311 Pelican Court

Grace wanted to groan out loud.

Olivia’s shoulders sank. “Now you know why I’m upset.”

“You aren’t going to dinner with Stan, are you?” Grace asked, just to be sure.

“Not hardly,” Olivia muttered.

“I’m free Friday night. Want to go to the movies?”

Olivia laughed. “You’re on, my friend. Who needs men, anyway?”

Maybe, Grace decided, she’d find a way to get Jack Griffin to the theater on Friday evening. Apparently there were times when romance could use a helping hand.

Rosie finished writing out the words her second-graders had to copy. She set the worn chalk down on the blackboard ledge and brushed the dust from her hands.

The bell rang, indicating class was dismissed for the day. “Don’t forget to remind your parents that Open House is tonight,” she told the students. Open House introduced the teacher to the parents, and it usually occurred in the third week of September.

The children leapt up from their desks, grabbed their bags and backpacks, then dashed out. All except Jolene Peyton. The little girl with the long dark pigtails wore a forlorn look as she walked, head bowed, to the front of the room.

“Can I help you, Jolene?” Rosie asked gently.

The little girl kept her eyes lowered. “Only my daddy can come tonight.”

“That’s wonderful. I look forward to meeting him.”

Jolene slowly raised her head until her eyes met Rosie’s. “My mommy died in a car accident.”

“I know, sweetheart, and I’m so sorry.” Rosie’s heart went out to the motherless little girl.

“Every week Daddy and I put flowers by the road where she died.”

Rosie knew that, too. The flowers and balloons often caught her eye at the busy intersection.

“Well, I’m glad your father’s coming to the Open House,” Rosie said.

Jolene nodded. “He said it was one of those things Mommy would do if she was still here.”

Rosie tucked her arm around the seven-year-old’s shoulder. It was apparent even now, almost two years after the accident, that Jolene missed her mother.

“I told my daddy that I need a mommy, and he said he’d think about it.” She sighed deeply. “He says that a lot.”

So did she, Rosie thought with a grin. “I’ll think about it” was in every mother’s repertoire.

That evening as the classroom started to fill with parents, Rosie made it a point to seek out Jolene’s father. The little girl led him into the classroom, then rushed to bring him juice and cookies from the table set up at the front.

While he waited for his daughter, Bruce Peyton stood in the background, not mingling with the other parents. He was nice-looking, but he had a somber air about him, a remoteness, which was perfectly understandable. School events such as this evening’s must be a painful reminder that he was alone. He was of average height and on the thin side. His clothes hung loose on him. Rosie could only assume this was due to a recent weight loss. His eyes were an intense blue, compelling her to steal glances in his direction.

It’d been many years—decades—since Rosie had really looked at another man. Her flirting skills had rusted from lack of use, although she was confident Janice Lamond could teach her a thing or two.

When Rosie was free she made her way toward Bruce. She smiled and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Rosie Cox, Jolene’s teacher. I just want to say I’m very sorry about your wife.”

“Thank you.” The widower’s smile was fleeting and he clasped her hand for only a few seconds. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Mrs. Cox is a good teacher, but she’s not my real teacher,” Jolene told him earnestly.

“I’m taking over until Mrs. Gough recovers from surgery,” Rosie explained. “This is my first time back in the classroom after, uh, several years. I was recently—divorced.” The word nearly choked her. To Rosie’s horror, tears filled her eyes and she had to turn away before she embarrassed them both.

Through sheer force of will, Rosie managed to hold on to her composure. While she talked to several other parents, Bruce lingered; Jolene showed him her desk and led him to the play area at the back of the room.

By eight o’clock, just a few parents and children remained. Rosie carried the empty punch bowl and cookie plate to the cafeteria kitchen, and when she returned, Bruce and Jolene were the only two left.

“If Jolene needs extra help with her reading or spelling, please let me know,” he said.

“I’ll be happy to,” Rosie assured him. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too.” He reached for his little girl’s hand, then hesitated. His gaze briefly sought hers. “I’m sorry about your divorce.”

Rosie looked down and nodded. “I…am, too.”

He left after that, and not a moment too soon. Once again Rosie found herself blinking back tears.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. To all outward appearances, Zach was having the time of his life. When Allison and Eddie were with him they cooked together; the three of them got along famously. It didn’t work that way on the nights Rosie spent with her children. Allison and Eddie bickered incessantly and her teenage daughter challenged Rosie’s authority at every turn. She’d clearly taken Zach’s side in the divorce.

Feet dragging, Rosie entered the small apartment she shared with Zach. He was with the children this evening, and she doubted Eddie had made a fuss at bedtime. Those bouts of temper were reserved for the nights Rosie spent with the children. Allison had probably volunteered to wash the dinner dishes. Rosie had given up asking her daughter to perform even the most routine household tasks. It just wasn’t worth the argument.

Oh, yes, she was a real catch, Rosie thought wryly. She was a recent divorcée with two rebellious children. It wouldn’t be long before dozens of eager men lined up at the door, all eager to date her.

Yeah, sure!

Seven

As a Seattle police detective, Roy McAfee had always had a hard time letting go of a case, no matter how cold. That hadn’t changed, although he was now retired and living in Cedar Cove, where he’d become a private investigator. His dogged determination served him well in his new job. He liked his work, liked the diversity of cases that came across his desk. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. Roy had discovered through his years of police work that if he was patient enough and lucky, he eventually discovered what he needed to know. However, things didn’t always turn out exactly the way he expected.

The disappearance of Dan Sherman was a prime example of that.

Grace had come to him shortly after her husband had disappeared. She was a strong woman. In his experience as a private detective, Roy had been hired by several women looking for answers regarding their husbands’ activities or whereabouts. Twice he’d been asked to track down errant spouses. In one case, he’d started the investigation on a missing husband and had only gotten a week into the search when his client told him to quit looking. She’d claimed that in retrospect she was better off without the bastard. She didn’t want to know where the hell he was. If he’d taken off with another woman, as she suspected, then the other woman was welcome to him.

From the little bit he’d learned about the missing husband, Roy figured his client had made a good choice.

It surprised him that Grace Sherman had contacted him again. Dan had been found, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and laid to rest. Roy assumed the case was closed. She had the answers she needed, but not necessarily the ones she wanted.

He heard the outside door open and glanced at the small clock on the corner of his desk. Twenty-five after twelve. A minute later Corrie, his wife and business manager, stepped into his office.

“Grace Sherman is here for her twelve-thirty appointment.”

She ushered Grace into the room. Corrie’s eyes met his, and she shrugged as though to say she was as much in the dark about this meeting as he was.

“Have a seat,” Roy said, gesturing to the upholstered chair across from his desk.

“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Corrie asked.

Grace declined, and Corrie left, closing the door behind her.

“What can I do for you?” Roy began. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

Grace held her purse in her lap, her hands nervously gripping the clasp. “I came because I wasn’t sure where else to turn,” she said, gazing down at the floor. “It has to do with Dan.”

“Unfinished business?”

She nodded. “Before he—before he killed himself, he wrote me a letter. Sheriff Davis gave it to me.” She opened her purse. “The letter has some…information and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Roy didn’t remember hearing anything about a letter. “What kind of information?”

Grace reached inside her purse for the envelope and handed it across the desk to Roy. “No one else has read this. Not even my daughters.”

“What about Sheriff Davis?” Roy asked.

“I…I think he might’ve started reading it and then realized it was personal, and out of respect for Dan and me, he…” She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t know if he read it or not. I doubt it.”

Roy slid the letter out of the envelope. The writing in the first few lines was even and precise, as though Dan had carefully considered each word. Halfway down the second page the writing grew large, slanting downward. At the bottom, where Dan had signed his name, it was barely legible.

Roy turned back to the first page and began to read. Dan Sherman apologized to his wife for killing himself, and for the hell he’d put her through during their marriage.

Then Dan relayed the details of an incident that had happened in Vietnam when he’d walked into a village and killed a woman and her child. He’d mowed them down with bullets, murdered them out of instinctive fear. In the desperation of a young man willing to do anything to get out of the war alive, he’d killed innocents. Others had, too. How many had died in the village that day might never be known.

When he’d finished, Roy looked up and discovered Grace staring into the distance. She was pale but seemed composed.

“Dan was never the same after he came back from the war,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Now I know why.”

“It was a long time ago,” Roy said reassuringly. Regret tightened his chest. He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid when he’d arrived in Vietnam. Thankfully he’d never been faced with the kind of situation Dan Sherman had found himself in.

Dan hadn’t indicated the number of people killed, but it appeared to have been a free-for-all. “The shooting just never seemed to stop,” he’d written. He’d lived with that guilt all these years. Sometime back, Roy remembered reading that as many Vietnam vets had died by their own hand in the years that followed as were lost in the war. The causes were varied, although plainly it was guilt that had driven Dan to such drastic action.

“Was this incident ever reported?” he asked.

“Reported?” Grace repeated. “That I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“That’s just it. I…I don’t know what should be done with this information.” She studied him, clearly hoping he’d offer a solution. He had none to give her.

“Should I hand the letter over to the army brass and let them deal with it?” she asked.

He didn’t respond, merely raising one shoulder in a shrug.

“Or should I give it to Sheriff Davis and leave it up to him?” Her voice rose in agitation. “Here’s an idea,” she cried. “Maybe I should put the letter away and pretend I never read it. Better yet, I should destroy it completely.”

Roy understood her dilemma, and didn’t envy her. “I can’t tell you what to do, Grace.”

“Dan didn’t want Maryellen or Kelly to know. They’ve just buried their father. That was hard enough without asking them to deal with this, too.”

Roy agreed, but unfortunately this was a decision Grace had to make on her own.

“It happened almost forty years ago. It was a horrible time in our country’s history. We sacrificed fifty thousand men…. No one wants to uncover another My Lai.” She shook her head. “He didn’t say how many others were involved.” Her voice was soft, and Roy had to strain to hear. “I want to know what’s happened to the other men in the patrol. How have they managed to live with what they did? Have their lives been a living hell, too?” Her voice throbbed with emotion. “Did they walk the floors at night the way my husband did? Have their souls been tormented?” Her eyes held his. “Tell me what to do, Roy. You’re the only one I can ask. You’re the only one I trust enough to point me in the right direction.”

Roy leaned toward her. He wished he could supply the answer, but he couldn’t. From the dark circles under her eyes, he knew she’d been tormented by the responsibility Dan had imposed on her.

“It’s as though he couldn’t deal with it any longer and he laid the problem at my feet.” Her words confirmed his own feeling about the situation.

“For weeks—ever since Dan was found—I couldn’t sleep. I thought it was because of…something else, and it was better for a while, but it’s begun again. The insomnia.”

So she was the one walking the floors now.

“I’ve always been an easygoing sort of person, but lately…lately I’ve been depressed.”

“Have you been to see a physician?” he asked.

“What am I supposed to tell a doctor? That my husband was a mass murderer who recently committed suicide? Oh, by the way, this murder happened thirty-six years ago and has the potential to tear our country apart all over again?”

Roy sighed. She had a point. “Like I said, Grace, I can’t advise you what to do.”

“What if I decide to destroy the letter? The only people who’ll ever know what it said are you and me.” She chal lenged him with a narrowed look.

“Then so be it.”

“That’s not what I came to hear.”

He heard the desperation in her voice, but there was nothing more he could say.

“I’m paying you to help me figure out what I should do.”

“Do you want me to track down the other men?” he asked.

Grace shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Dan never spoke about his war experiences and he never mentioned who those other men were.”

Suddenly Roy wasn’t so sure Grace did want the truth.

“I could find that out for you.” He had connections in the Department of Defense; it would be a simple matter of a phone call or two.

Grace hesitated, closing her eyes. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“All right.” Roy knew that Grace wanted an answer but not the one that would rip apart her own life—or those of others. He’d wait to hear from her.

The morning Katie turned six weeks old, Maryellen bathed her, the way she usually did. She watched joyfully as her daughter flung out her arms, splashing and cooing with unrestrained delight. Katie sent a spray of water toward her, hitting Maryellen in the face.

Katie smelled of baby lotion and shampoo as Maryellen dressed her in a soft pink sleeper. Six weeks ago, Maryellen’s entire life had changed. Her daughter had given her purpose and such profound joy, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and thank God for this precious gift.

The doorbell rang, and Maryellen held Katie against her shoulder as she walked through the living room to answer it. The leaves on the oak tree were turning deep autumn shades and had started to litter the front lawn.

To her surprise Jon stood there, looking self-conscious. His eyes immediately went to Katie and a slow smile crossed his face.

“I developed some new pictures,” he announced. “I realize this isn’t my day to have Katie, but I wanted you to see them.”

“Nonsense, you’re welcome anytime.” Maryellen had been overwhelmed by the number of pictures Jon had already taken of their daughter.

“To be honest, I was having withdrawal symptoms. I figured this was a good excuse to see my little girl.” He held out a large envelope. “Trade you?”

He knew how much she loved his photographs. “Deal,” she said, giving him Katie and taking the envelope. While Maryellen sat on one end of the sofa and examined these latest pictures, Jon cooed at his daughter. It was difficult to pay attention to the photographs, drawn as she was to the sight of Jon with Katie. Letting him drive away with their daughter twice a week hadn’t become any easier, but she could never doubt his love.

As she reviewed the pictures, one in particular caught her interest. It was taken the morning Maryellen had gone to his house. She’d sat in the rocking chair in Katie’s nursery, breastfeeding their daughter. Her back was to the window and light spilled in around her. The cheerfully painted wall blurred in the background and only Maryellen and Katie were clear and vivid. Somehow Jon had captured the tenderness and love Maryellen felt for her daughter. Her focus was entirely on Katie, her smile a private one, for their baby alone. It was a classic image of mother and child, reminding her of paintings by Botticelli and Rembrandt.

She recalled that he’d had his camera with him that morning. She’d clowned around for him and he’d snapped picture after picture, but she hadn’t expected anything like this.

“I see you found it,” he said, watching her as she studied the photograph.

“How do you do it?” she asked softly. “How do you know the precise moment to catch a woman’s heart?”

He frowned as if he didn’t understand the question. For that matter, Maryellen wasn’t sure she understood it, either. She loved her daughter. Loved Katie so much that just the sight of her made Maryellen’s heart stop beating for a second or two. That was the love Jon had revealed so perfectly on film.

“I thought you didn’t take photographs of people,” she said. “Other than Katie, of course.” But she couldn’t help remembering the picture in his bedroom….

“Only you.” Jon kissed Katie on the forehead. “If it bothers you, I won’t again.”

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