a while he asked, “Are you sure?”
She nodded, still buried in her hands. “He-e to-o-ld me so-o himself.” At least, those were the words Tucker thought he heard. They were too fractured for him to be really certain.
She steadied her voice long enough to say, “What’s worse is, they’ve been seeing each other for…for over a year.” And then she began to cry again, harder than before.
Tucker didn’t know what else to do but pull her into his arms. “You didn’t suspect anything?”
With her face buried in his leather jacket, she gulped down tears and shook her head. In her sob-broken way she added 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 months.”
Tucker raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How’d they pull that off on such a small island?”
“Apparently they met off-island, too. Times when I believed he was at a trade show or buying equipment or some such thing.” Despite the effects of the brandy, Cathryn felt a sharp echo of the shock and grief she’d felt upon first learning this. She pressed her fingertips over her lips and waited for the pain to subside, but it didn’t. She was in the van again, sitting beside her husband on the edge of hysteria, while the world as she knew it shifted and slid. She kept hearing Dylan apologize. “I’m sorry, Cath. I’m so sorry.” And then the crucial phrase, “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”
Unthinkingly she’d snapped, “Oh? How did you want me to find out?”
“Not…this way. I thought we might go away for a few days. Just the two of us.”
She’d stared at him a long incredulous moment. What was Dylan saying? That he did want her to find out? Then, as understanding dawned, her already shifting, sliding world utterly shattered.
“Why?” she’d implored. “What went wrong? I thought we were happy.”
“And did he give you an answer?” Tucker asked.
Cathryn was jolted out of her daze by his voice. Had she been talking all this time?
“He said it just…happened.”
“It just happened?”
“Yes.” Cathryn reached for the brandy bottle and poured another dose into her glass. “That’s what he said, at first anyway. But I guess I kept after him, and eventually he got so angry he began to admit things he’d never intended to.” She had to pause until the anguish gripping her released some of its hold. “Apparently Dylan’s been unhappy with me for some time.”
“With you?” Wide-eyed, Tucker looked ready to go ten rounds with her statement.
She nodded. “He said I ignore his needs. I spend all my time tending to the house and the kids.”
Tucker laughed sarcastically. “Aw, poor baby.”
Cathryn raised a hand. “No, he’s right. I have become too absorbed with homemaking and the kids’ activities. I have become complacent about us, Dylan and me.” Complacent was Dylan’s word, though. She’d always thought in terms of contentment, and it hurt more than she could express that he didn’t feel similarly contented.
Cathryn blinked her burning eyes, battling tears, as she recalled the myriad complaints Dylan had registered with her that afternoon, each one an arrow straight to the heart.
“The son of a bitch,” Tucker rasped. “He’s caught having an affair and he turns on you? You should be outraged.”
Cathryn swallowed, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. “I would be, except that much of what he said is true, and I’m not surprised he turned to another woman.”
“Would you explain that to me, please?”
“Well, you know…” She cast about for something she could say that wouldn’t lead to a discussion of sex. “The way I’ve let myself go, for instance.”
“Did he accuse you of that, too?”
“Well, look at me, Tucker. I’m not exactly the girl Dylan married twelve years ago.”
“That’s right. You’ve improved.”
“Ha! I’m a big, worthless hunk of fat.”
Tucker sat forward, scowling with the fierceness of a lion. “Okay. So you’ve put on some weight, but you’re hardly fat. To be honest, I kinda like you this way. Holding you, a guy knows he has a woman in his arms.”
“Oh, please.” She dragged her gaze away from Tucker. “On top of being fat, I’m stupid, too. Stupid for not realizing Dylan was so bored and unhappy.”
“All right. That’s enough of that,” Tucker snapped. “You’re not stupid, Shortcake—except for calling yourself stupid.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you call a woman who doesn’t know her husband’s having an affair—for a whole year?”
“Maligned,” Tucker shot back angrily.
Cathryn bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Yes, she did feel maligned. Maligned and betrayed. When she thought about all the things she and Dylan had done and shared over the past year—the hundreds of meals and chores, the socializing with friends, the lovemaking—oh, especially that…
Tucker got up and set his empty beer bottle in the sink, his scowl still in place. “Is he coming back tonight?” he asked, staring out the darkened window. Not a glimmer of daylight remained.
Cathryn needed a moment before she could answer. “No.”
Tucker turned in hopeful surprise. “Did you toss him out?”
“No! Of course not. Dylan simply thought it would be better if he left. Otherwise, he said, the house would be too tense, the possibility of our arguing in front of the kids too great.”
Tucker’s narrowed eyes met hers. “Do you have any idea when he will be back?”
“To live?” She swallowed more brandy, welcoming its numbing bite. “No. I asked, but all he said was, he needs time to sort things out.”
“Things?”
“How he feels, I guess. If he wants to stay in the marriage.”
“Is he going to continue seeing the Anderson woman?”
“I don’t know that, either.” She’d been afraid to ask. Afraid, also, to inquire where he’d be sleeping tonight.
Tucker folded his arms and rested his hip against the counter. “What are you going to do about the kids?”
“Oh, God. My kids.” Cathryn braced her forehead on one hand and closed her eyes. “They’re going to fall apart when they hear about this.” Out of the blue she burst into tears. She didn’t want to cry. Crying was weak and dumb and humiliatingly messy. But thinking of her kids broke down every defense she had.
She felt something nudge her elbow—a box of tissues Tucker was pushing at her. She helped herself to several, and after a lengthy mop-up said, “Dylan’s coming by tomorrow afternoon to help me tell them. He promised he’d be here when they got off the school bus. I’m not quite sure what we’ll say or how we’ll say it…” She’d never in her life felt so lost, so vulnerable. “Do you have any suggestions, Tuck?”
“Me?” He stood up straight. “Hell, I’m so out of my element here.” He sighed heavily, shook his head and contemplated the problem. “I probably wouldn’t say anything about the affair. You’ll have to tell them eventually—assuming your separation continues; in such a tight community, they’re bound to hear something. Better from you than some kid at school. But not tomorrow. They’ll have enough to cope with as it is.”
Cathryn plucked another tissue from the box and pressed it to her eyes, fighting back a renewed surge of tears. She nodded. “Yes. Better to take small steps, move the kids through this in stages.”
“Also, whatever you do, make sure you and Dylan tell them you love them.”
“Of course.”
“And that you’ll always love them, no matter what.”
“Okay.”
“And you’ll always be there for them.”
“Okay.”
“And your problems are not their fault.”
She kept nodding, filing away his advice.
“Other than that,” he shrugged, “I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”
Cathryn gazed up at Tucker, standing at the table with his large, suntanned hands resting on the bowed back of a chair. She studied his hair, caught back in a low ponytail, his beard, his garnet earring, his belt buckle with its carving of an eagle in flight, gripping a rattlesnake in its talons. She saw a man who, in giving advice regarding her children, claimed to be out of his element.
He could’ve fooled her.
Just then Tucker’s stomach growled. Loudly. “Oh, Tuck, I just realized how late it is. Have you had dinner?”
TUCKER BACKED UP a step. Hell, he thought, she was going to offer him something to eat. And although he was hungry, he’d much rather eat alone at his uncle’s house where no one’s problems but his own existed to give him indigestion. But he couldn’t very well leave Cathryn in her current state.
“Not yet. Have you?”
“No. But I’m not hungry. Please let me get something for you, though. There’s leftover stroganoff in the fridge, and homemade chicken soup, and tons of stuff in the freezer. Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza…”
“Pizza sounds good. Which freezer?”
“The chest.” She started to get up, swayed and gripped the table.
“I can get it. Frozen pizza is a bachelor’s specialty.” Tucker noticed she didn’t argue this time. She smiled feebly and sat.
Tucker opened the freezer and his mouth gaped. It was full of food, the kind of food he’d forgotten existed—roasts, pork chops, whole chickens, huge economy-size bags of vegetables, ice cream bars, homemade pies, gallons of milk. He didn’t even know milk could be frozen.
His aunt used to shop in bulk, too, stock up on the mainland a few times a year. He remembered the sense of security he’d felt looking into her storeroom, the sense of wealth, of provenance and self-sufficiency. Those feelings had been all new to him when he’d first arrived. Back in the Bronx, he’d often had nothing to eat at home and survived mostly by stealing.
He’d tried doing the same on Harmony, although he’d no longer had a need to. Stealing had just become a way of life. He’d gotten caught, of course. Here, proprietors recognized their customers and knew when stock had been tampered with.
He’d expected to be taken to the police station and then hauled off to juvie. But to his amazement, no one had prosecuted. Instead, they’d talked to him, helped him understand there was a different way to live. In exchange for his doing odd jobs, they’d given him spending money. Thus, he’d learned the value of working for a living; he’d learned decency and the true meaning of the phrase, “It takes a village…”
“Not the microwave!” Cathryn yowled. “That’ll make the pizza inedible!”
Tucker shrugged diffidently and moved to the stove. On the wall above the burners hung a plaque that read, Martha Stewart Doesn’t Live Here. But Cathryn McGrath Does!
With the pizza in the oven cooking properly, he turned and noticed Cathryn reaching for the bottle of brandy again. In three strides he arrived at the table and scooped the bottle away from her. “I think you should eat something. Drinking’s only going to give you new problems.” Hypocrite. If he’d been in Cathryn’s shoes, he’d already be passed out on the floor.
“Tuck, I can’t eat.” She did look kind of queasy.
“I know, it’s hard. You’re hurting pretty bad. But think of your kids, Shortcake. In the days ahead, they’re going to be hurting, too, and looking to you for comfort. To take care of them, you’ll have to be strong, and whether you want to face it or not, emotional strength and physical strength go hand-in-hand.” Tucker wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was talking about, but she seemed to buy it.
“Okay. Um…Soup, I guess.”
Tucker warmed a bowl of her homemade chicken soup—she conceded he could use the microwave for that—and set it on the table. “Eat slowly,” he admonished, donning a cow-shaped oven mitt before fetching his pizza.
Cathryn ate about half of her soup dutifully before sitting back and raising her hands in surrender. Tucker didn’t push the issue. He polished off his pizza with another of Dylan’s weak-as-piss beers, cleared the table and thought longingly again about going home. He needed to go home, needed to sit on the porch, clear his head in the cold night air and figure out how people became married, not separated.
But that would have to wait a little longer. While putting their plates in the dishwasher, he’d noticed Cathryn’s gaze drift toward the display of family photographs in the hutch, and there it remained.
“Cathryn?” he asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He wasn’t sure if the coordinated cloth towels were meant to be used.
She swallowed, turned and forced a teary smile. “Yes?”
“Are you still friendly with that redheaded girl? What was her name? Laura?”
The question surprised her and dried her tears. “Lauren?”
“Lauren. That’s it. Is she still around?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. She returned to Harmony just last year to buy her mother a house and ended up marrying her old boyfriend, Cameron Hathaway.”
Tucker, about to toss the wad of damp paper into the wastebasket, swung around in astonishment. “The kid who got her pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Why do you ask?”
Why? Because he needed help here. Because the situation was soon going to be more than he could handle. “Maybe we should call her, ask her to come over and stay with you.” Primarily he was thinking about getting Cathryn showered and put to bed. He’d watched her trying to stand a couple of times and knew she’d had too much brandy.
“Calling wouldn’t do any good,” Cathryn said, yawning widely. “Lauren and Cam went to Boston. They’re seeing Rent tonight. Not coming home till tomorrow.”
Tucker kept his curses silent. “How about your other friend, the one who used to do that show up at old man Finch’s crazy little radio station? She still around?”
It pleased him to see Cathryn smile. “Julia came back, too.” Her smile widened around another yawn. “Better watch out, Tuck. All she planned to do was attend a funeral, too, and she ended up marrying the editor of the island newspaper.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember to keep up my guard. In the meantime, do you know Julia’s phone number offhand?”
“Forget it. Jules now owns Preston Finch’s crazy little radio station and is presently, even as we speak, doing her show. She won’t be off the air until eleven.”
Tucker’s heart sank. He knew enough not to ask about the other classmate who’d been Cathryn’s friend. He’d heard about her death. “Looks like I’m IT again,” he muttered in an undertone.
Cathryn blinked at him groggily, uncertain if he’d spoken. She looked so tired, he was sure that if he walked out now she’d fall asleep right there, head on the table, soiled clothes still on her back. Not that the clothes really mattered. But she might tumble off the chair and hurt herself. At the very least she’d wake up with a stiff neck.
“Okay, Shortcake,” he said, clapping and rubbing his hands as if he were about to propose a great adventure. “How about we head to the bathroom and get cleaned up for bed.”
She blinked again, her eyes widening with sudden alertness.
“I mean you,” he said quickly. “You get ready for bed. I’ll just be close by if you need help.”
Her face flushed a deep pink. “Thank you, but you’ve done more than enough already. You should go home.” Bracing on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself to her feet, and the color in her cheeks drained to ash.
Tucker flew around the table and supported her, one arm around her back, one under her elbow.
After a moment, she said, “I’m okay.”
“Great. I’ll hang on to you, then.” That earned him a gratifying chuckle—and compliance.
He escorted her through the living room, up the stairs to the bedroom she’d shared until now with Dylan. An oil portrait of them, twelve years younger and resplendent in wedding gear, hung over one of the washed-oak dressers. Ever so slowly, she gathered up her nightgown, slippers and robe. Tucker remained at her elbow, urging her onward whenever her path crossed an item of Dylan’s.
At last, he shuffled her into the adjoining bathroom, sat her on a brass vanity stool and removed her shoes.
“Tucker,” she protested, obviously embarrassed.
“That’s all. You can do the rest.” He stepped to the tub and slid open the glass shower door, moved some towels closer and spread a mat on the floor.
“Tucker,” she said on an exasperated chuckle. “I’m just tired and a bit tipsy. I haven’t been lobotomized.” She rose and pushed him out of the bathroom with surprising vigor. “Go home!” she ordered, shutting the door.
“Okay, see ya,” he called back, dropping into a comfy-looking reading chair. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and crack her head and be lying in there all night, alone and helpless.
His gaze roamed the room. It looked like something out of a J.C. Penney catalogue. Thick flowered comforter, matching curtains and table skirt and wall border. About thirty-two pillows on the bed…
Tucker’s gaze drifted to the wedding portrait again. Dylan was a handsome guy, he couldn’t deny that. But Tucker had gotten his number when they were still just kids. Although Dylan was a year younger than him, they’d shared a few mixed-grade classes, and Tucker had seen him cheating on tests. Later, he’d caught him cheating at cards. And there, standing beside the double-dealing bastard, was the straightest arrow Tuck had ever come across. Sincere, ingenuous Cathryn. Blind, gullible Cathryn.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened revealing pink, naked Cathryn.
Cathryn screamed and ducked back into the steam. Wincing, Tucker eased to his feet with thoughts of tiptoeing out of the room. As if that would erase what had just happened.
“Tucker!” she wailed from behind the closed door. “You said you were leaving.”
“I lied.”
“No kidding.”
The door opened again. She was bundled in flannel from chin to toe. Her wet hair, combed straight and sleek, framed a face that blazed.
“I’m sorry,” Tucker sputtered, embarrassed too. “I didn’t think.”
“Oh…” She flapped an arm as if to finish her statement. “It’s all right. With the beating my pride took today…” The sentence trailed off to another arm flap.
“Would you like some hot milk?”
She grimaced. “No. Please. Just my bed, although I doubt I’ll sleep. My mind keeps racing.”
“Well, at least give it a try. Remember, you have to be strong for the kids.”
Tucker regretted taking that approach. Her expression filled with sadness. Still, she nodded and said, “You’re right.”
“I’m always right. Now, hit the sack, lady.”
Cathryn climbed onto the bed on all fours, batting away pillows until only two remained. Real pillows. Then she flopped face forward into one of them. “Good night,” she said, her words severely muffled.
Tucker tugged the comforter down, pulling it under her, until it cleared her slippered feet, then covered her with it and sat on the edge of the bed.
She turned her head and said, “Go home.”
He smiled and placed his hand on her head. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said, lightly stroking her wet hair. “I’ll leave in the morning.”
Cathryn swallowed, pressed a bunched hand to her mouth, and tears glistened along the lashes of her closed eyes. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He could get up now, he realized. He could go downstairs and have another beer and watch TV. But he sat awhile longer, stroking her hair and wishing he could say everything was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. All he could say was, “I’ll be here,” because his instincts were telling him that nothing was going to be right in Cathryn’s world for a very long time.

CHAPTER FOUR
CATHRYN WOKE to the familiar sound of a cupboard door slamming. She sat up in alarm and glanced at the bedside clock. Oh, God, she’d overslept. Only fifteen minutes until the school bus came. Had the kids gotten up on their own? Made their own breakfast? Was Dylan up with them?
Her gaze shot to his pillow, his perfectly plumped pillow, and suddenly, painfully, reality came flooding back. No, her husband was not downstairs. He was gone. He’d left her for another woman. Cathryn toppled sideways onto his cool forsaken pillow, choking back a cry.
But there it was again, the thump of a cupboard door, and as suddenly as she’d remembered Dylan’s betrayal, she remembered Tucker Lang. Tucker was here. He’d been here all night.
In a flash of agitation, Cathryn threw back the comforter and swung her feet to the floor. Ow! Her ribs ached from vomiting, and her head throbbed. Slowing her movements, she scanned the room for her bathrobe. Oh. Right. She was wearing it. Her slippers, too. She’d put them on last night after her shower.
No, not after her shower, she remembered, wincing. After she’d waltzed out of the bathroom wearing nothing but her certainty that Tucker had gone. Cathryn buried her face in her hands and moaned, suffering every bit of the embarrassment that had eluded her last night.
But then, another recollection hit her: today she and Dylan had to tell the children he’d moved out. And suddenly her embarrassment seemed trite and disappeared under an onslaught of dread and anxiety. How would the kids cope with the news? How would she cope with telling them? And why should they have to cope with any of this, anyway? That was the question. She still didn’t understand why this was happening to them. Separations happened to other people, not to her and Dylan.
Forcing herself past her desire to crawl back under the covers and hide forever, she got to her feet and headed into the bathroom—and then wished she hadn’t. Under the bright vanity lights, her eyes looked like puffballs, her cheeks held all the color of oatmeal, and her hair, wet when she’d gone to sleep, had dried crazily, flat here, bent there, a veritable 3-D Rorschach inkblot test.
Feeling defeated before she even began, she picked up her hairbrush, pulled it through the mess a few times and fastened it with an elastic. That done, she stared at the faucet awhile but lacked the energy to wash her face. She walked back to the bedroom, tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs.
“Good morning,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. Despite her smile and determinedly straight posture, she felt fragile, like a glass mercury ball filled with sorrow just waiting to be spilled.
Tucker spun around from his perusal of the refrigerator’s contents. “Oh, hey! I hope I didn’t wake you?” His dark gaze swept over her warily, as if trying to assess yesterday’s damage and today’s mood.
“No, actually I overslept.” This was just too weird, having big, bad Tucker Lang in her kitchen first thing in the morning. He’d apparently showered. His hair was damp and, like hers, caught back at his nape. Sadly, she noticed, the style looked better on him.
“Coffee! Oh, bless you.” Cathryn hurried toward the coffeemaker.
“Do you feel up to eating something?” he asked, carrying a carton of eggs to the counter.
Grimacing and shivering, she shook her head. That earned her a growl of reprimand. “Maybe I’ll have a piece of toast,” she said. Somewhat mollified, Tucker continued preparing his own breakfast.
Their conversation was subdued as they ate, and focused mainly on chores Tucker needed to tackle that day. She hadn’t realized there was so much to do. Had he mentioned any of it last night? Locked inside her own misery, she’d paid so little attention to him.
He probably thought he was doing her a favor by steering the conversation clear of her problems, but his thoughtfulness only ended up burdening her with one more: guilt for having cut so deeply into his valuable time.
With the last bite of his three-egg omelet consumed, Cathryn insisted he be on his way. But he merely poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “Not until we get Julia or somebody else over here to stay with you.”
“That isn’t necessary. I’m fine. Besides, it won’t be long before Dylan arrives.”
Tucker shot her an impatient look over the rim of his coffee mug. “That could be five, six hours from now. Company will make the time go faster.”
“No. Please. I…” She decided to be honest. “I really can’t face anyone yet. Not even close friends. Especially them.”
Tucker tipped his head so that a shaft of winter sunlight fell across his face. “Pride, Shortcake? Is that what I’m hearing?”
She thought a moment. “Maybe. Everyone thinks of me and Dylan as an ideal couple, an institution practically. Solid as Gibraltar. Always here, year in, year out. They’re going to be shocked and disillusioned and full of questions, and, quite frankly, I have enough to cope with today.”
“Oh. It never occurred to me that friends might be more of a problem than a help.”
“Today they would be, when everything is still so raw and in transition and hard to explain. Plus, this is a private matter between me and Dylan.” After a heartbeat she added, “And the kids. We still have to tell the kids. I wouldn’t feel right talking to outsiders before talking to them.”
Rubbing his jaw, Tucker appeared thoughtful, a wry arch to his left eyebrow. “That puts me in kind of an awkward position, don’t you think?”
Cathryn bit her lip. “I really am sorry you got caught up in this, Tucker.”
Sighing, he shrugged. “Not your fault. You told me to shove off a number of times.”
“Yes, I did.” She attempted a smile, but it faded quickly. “You will keep this under your hat, won’t you?”
“Goes without saying.”
“Thanks. The gossip will start circulating soon enough. No need to prime the pump.” Struck by a vision of her beleaguered life in the very near future, she slumped forward, moaning, and rested her forehead on her arms.
“Is that how you want your kids to find you?” Tucker chided sternly. “Is that how you intend to be strong for them?”
She popped up. “I’m okay.”
His look sharpened, made all the more fierce by the sunlight slashing across his dark eyes.
“Honestly,” she assured him. “Now, unless you’re still hungry, can I finally convince you to leave?”
“What’ll you do here all alone?”
“Oh, I have plenty to keep me occupied. Laundry. Vacuuming. A sewing project. Some calls to make for the PTO.” Noticing Tucker’s frown, she explained, “Parent-Teacher Organization.”
“Well…” Tucker glanced at his jacket hooked on the neighboring chair. Not a biker jacket, but black leather nonetheless. “I really do have to get moving.”
“Then move.” Cathryn got up, came around to his side of the table and lifted the jacket. “Let’s go, Lang. I’m throwing you out. Enough’s enough.”
Smiling his dimpled smile, he hauled himself to his feet and took the jacket from her.
“How much longer will you be on Harmony?” she asked, walking him to the front door.
“Four, maybe five days.” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket.
“Well, don’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“I won’t.” He opened the door and surveyed the hoary, frozen lawn through the glass storm door.
“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done.”
He shrugged negligently. “Buy me a beer someday, when this all blows over.”
“I will. Maybe even two.” If this ever does blow over.
His gaze connected with hers. “Hang in.”
Lips pressed hard, she nodded. “I’ll try.”
“And good luck with the kids. Remember to tell them you love them and the separation isn’t their fault.”
She nodded again, unable to speak for the emotions clogging her throat, not least of which was gratitude toward this man who’d come to her door merely to return a coffee urn and ended up helping her through a night she would’ve been ashamed to share with a dog. She felt she owed him more than a thank-you, or a beer, but what? A hug? Too awkward. A promise to return the favor someday? Tucker never needed help. Before he left she really should find some way to express her appreciation.
Tucker opened the storm door, and a wall of thirty-degree air shocked her out of her musing. “Take care, Shortcake,” he said with a wink and stepped outside. She watched him stride down the path, leather jacket creaking, black ponytail gleaming in the morning sun, an incongruous figure if ever she saw one.
“You too,” she called back belatedly. And perhaps because she felt so indebted to him, she waited, shivering, until he drove away before closing the door.
It took Cathryn until midmorning to muster the courage to call her mother. Primarily she wanted to ask about the kids—if they’d done their homework, if they’d gotten off to school all right, and if they knew they were supposed to come home afterward, not return to their grandparents’. She didn’t want to discuss her problem. If telling her friends was going to be difficult, telling her mother would be impossible.
Meg Hill thought so highly of Dylan, and she was so very proud of her daughter. Always had been, for as long as Cathryn could remember. Not that her father was any less proud; he simply kept his feelings to himself. “Cathryn has never given me a day’s trouble,” Meg would tell anyone who’d listen when Cathryn was a girl. “Not in school, not at home or with her friends.” For the past twelve years her mother’s praise had centered on Cathryn’s home and domestic skills and, of course, her beautiful family. Dylan was the ideal husband, and the children…well, they were the absolute sun in Meg Hill’s sky. Although Cathryn knew her mother’s bragging sprang from love and genuine pride, it sometimes embarrassed her. But far worse, it also was a burden because Cathryn felt pressured to continually meet that praise. Disillusioning her mother was not something she was looking forward to.
After assuring Cathryn that everything had gone fine with the children, her mother asked if she and Dylan had enjoyed their stay at the inn. Here it was, Cathryn’s chance to get the dirty deed over with.
“It was lovely,” she replied.
After hanging up, she spent the next half hour crying. But when crying made her sick to her stomach, she decided she simply had to pull herself together. She had to make the effort or else suffer a rerun of yesterday. Dragging the vacuum cleaner out of the utility closet, Cathryn swore she heard Tucker’s voice cheering, “Thatta girl, Shortcake.”
It was after noon before she glanced at a clock again. After noon? Yikes. Dylan would be here soon, and just look at her! She dashed upstairs to change. Half an hour later she came down again, looking halfway human. Not that she thought her appearance would make any difference to Dylan, but maybe it would to the kids. If they saw their mother pulled together, they might be reassured the world wasn’t really falling apart.
She knew she should have some lunch, but gave up on that idea on the way to the kitchen and just sat on the couch instead, munching on grapes and crackers—and watching the street.
Cathryn grew edgier as time ticked on and Dylan didn’t show. Yesterday they hadn’t discussed specifically what they’d say to the kids. They needed to devise a strategy. They had things to discuss, lines to rehearse, a story to corroborate…hearts to keep from breaking. So where was he? He’d distinctly told her he’d be here to share the task of telling the kids.
There was the school bus now. Was she going to have to face their questions alone?
The kids had barely started up the driveway when Cathryn noticed Dylan’s truck skulking up the street. The timing was just too right. Obviously he’d been trying to avoid being alone with her.
The back door opened and the kids tumbled into the house as they always did, noisily. Backpacks thumped on the mudroom floor. Chatter and teasing filled the air as jackets and hats got hung on their pegs. “Mom!” Justin hollered his usual greeting as he tramped into the kitchen. “We’re home!”
Out of sight in the living room, Cathryn’s heart ached with love and terror. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, trying to sculpt a smile, then stepped into the kitchen. “Hi. How was school?”
Her question was met with various blithe answers of “good,” “okay” and “highly forgettable.” The children were too intent on rummaging for snacks.
“Hey, don’t I rate a hug?” she said, hoping her flippancy disguised how desperately she wanted to hold them.
One by one, the kids obliged. Justin, with his flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging outside his jeans—not how her mother had sent him to school, Cathryn was sure. Beth, her soft curls tickling Cathryn’s neck, her pink Barbie sweater smelling of peanut butter. Cory, tripping forward on an undone shoelace.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Cory studied her through his round, wire-framed glasses, too observant for his own good.
Cathryn smiled and combed her fingers through his hat-swirled hair. “Of course.”
“You look different.”
“I put on a little makeup, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Her eight-year-old dismissed his concern with the alacrity of a child raised in a home where serious trouble is simply unthinkable.
The door opened again and in walked Dylan, wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. He’d forgotten to pack a change. Still, he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a casual men’s wear catalogue. That was Cathryn’s doing. She loved buying clothes for him.
Because his hours were so irregular, the kids weren’t at all surprised to see him at midafternoon. They barely looked up from pouring milk and reaching into the cookie jar as they said hi.
His gaze met Cathryn’s guiltily, then veered away. For the first time since he’d admitted to his affair, she felt a hot lick of anger. In avoiding her, he was only hurting the kids.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, challenge in her tone.
He slipped off his parka and hung it on its peg. “That’d be great. Thank you,” he replied, polite as a guest.
Seated at the table, Justin stopped munching and looked from one parent to the other. “How was last night?” he asked with a touch of suspicion.
Cathryn glared at Dylan. Ready or not, the moment was upon them, and now what were they supposed to do?
With a heavy sigh, Dylan lifted his coffee mug, the one that said World’s Greatest Dad, and sat beside his firstborn, the son who looked so much like him. Cathryn pulled out a chair next to Beth, who was cheerily emptying her backpack of the day’s papers and arranging them in front of her. Cory, already immersed in a library book, sat at one end of the table.
“What’s up?” Justin asked, aware that his first question still hadn’t been answered. Cory lifted his gaze, sensing something peculiar in his brother’s voice.
“We have something to discuss with all of you,” Dylan began. He looked tired, distraught under his surface calm, and Cathryn’s anger ebbed somewhat.
“Something important?” Cory asked.
“Yes, important and difficult, and I’d give anything if I didn’t have to say it.”
Then don’t, Cathryn silently implored, desperate to shield her babies.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Cory and Justin asked simultaneously.
Dylan glanced briefly across the table at Cathryn, then down at his coffee mug. “Kids, your mother and I—”
Cathryn feared he was about to blurt everything and send the children into shell shock. “Before we go any further,” she interrupted, “we want you to understand something. And this is the most important thing of all, so listen up.” Her gaze circled the table. “Beth?” she said to get her daughter’s attention. With everyone listening, she continued, “Your father and I love you. We love you more than anything in the world. And we will always love you, and be here for you.”
Justin paled. “Oh, no,” he murmured, two jumps ahead of his younger siblings.
“What?” Beth asked, head swiveling, curls flying out. “What’s happening, guys?”
Cathryn had more to say, more words of assurance and comfort to impart, but Dylan, perhaps thinking she was done, picked up the ball with, “Your mother and I have hit a rough patch in our marriage.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple working over the ribbing of his crewneck sweater. “And we’ve decided it might be best if I…if I moved out for a while.”
There. It was said. Dylan didn’t breathe, waiting for the children’s reaction. Neither did Cathryn. She couldn’t for the pain encasing her.
“What?” Justin shot to his feet. His lean face, which lately seemed so grown-up to her, became a child’s again, soft and vulnerable.
Cathryn glanced around the table, from Justin to Cory to Beth, watching Dylan’s words sink in. It was like watching her children being lined up and executed. This was abuse. This was consciously inflicting harm on them. And it shouldn’t be happening.
“Sit down, Justin,” Dylan said gently.
Justin sat with caution, as if the chair might not be there anymore. “What kind of rough patch?” he asked. “What do you mean? Did you and Mom have a fight?”
“Sort of. I can’t really get into that right now. It’s between me and her.”
“You’ve had fights before,” Justin argued.
“Yes, but this one was a little different.” Dylan dipped his head to his coffee mug as if he were diving for cover. Cathryn noticed her two youngest had grown unnaturally alert and tense. They seemed to be absorbing the scene with the very cells of their skin.
“How?” Justin persisted. “How was it different?”
“More serious.”
Cathryn could almost hear the gears of Justin’s mind whirring, processing all the adult troubles he’d ever heard about. No! Please let’s not go there.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—everyone was distracted by a hiccupping sound at the end of the table, and turned their attention on Cory, who was struggling not to cry. Embarrassed, he buried his face in the crook of his arm, but his sobs were audible anyway. Although Beth still didn’t seem to fully comprehend what was happening, she sensed calamity and burst into tears, too.
Cathryn considered comforting them with words, but nothing she thought of was true. No, the situation was not all right. There was reason to cry. The only comfort she felt she could give with any honesty was physical—a hug, holding a hand or stroking a head.
“But where are you going, Daddy?” Bethany asked through her jerky whimpers.
Yes, where? Cathryn wondered.
“To Gram and Grandpa McGrath’s farm. I’ll stay in my old room.”
With a fresh stab of pain, Cathryn thought of her in-laws, good, hardworking people both. She loved them, got along well with them, and considered them an inextricable part of her life. Now what? How would they relate to one another after this?
“When are you coming back?” Justin asked his father.
A heavy pause hung over the table. “I’m not sure, Jus,” Dylan replied, staring at his tightly folded, white-knuckled hands. “There’s no timetable to this.”
“But why do you have to leave at all?”
“We…need some time apart.”
Cory lifted his head off his arms, sniffing back tears. His face was mottled and stricken. “From us?”
“No! Not from you, Buddy.” Dylan squeezed Cory’s shoulder. “Not from you. I’ll see you as often as I can,” he said, only making matters worse by reminding the children he wouldn’t be seeing them on a normal basis.
“But who’ll take me to Scouts?” Cory asked.
“I will, same as always,” Dylan replied.
Justin pouted. “And will you still take me to my basketball games?”
“Of course. In fact, I was thinking we could do something special this Saturday after the game. All…four of us. Maybe you could even sleep at the farm that night.” If he expected to see smiles or eager faces, he was sadly mistaken.
“Why are you gonna stay at the farm?” Beth asked, still lagging in understanding.
“They had a fight, stupid,” Justin snapped.
“Take it easy, Justin.” Dylan patted his son’s arm.
“But you are coming back, right?” Cory needed to know.
Dylan hesitated too long.
“You’re not getting divorced, are you?”
Dylan’s swallow was so dry his throat made a scratching noise. “No one’s talking about divorce here.”
Cory’s expression crumbled as if Dylan had said just the opposite. “But who’ll take care of us?”
Shivering with her own insecurities, Cathryn answered, “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere, love.”
“But—” Lack of confidence filled Cory’s eyes.
“Hey!” Dylan interrupted sternly. “No one’s abandoning you. I’m still going to take care of you. Don’t you dare start thinking I won’t.”
His certitude seemed to assure the children somewhat, the youngest two at least. Cathryn could see that Justin’s thoughts were leaping ahead.
“What’ll we tell our friends?” he inquired, pulling repeatedly on the short blond hair over his right ear.
“You don’t have to tell them anything,” Dylan replied, growing irritated. “It’s nobody’s business.”
“But they’re gonna know.” Tears glistened in Justin’s dark blue eyes. “They’re gonna ask about it.”
“So?”
Cathryn shot her husband a quelling glance before saying, “You can tell them your parents are separated. Use the word separated. And if they want to know more, just tell them the truth, you don’t know the details and, therefore, can’t talk about them.”
Justin sighed and fell into a sullen funk. “Easy for you to say.”
“Does anyone want any more milk?” Cathryn asked, noticing half-full glasses all around the table. The children mumbled no and shook their lowered heads.
She gazed at Dylan, trying to delve his thoughts. Did he have anything to add? Any way to make this better? Apparently not. His eyes were downcast, too.
Justin got up and carried his glass to the sink. Cory and Beth followed his example, their bottom lips jutting and quivering. “Maybe I’ll just go upstairs now and do my homework,” he said. Seeing him hoist his backpack, the younger kids did the same.
“Do you have any other questions?” Cathryn asked. “Any concerns?”
“No,” Justin answered and was followed by two echoes.
“Well, okay. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.” With a knot in her chest that wouldn’t loosen, Cathryn watched her children file out of the kitchen and up to their rooms where, she was sure, no homework would get done.
“Something tells me that didn’t go very well,” Dylan said, placing his coffee mug on the counter.
Cathryn fumed as she wiped cookie crumbs from the table. “You thought it would?”
“I don’t know what I expected.”
She pitched the dishcloth into the sink. “Then maybe you should’ve arrived earlier.”
He nodded, brow pinched, and turned to face the hutch. “Sorry. I…have no excuse.”
Cathryn leaned her hip against the counter, crossed her arms, listened to her speeding heartbeat. “Are you really going to stay at the farm?”
“Yes. I think that’d be best.”
“Did you stay there last night?” When he hesitated, she explained, “I simply want to know if you told your parents, if they know about us, in case I run into them.”

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