When Debbie Macomber first decided to write a novel, people called her a hopeless dreamer. As a young, dyslexic mother of four active children, no one believed she had what it took to write a book, except Debbie. She wrote – for years. But each time she completed a story and mailed it off to a publisher, the manuscript was returned, stamped “Rejected.” As tough as it was to keep her spirits alive, Debbie never gave up.

But all her perseverance paid off and Debbie’s heart-warming novels have made her a New York Times bestselling author with sales of over fifty-one million novels worldwide.

By Debbie Macomber

THURSDAYS AT EIGHT

THE SHOP ON BLOSSOM STREET

A GOOD YARN

OLD BOYFRIENDS

WEDNESDAYS AT FOURR

Dear friends,

When we were children, my cousins and I often lay on the grass during those warm summer nights, gazing up at the heavens and wishing upon a star. it seems the child in us never really goes away, does it? I was reminded of this some time ago, when I met a reader named Arliene Zeigler at an autographing and she told me about her list of wishes. They weren’t resolutions, decisions or even goals. They were simply wishes. Some of them were places she wanted to go, people she longed to meet and experiences she hoped to have.

Don’t we all have wishes in one form or another? Secret desires we rarely talk about because they might sound silly? As I started to write Twenty Wishes, I made up a completely new list of my own. I want to cuddle with my husband and reminisce about the years we’ve been together. I’d like to blow bubbles with my grandchildren and chase butterflies. I want to sing on Broadway. OK, that’s carrying it a bit far, but one can dream…

I hope you enjoy spending a few hours with Anne Marie, her friends (especially the widows) and everyone else on Blossom Street. Alix has the coffee brewing over at the french Café, and Susannah’s setting out flowers on the sidewalk outside Susannah’s garden. I see that Whiskers has curled up in the display window at A good yarn, and lydia has turned over the open sign. The door at Blossom Street Books is open, too, so come on in!

Hearing from my readers is one of my joys as an author. you can contact me through my website at www.DebbieMacomber.com or at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98355, USA.

Debbie Macomber

Twenty Wishes

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To

June Scobee Rodgers

my dear friend

An inspiration

And a joy

Chapter 1

It was six o’clock on Valentine’s Day, an hour that should have marked the beginning of a celebration—the way it had when she and Robert were married. When Robert was alive. But tonight, on the most romantic day of the year, thirty-eight-year-old Anne Marie Roche was alone. Turning over the closed sign on the door of Blossom Street Books, she glanced at the Valentine’s display with its cutout hearts and pink balloons and the collection of romance novels she didn’t read anymore. Then she looked outside. Streetlights flickered on as evening settled over the Seattle neighborhood.

The truth was, Anne Marie hated her life. Well, okay, hate was putting it too strongly. After all, she was healthy, reasonably young and reasonably attractive, financially solvent, and she owned the most popular bookstore in the area. But she didn’t have anyone to love, anyone who loved her. She was no longer part of something larger than herself. Every morning when she woke, she found the other side of the bed empty and she didn’t think she’d ever get accustomed to that desolate feeling.

Her husband had died nine months ago. So, technically, she was a widow, although she and Robert had been separated. But they saw each other regularly and were working on a reconciliation.

Then, suddenly, it was all over, all hope gone. Just when they were on the verge of reuniting, her husband had a massive heart attack. He’d collapsed at the office and died even before the paramedics could arrive.

Anne Marie’s mother had warned her about the risks of marrying an older man, but fifteen years wasn’t that much older. Robert, charismatic and handsome, had been in his mid-forties when they met. They’d been happy together, well matched in every way but one.

Anne Marie wanted a baby.

Robert hadn’t.

He’d had a family—two children—with his first wife, Pamela, and wasn’t interested in starting a second one. When she’d married him, Anne Marie had agreed to his stipulation. At the time it hadn’t seemed important. She was madly in love with Robert—and then two years ago it hit her. This longing, this need for a baby, grew more and more intense, and Robert’s refusal became more adamant. His solution had been to buy her a dog she’d named Baxter. Much as she loved her Yorkie, her feelings hadn’t changed. She’d still wanted a baby.

The situation wasn’t helped by Melissa, Robert’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, who disliked Anne Marie and always had. Over the years Anne Marie had made many attempts to ease the tension between them, all of which failed. Fortunately she had a good relationship with Brandon, Robert’s son, who was five years older than his sister.

When problems arose in Anne Marie and Robert’s marriage, Melissa hadn’t been able to disguise her glee. Her stepdaughter seemed absolutely delighted when Robert moved out the autumn before last, seven months before his death.

Anne Marie didn’t know what she’d done to warrant such passionate loathing, other than to fall in love with Melissa’s father. She supposed the girl’s ardent hope that her parents would one day remarry was responsible for her bitterness. Every child wanted his or her family intact. And Melissa was a young teen when Anne Marie married Robert—a hard age made harder by the family’s circumstances. Anne Marie didn’t blame Robert’s daughter, but his marriage to Pamela had been dead long before she entered the picture. Still, try as she might, Anne Marie had never been able to find common ground with Melissa. In fact, she hadn’t heard from her since the funeral.

Anne Marie opened the shop door as Elise Beaumont approached. Elise’s husband, Maverick, had recently passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer. In her mid-sixties, she was a retired librarian who’d reconnected with her husband after nearly thirty years apart, only to lose him again after less than three. She was a slight, gray-haired woman who’d become almost gaunt, but the sternness of her features was softened by the sadness in her eyes. A frequent patron of the bookstore, she and Anne Marie had become friends during the months of Maverick’s decline. In many ways his death was a release, yet Anne Marie understood how difficult it was to let go of someone you loved.

“I was hoping you’d come,” Anne Marie told her with a quick hug. She’d closed the store two hours early, giving Steve Handley, her usual Thursday-night assistant, a free evening for his own Valentine celebration.

Elise slipped off her coat and draped it over the back of an overstuffed chair. “I didn’t think I would and then I decided that being with the other widows was exactly what I needed tonight.”

The widows.

They’d met in a book group Anne Marie had organized at the store. After Robert died, she’d suggested reading Lolly Winston’s Good Grief, a novel about a young woman adjusting to widowhood. It was through the group that Anne Marie had met Lillie Higgins and Barbie Foster. Colette Blake had joined, too. She’d been a widow who’d rented the apartment above A Good Yarn, Lydia Goetz’s yarn store. Colette had married again the previous year.

Although the larger group had read and discussed other books, the widows had gravitated together and begun to meet on their own. Their sessions were often informal gatherings over coffee at the nearby French Café or a glass of wine upstairs at Anne Marie’s.

Lillie and Barbie were a unique pair of widows, mother and daughter. They’d lost their husbands in a private plane crash three years earlier. Anne Marie remembered reading about the Learjet incident in the paper; both pilots and their two passengers had been killed in a freak accident on landing in Seattle. Lillie’s husband and son-in-law were executives at a perfume company and often took business trips together.

Lillie Higgins was close to Elise’s age, but that was all they shared. Actually, it was difficult to tell exactly how old Lillie was. She looked barely fifty, but with a forty-year-old daughter, she had to be in her mid-sixties. Petite and delicate, she was one of those rare women who never seemed to age. Her wardrobe consisted of ultra-expensive knits and gold jewelry. Anne Marie had the impression that if Lillie wanted, she could purchase this bookstore ten times over.

Her daughter, Barbie Foster, was a lot like her mother and aptly named, at least as far as appearances went. She had long blond hair that never seemed to get mussed, gorgeous crystal-blue eyes, a flawless figure. It was hard to believe she had eighteen-year-old twin sons who were college freshmen; Anne Marie would bet that most people assumed she was their sister rather than their mother. If Anne Marie didn’t like Barbie so much, it would be easy to resent her for being so…perfect.

“Thanks for closing early tonight. I’d much rather be here than spend another evening alone,” Elise said, breaking into Anne Marie’s thoughts.

There was that word again.

Alone.

Despite her own misgivings about Valentine’s Day, Anne Marie tried to smile. She gestured toward the rear of the store. “I’ve got the bubble wrap and everything set up in the back room.”

The previous month, as they discussed an Elizabeth Buchan novel, the subject of Valentine’s Day had come up. Anne Marie learned from her friends that this was perhaps the most painful holiday for widows. That was when their small group decided to plan their own celebration. Only instead of romantic love and marriage, they’d celebrate friendship. They’d defy the world’s pitying glances and toast each other’s past loves and future hopes.

Elise managed a quivering smile as she peered into the back of the store. “Bubble wrap?”

“I have tons,” Anne Marie informed her. “You can’t imagine how many shippers use it.”

“But why is it on the floor?”

“Well…” It seemed silly now that Anne Marie was trying to explain. “I always have this insatiable urge to pop it, so I thought we could do it together—by walking on it.”

“You want us to step on bubble wrap?” Elise asked, sounding confused.

“Think of it as our own Valentine’s dance and fireworks in one.”

“But fireworks are for Independence Day or maybe New Year’s.”

“That’s the point,” Anne Marie said bracingly. “New beginnings.”

“And we’ll drink champagne, too?”

“You bet. I’ve got a couple bottles of the real stuff, Veuve Clicquot.”

“Veuve means widow, you know. The widow Clicquot’s bubbly—what else could we possibly drink?”

The door opened, and Lillie and Barbie entered in a cloud of some elegant scent. As soon as they were inside, Anne Marie locked the shop.

“Party time,” Lillie said, handing Anne Marie a white box filled with pastries.

“I brought chocolate,” Barbie announced, holding up a box of dark Belgian chocolates. She wore a red pantsuit with a wide black belt that emphasized her petite waist. Was there no justice in this world? The woman had the figure of a goddess and she ate chocolate?

“I read that dark chocolate and red wine have all kinds of natural benefits,” Elise said.

Anne Marie had read that, too.

Lillie shook her head in mock astonishment. “First wine and now chocolate. Life is good.”

Leading the way to the back room, Anne Marie dimmed the lights in the front of the shop. Beside the champagne and flutes, she’d arranged a crystal vase of red roses; they’d been a gift from Susannah’s Garden, the flower shop next door. All the retailers on Blossom Street were friends. Hearing about the small party, Alix Turner from the French Café had dropped off a tray of cheese, crackers and seedless green grapes, which Anne Marie had placed on her work table, now covered with a lacy cloth. Lydia had insisted they use it for their celebration. It was so beautiful it reawakened Anne Marie’s desire to learn to knit.

She wished she could see her friends’ gifts as more than expressions of sympathy, but her state of mind made that impossible. Still, because of the other widows, for their sake as well as her own, she was determined to try.

“This is going to be fun,” Elise said, telling them why Anne Marie had spread out the bubble wrap.

“What a wonderful idea!” Barbie exclaimed.

“Shall I pour?” Anne Marie asked, ignoring the sense of oppression she couldn’t seem to escape. It had been present for months and she’d thought life would be better by now. Perhaps she needed counseling. One thing was certain; she needed something.

“By all means,” Lillie said, motioning toward the champagne.

Anne Marie opened the bottle and filled the four glasses and then they toasted one another, clicking the rims of the flutes.

“To love,” Elise said. “To Maverick.” Her voice broke.

“To chocolate!” Barbie made a silly face, perhaps to draw attention away from Elise’s tears.

“And the Widow’s champagne,” Lillie threw in.

Anne Marie remained silent.

Although it’d been nine months, her grief didn’t seem to diminish or become any easier to bear. She worked too much, ate too little and grieved for all the might-have-beens. It was more than the fact that the man she’d loved was dead. With his death, she was forced to give up the dream of all she’d hoped her marriage would be. A true companionship—and the foundation of a family. Even if she were to fall in love again, which seemed unlikely, a pregnancy past the age of forty was risky. The dream of having her own child had died with Robert.

The four sipped their champagne in silence, each caught up in her own memories. Anne Marie saw the sorrow on Elise’s face, the contemplative look on Lillie’s, Barbie’s half smile.

“Will we be removing our shoes in order to pop the bubble wrap?” Lillie asked a moment later.

“Mom has this thing about walking around in stocking feet,” Barbie said, glancing at her mother. “She doesn’t approve.”

“It just wasn’t done in our household,” Lillie murmured.

“There’s no reason to take our shoes off,” Anne Marie said. “The whole idea is to have fun. Make a bit of noise, celebrate our friendship and our memories.”

“Then I say, let ’er rip,” Elise said. She raised her sensibly shod foot and stomped on a bubble. A popping sound exploded in the room.

Barbie went next, her step firm. Her high heels effectively demolished a series of bubbles.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop.

Lillie followed. Her movements were tentative, almost apologetic.

Pop.

Anne Marie went last. It felt…good. Really good, and the noise only added to the unexpected sense of fun and exhilaration. For the first time since the party had begun, she smiled.

By then they were all flushed with excitement and champagne. The others were laughing giddily; Anne Marie couldn’t quite manage that but she could almost laugh. The ability to express joy had left her when Robert died. That wasn’t all she’d lost. She used to sing, freely and without self-consciousness. But after Robert’s funeral Anne Marie discovered she couldn’t sing anymore. She just couldn’t. Her throat closed up whenever she tried. What came out were strangled sounds that barely resembled music, and after a while she gave up. It’d been months since she’d even attempted a song.

The popping continued as they paraded around on the bubble wrap, pausing now and then to sip champagne. They marched with all the pomp and ceremony of soldiers in procession, saluting one another with their champagne flutes.

Thanks to her friends, Anne Marie found that her mood had begun to lift.

Soon all the bubbles were popped. Bringing their champagne, they sat in the chairs where the reader groups met and toasted each other again in the dimly lit store.

Leaning back, Anne Marie tried to relax. Despite her earlier laughter, despite spending this evening with friends, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, but new tears came, and it wasn’t long before Barbie noticed. Her friend placed a reassuring hand on Anne Marie’s knee.

“Does it ever hurt any less?” Anne Marie asked. Searching for a tissue in her hip pocket, she blotted her eyes. She hated breaking down like this. She wanted to explain that she’d never been a weepy or sentimental woman. All her emotions had become more intense since Robert’s death.

Lillie and Barbie exchanged knowing looks. They’d been widows the longest.

“It does,” Lillie promised her, growing serious, too. “But it takes time.”

“I feel so alone.”

“That’s to be expected,” Barbie said, passing her the box of chocolates. “Here, have another one. You’ll feel better.”

“That’s what my grandmother used to say,” Elise added. “Eat, and everything will seem better.”

“Mine always said I’d be good as new if I did something for someone else,” Lillie said. “Grams swore that showing kindness to others was the cure for any kind of unhappiness.”

“Exercise helps, too,” Barbie put in. “I spent many, many hours at the gym.”

“Can’t I just buy something?” Anne Marie asked plaintively, and hiccuped a laugh as she made the suggestion.

The others smiled.

“I wish it was that easy,” Elise said in a solemn voice.

Anne Marie’s appetite had been nonexistent for months and she didn’t really enjoy going to a gym—walking nowhere on a treadmill seemed rather pointless to her. She didn’t feel like doing volunteer work, either, at least not right now—although helping another person might get her past this slump, this interval of self-absorption.

“We’re all looking for a quick fix, aren’t we?” Barbie said quietly.

“Maybe.” Lillie settled back in her chair. “Of these different options, the one I could really sink my teeth into is buying something.”

“So could I,” Barbie said with a laugh.

“I realize you’re joking—well, partly—but material things won’t help,” Elise cautioned, bringing them all back to reality. “Any relief a spending spree offers is bound to be temporary.”

As tempting as the idea of buying herself a gift might be, Anne Marie supposed she was right.

“We all need to take care of ourselves physically. Eat right. Exercise,” Elise said thoughtfully. “It’s important we get our finances in order, too.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more on that,” Lillie said.

“Let’s make a list of our suggestions,” Elise went on. Reaching for her purse, she took out a small spiral notebook.

“If I’m going to make a list,” Lillie piped up, “it won’t be about eating cauliflower and going jogging. Instead, I’d plan to do some of the things I’ve put off for years.”

“Such as?” Anne Marie asked.

“Oh, something fun,” Lillie said, “like traveling to Paris.”

Anne Marie felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck her. When they were first married, Robert had promised her that one day he’d take her to Paris. They talked about it frequently, discussing every aspect of their trip to the City of Light. The museums they’d visit, the places they’d walk, the meals they’d eat…

“I want to go to Paris with someone I love,” she whispered.

“I want to fall in love again,” Barbie said decisively. “Head over heels in love like I was before. A love that’ll change my life.”

They all grew quiet for a long moment, considering her words.

Anne Marie couldn’t believe Barbie would lack for male companionship. They’d never discussed the subject, but she was surprised that a woman as attractive as Barbie didn’t have her choice of men. Maybe she did. Maybe she simply had high standards. If so, Anne Marie couldn’t blame her.

“We all want to be loved,” Lillie said. “It’s a basic human need.”

“I had love,” Elise told them, her voice hoarse with pain. “I don’t expect to find that kind of love again.”

“I had it, too,” Barbie said.

Another hush fell over them.

“Making a list is a good idea,” Elise stated emphatically. “A list of things to do.”

Anne Marie nodded, fingering one of the suspended Valentine’s decorations as she did. The idea had caught her interest. She needed to revive her enthusiasm. She needed to find inspiration and motivation—and a list might just do that. She was a list-maker anyway, but this would be different. It wouldn’t be the usual catalog of appointments and everyday obligations.

“Personally I don’t need another to-do list,” Lillie murmured, echoing Anne Marie’s thought. “I have enough of those already.”

“This wouldn’t be like that,” Anne Marie responded, glancing at Elise for verification. “This would be a…an inventory of wishes,” she said, thinking out loud. She recognized that there were plenty of shoulds involved in widowhood; her friends were right about that. She did need to get her financial affairs in order and pay attention to her health.

“Twenty wishes,” she said suddenly.

“Why twenty?” Elise asked, leaning forward, her interest obvious.

“I’m not sure. It sounds right.” Anne Marie shrugged lightly. The number had leaped into her head, and she didn’t know quite why. Twenty. Twenty wishes that would help her recapture her excitement about life. Twenty dreams written down. Twenty possibilities that would give her a reason to look toward the future instead of staying mired in her grief. She couldn’t continue to drag from one day to the next, lost in pain and heartache because Robert was dead. She needed a new sense of purpose. She owed that to herself—and to him.

“Twenty wishes,” Barbie repeated slowly. “I think that works. Twenty’s a manageable number. Not like a hundred, say.”

“And it’s not too few—like two or three,” her mother said.

Anne Marie could tell that her friends were taking the idea seriously, which only strengthened her own certainty about it. “Wishes and hopes for the future.”

“Let’s do it!” Lillie proclaimed.

Barbie sat up straighter in her chair. “You should learn French,” she said, smiling at Anne Marie.

“French?”

“For when you’re in Paris.”

“I had two years of French in high school.” However, about all she remembered was how to conjugate the verbs être and avoir.

“Take a refresher course.” Barbie slid onto the edge of her cushion.

“Maybe I will.”

“I might learn how to belly dance,” Barbie said next.

The others looked at her with expressions of surprise; Anne Marie grinned in approval.

“Lillie mentioned this earlier, but I think it would do us all a world of good to be volunteers,” Elise said. “I’ve become a Lunch Buddy at my grandson’s school and I really look forward to my time with Malcolm.”

“Lunch Buddy? What’s that?”

“A program for children at risk,” Elise explained. “Once a week I visit the school and have lunch with a little boy in third grade. Malcolm is a sweet-natured child, and he’s flourished under my attention. The minute I walk into the school, he races toward me as if he’s been waiting for my visit all week.”

“So the two of you have lunch?”

“Well, yes, but he also likes to show me his schoolwork. He’s struggling with reading. However, he’s trying hard, and every once in a while he’ll read to me or I’ll read to him. I’ve introduced him to the Lemony Snicket books and he’s loving those.”

“You tutor him, then?”

“No, no, he has a reading tutor. It’s not that kind of program. I’m his friend. Or more like an extra grandmother.”

The idea appealed to Anne Marie, but she didn’t know if this was the right program for her. She’d consider it. Her day off was Wednesday and every other Saturday when Theresa came into the store. She had to admit that volunteering at an elementary school would give her something to do other than feel sorry for herself.

It wasn’t a wish, exactly. Still, Elise claimed she felt better because of it. Helping someone else—perhaps that was the key.

The party broke up around nine-thirty, and after she’d waved everyone off, Anne Marie locked the front door. Then she climbed the stairs to her tiny apartment above the bookstore. Her ever-faithful Baxter was waiting for her, running circles around her legs until she bent down and lifted him up and lavished him with the attention he craved. After taking him out for a brief walk, she returned to the apartment, still thinking about the widows’ new project.

She made a cup of tea and grabbed a notepad, sitting on the couch with Baxter curled up beside her. At the top of the page she wrote:

Twenty Wishes

It took her a long time to write down the first item.

1. Find one good thing about life

She felt almost embarrassed that all she could come up with was such a plaintive, pathetic desire, one that betrayed the sorry state of her mental health. Sitting back, she closed her eyes and tried to remember what she used to dream about, the half-expressed wishes of her younger years.

She added a second item, silly though it was.

2. Buy myself a pair of red cowboy boots

In her twenties, long before she married Robert, Anne Marie had seen a pair in a display window and they’d stopped her cold. She absolutely had to have those boots. When she’d gone into the store and tried them on, they were a perfect fit. Perfect. Unfortunately the price tag wasn’t. No way could she afford $1500 for a pair of cowboy boots! With reluctance she’d walked out of the store, abandoning that small dream.

She couldn’t have afforded such an extravagance working part-time at the university bookstore. But she still thought about those boots. She still wanted them, and the price no longer daunted her as it had all those years ago. Somehow, she’d find herself a pair of decadent cowboy boots. Red ones.

Chewing on the end of her pen, she contemplated other wishes. Really, this shouldn’t be so difficult.…

It occurred to her that if she was going to buy red cowboy boots, she should think of something to do in them.

3. Learn how to line dance

She suspected line dancing might be a bit passé in Seattle—as opposed to, say, Dallas—but the good thing was that it didn’t require a partner. She could show up and just have fun without worrying about being part of a couple. She wasn’t ready for another relationship; perhaps in time, but definitely not yet. After a few minutes she crossed out the line-dancing wish. She didn’t have the energy to be sociable. She read over her first wish and scratched that out, too. She didn’t know how to gauge whether she’d actually found something good about life. It wasn’t specific enough.

A host of possibilities bounced around in her head but she didn’t bother to write any of them on her list.

Lillie was right; she needed to get her finances in order. She wrote that down on a second sheet of paper, along with getting her annual physical and—maybe—signing up for the gym. The only thing on the first sheet, her wish list, was those boots.

So now she had two separate lists—one for wishes and the second for the more practical aspects of life. Not that each wish wouldn’t ultimately require its own to-do list, but that was a concern for another day. She closed her eyes and tried to figure out what she wanted most, what wish she hoped to fulfill. The next few ideas were all sensible ones, like scheduling appointments she’d postponed for months. It was a sad commentary that her one wish, the lone desire of her heart, was an outrageously priced pair of boots.

That was the problem; she no longer knew what she wanted. Shrouded in grief and lost dreams, her joy had vanished, the same way laughter and singing had.

So far, her second list outnumbered the wish list. It included booking appointments with an accountant, an attorney, the vet and a couple of doctors. Sad, sad, sad. She could well imagine what Lillie and Barbie’s lists looked like. They’d have wonderful ideas. Places to go, experiences to savor, people to meet.

Anne Marie stared at her wish list with its one ridiculous statement, tempted to crumple it up.

She didn’t. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she left it sitting on her kitchen counter. Lists were important; she knew that. Over the years she’d read enough about goal-setting to realize the value of writing things down. In fact, the store carried a number of bestselling titles on that very topic.

Okay, this was a start. She wasn’t going to abandon the idea. And at least she’d taken control of some immediate needs. She’d identified what she had to do.

Sometime later, she’d list what she wanted to do.

She ran her finger over the word boots. Foolish, impractical, ridiculous—but she didn’t care. She was determined to have the things.

Already the thought of listing her wishes was making a difference; already she felt a tiny bit of hope, a whisper of excitement. The thawing had begun.

Eventually other desires, other wishes, would come to her. She had nineteen left. She felt as if the genie had finally escaped the lamp and was waiting to hear her greatest desires. All she had to do was listen to her own heart and as soon as she did, her wildest dreams would come true.

If only life could be that simple.

It wasn’t, of course, but Anne Marie decided she was willing to pretend.

Chapter 2

All that next week Anne Marie continued to look at her list. The sheet of paper with TWENTY WISHES written across the top became a patchwork of scribbles and scratched-out lines. She wrote I want to sing again, then changed her mind, deciding it was unnecessary to waste a wish on something she was convinced would return in its own time.

Eventually she transferred her list, such as it was, to a yellow legal pad, which somehow made her wishes seem more official. Then on Wednesday, her day off, she walked past a craft store on her way back from the accountant’s and noticed the scrapbooking supplies in the window. She stared at the beautifully embellished pages displayed in the showcase. She used to possess a certain decorative flair. She wasn’t sure she did anymore, but the idea of creating pages like that for her meager list of wishes appealed to her. A scrapbook to compile her wishes, make her plans and document her efforts. Those wishes would encourage her to look forward, to focus on the future with an optimism that had been lacking since her separation from Robert.

With that in mind, Anne Marie bought the necessary supplies, then lugged them home. As she passed A Good Yarn, the shop just two doors down from the bookstore, she impulsively stepped inside. First, she wanted to thank Lydia for the table covering and second…she’d ask about classes.

She’d add knitting to her wish list. Anne Marie wondered why she hadn’t thought of that earlier. Elise was a consummate knitter and often encouraged the others to learn. She described the satisfactions of knitting in such a compelling way, Anne Marie had flirted more than once with the idea of taking a class. Lydia Goetz, who owned A Good Yarn, was a much-loved and admired member of the Blossom Street neighborhood. Anne Marie was friendly with her and had often gone inside the yarn store, but never with the serious intent of learning to knit. Now, the prospect of knitting filled her with unfamiliar enthusiasm.

Lydia was sitting at the table in the back of the shop with her sister, Margaret. Although Lydia was petite and graceful, her sister was rather big-boned, a little ungainly. At first glance it was hard to believe they were even related. Once the surprise of learning they were sisters wore off, the resemblance revealed itself in the shape of their eyes and the thrust of their chins.

When Anne Marie entered the store, the sisters were obviously involved in their conversation; as they spoke, Lydia was knitting, Margaret crocheting. The bell above the door jingled, startling them both.

A smile instantly broke out on Lydia’s face. “Anne Marie, how nice to see you! I’m glad you stopped by.”

Lydia had a natural warmth that made customers feel welcome.

“Good morning,” Anne Marie said, smiling at the two women. “Lydia, I came to thank you again for the gorgeous tablecloth.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. You know, it’s really a lace shawl I knit years ago. I hope you’ll have occasion to use it again.”

“Oh, I will.”

“I’ve been meaning to visit the bookstore,” Lydia told her. “I want to pick up a couple of new mysteries. By the way, how did the Valentine’s party go?”

“It was wonderful,” Anne Marie said, gazing around. Whenever she went into the yarn shop, she was astonished by the range of beautiful colors and inviting textures. She walked over to the blue, green and teal yarns that lined one area of the shelves. Putting down her packages, she reached out a hand to touch a skein of irresistibly soft wool.

“Can I help you find something?” Lydia asked.

Anne Marie nodded and, strangely, felt a bit hesitant. “I’d like to learn to knit.” This was the first positive step she’d taken toward acting on her wish list. She’d been searching for somewhere to start, and knitting would do very well. “I…saw the notice in the window for a beginners’ class last week, but there isn’t a sign now. Do you have one scheduled anytime soon?”

“As it happens, Margaret and I were just discussing a beginners’ class for Thursday afternoons.”

Anne Marie shook her head. “I work all day on Thursdays.”

“I’m also thinking about starting a new class for people who work. How about lunchtime on Tuesdays?” Lydia suggested next. “Would you like to sign up for that?”

Before Anne Marie could respond, Margaret was on her feet. “That’s too many classes,” she muttered. “Lydia’s teaching far too many classes and it exhausts her.”

“Margaret!” Lydia protested and cast a despairing look at her sister.

“Well, it’s true. You need to get someone else in here who can teach. I do as much as I can,” she said, “but there are times I’ve got more customers than I can handle and you’re involved with all those classes.”

Lydia ignored her sister. “Anne Marie, if you want to learn how to knit, I’ll teach you myself.”

It occurred to Anne Marie that what she really wanted was a class. She’d rejected line dancing because that had seemed like an overwhelming social occasion; a small knitting group was far less threatening. Other than the Valentine’s event with the widows, she hadn’t gone anywhere or done much of anything since Robert’s funeral. Until now, the mere thought of making cheerful conversation with anyone outside the bookstore was beyond her. She decided she could ease into socializing with a knitting class. A few like-minded women, all focused on the same task…

“I appreciate the offer,” Anne Marie told Lydia. “However, I think Margaret’s probably right. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Let me know if that noontime beginner class pans out.”

“Of course.”

After they’d exchanged farewells, Anne Marie picked up her shopping bags and left the yarn store. As she strolled past the shop window she noticed Whiskers, Lydia’s cat, curled up in a basket of red wool. When Anne Marie walked Baxter, he often stood on his hind legs, front paws against the window, fixated on Lydia’s cat—who wanted nothing to do with him.

Hauling the scrapbooking supplies upstairs to her apartment, Anne Marie set her bags on the kitchen table, then scooped up her dog, stroking his silky fur. “Hey, Mr. Baxter. I just saw your friend Whiskers.”

He wriggled excitedly and she put him down, collecting a biscuit from a box on the counter. “Here you go.” She smiled as he loudly crunched his cookie, licking up each and every crumb. “Maybe I’ll knit you a little coat sometime…and maybe I won’t.”

Now that a knitting class apparently wasn’t a sure thing, Anne Marie was shocked at how discouraged she felt. One roadblock, and she was ready to pack it in. Less than a year ago, hardly anything seemed to defeat her, but these days even the most mundane problems were disheartening.

At least Baxter’s needs were straightforward and easily met, and he viewed her with unwavering devotion. There was comfort in that.

Eager to start her scrapbook project, she got to work. The three-ring binder was black with a clear plastic cover. For the next thirty minutes she cut out letters, decorated them with glitter glue and pasted them on a bright pink sheet. Then she slipped it behind the cover so the front of the binder read TWENTY WISHES. In addition to the binder, Anne Marie had purchased twenty plastic folders, one for each wish.

She became so involved in her work that it was well past one before she realized she hadn’t eaten lunch. She emptied a can of soup into a bowl, and it was heating in the microwave when her phone rang.

Startled, she picked up the receiver on the first ring. The beeper went off at the same time, indicating that her meal was ready.

“Hello,” she said, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she opened the microwave. She rarely got calls at home anymore. In the weeks after Robert’s funeral, she’d heard from a number of couples they’d been friends with, but those people had gradually drifted away. Anne Marie hadn’t made the effort to keep in touch, either. It was easier to lose herself in her grief than to reach out to others.

“Anne Marie, it’s Lillie. Guess what?” her friend said breathlessly.

“What?” Hearing the excitement in Lillie’s voice lifted her own spirits.

“Remember what you said Valentine’s night?”

Anne Marie frowned. “Not exactly. I said various things. Which one do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. Elise was talking about eating something to feel better and then someone else—me, I think—brought up volunteering and you said…” She giggled. “You asked why we couldn’t just buy ourselves something.”

Anne Marie smiled. She’d been joking at the time, but it appeared that Lillie had taken her seriously. “Are you about to tell me you bought yourself something?”

“I sure did,” Lillie said gleefully.

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What did you get?”

Lillie giggled again. “A brand-new shiny red convertible.”

“No!” Anne Marie feigned shock.

“Yes. Can you imagine me at sixty-three buying myself a sports car?”

“What kind is it?” Anne Marie knew next to nothing about cars, which was why she belonged to Triple A. In truth, Robert had been pretty helpless, too.

“A BMW.”

It must’ve been expensive; Anne Marie knew that much. Well, Lillie could afford it. The perfume company had been more than generous to her and Barbie after the plane crash, and they were both financially secure.

“Want to go for a ride?”

Anne Marie’s first inclination was to decline. Almost immediately she changed her mind. Why not go? Lillie’s excitement was so contagious, she couldn’t resist joining in.

“I’d love to,” she said warmly.

“Great. I’ll meet you in front of the bookstore in twenty minutes.”

“Uh, what about Jacqueline?” She knew Lillie had plenty of other friends and that she and Jacqueline Donovan were especially close. They’d raised their children together, belonged to the same country club and were active members of several charitable organizations. Jacqueline, too, was a frequent customer at Blossom Street Books, not to mention all the other neighborhood stores.

“Rest assured, she’ll get her turn,” Lillie told her. “So, do you want to go for a ride or not?”

“I do. I just thought…never mind. I’d love to ride in your shiny new red convertible.”

Gulping down her soup and then grabbing her coat, Anne Marie waited outside by the curb. Lillie pulled up right on time. The car, a convertible, was certainly bright red, and it shone from fender to fender. Despite the overcast skies, her friend had the top down.

Anne Marie stepped forward, gawking at the vehicle. “Lillie, it’s fabulous!”

The older woman grinned. “I think so, too.”

“What did Barbie have to say?”

Lillie shook her head. “She doesn’t know yet. No one does. I’d just driven it off the showroom floor when I called you.”

“Why me?”

“You’re the one who inspired the idea. So it’s only fitting that you be the first one to ride in it.”

Anne Marie remembered the “eat something,” “do something” conversation, but she never would’ve guessed she’d end up riding in a brand-new BMW because of it.

“It’s the first time in my life that I’ve purchased my own car. I negotiated the deal myself,” Lillie announced proudly. “And I had all my facts straight before I even walked inside. Those salesmen take one look at me and see dollar signs. I needed to prove to them—and to myself—that I’m no pushover.”

“I’m sure you did—and then some.”

Lillie nodded. “I got on the Internet and found a Web site that showed the invoice price, and then broke out the dealer’s typical overheads and advertising costs.”

Anne Marie was more impressed by the minute. “You really did your research.”

“My dear, you can find out just about anything on the Internet.” She raised her eyebrows. “I also discovered that the dealer cost includes a holdback for profit.” Lillie smiled roguishly as she continued her story. “The salesman was a charming fellow, I will say that. He expected to walk away with a substantial commission check, but I quickly disavowed him of that notion.”

Anne Marie stared at her, astonished. “How did you do it?”

“We started negotiating and I had him at the point of accepting my offer when I remembered that dealers sometimes get incentives and rebates on cars sold.”

“You mentioned that, too?”

“Darn right I did and he agreed to my terms.”

“Lillie, congratulations.” Anne Marie had no idea the older woman had such a head for business. As far as she was aware, Lillie hadn’t worked a day in her life, or at least not outside the home. In many ways Barbie was a younger version of her mother. Both women had married young, and each had chosen a husband ten or so years her senior. That was something Anne Marie had in common with them; the fact that they were both mothers was not. They’d promptly delivered the requisite child, in Barbie’s case, twin sons. If Anne Marie recalled correctly, the Foster boys, Eric and Kurt, were enrolled in separate East Coast schools—very elite ones, naturally.

“It feels so good to drive a vehicle I negotiated for myself,” Lillie said. “And this came about because of you.”

“Really, I just made an off hand comment.”

“It’s more than purchasing my own car,” she said, as though Anne Marie hadn’t spoken, “it was managing everything myself instead of handing the task over to someone else. I’ve always felt I could be a good businesswoman if I’d been given the opportunity.” She rubbed her hand over the arc of the steering wheel. “No one seemed to consider me capable of running my own affairs. Ironically, the person I needed to convince most was me. Thanks to you, I did.”

Anne Marie felt a bit uncomfortable; Lillie was giving her far more credit than she deserved.

“Come on,” Lillie said. “Get in.”

Swinging open the passenger door, Anne Marie climbed into the convertible and fastened her seat belt.

Lillie gripped the steering wheel tightly, throwing back her head. “I have to tell you, I’m really getting into this Twenty Wishes thing.”

“I am, too,” Anne Marie said. “When you phoned I was in the middle of making a scrapbook, a page for each wish. I’m going to cut out magazine pictures to visualize them and to document the various steps.”

Lillie turned to smile at her. “What a great idea.”

The praise encouraged her andAnne Marie quickly went on to describe the craft-store supplies she’d purchased. “I don’t have much of a list as yet, but I’m working on it. How about you?”

Lillie was silent for a moment. “I’ve decided I want to fall in love.” She spoke with a determination Anne Marie had never heard from her.

“Barbie said the same thing at our Valentine’s party,” Anne Marie pointed out.

“I know.”

Anne Marie waited.

“I’ve had plenty of men ask me out,” Lillie told her. “I don’t mean to sound egotistical, but I’m not interested in most of them.”

Anne Marie nodded, not surprised that “plenty of men” would find Lillie attractive.

“I’ve learned a thing or two in the last sixty-odd years,” Lillie was saying, “and I’m not as impressed with riches or connections as I once was. When I fall in love, I want it to be with a man of integrity. Someone who’s decent and kind and—” She paused as though searching for the right word. “Honorable. I want to fall in love with an honorable man.” She seemed embarrassed at having spoken her wish aloud, and leaned forward to start the engine. “As you might’ve guessed, my marriage—unlike my daughter’s—wasn’t a particularly good one. I don’t want to repeat the mistakes I made when I was younger.” The car roared to life, then purred with the sound of a flawlessly tuned engine.

Checking behind her, Lillie backed out of the parking space on Blossom Street. From there they headed toward the freeway on-ramp. Lillie proposed a drive through the Kent Valley and along the Green River, and Anne Marie agreed.

Closing her eyes, Anne Marie let the cold February wind sweep past her. Lillie turned on the radio just as the DJ announced a hit from the late 1960s. Soon she was crooning along to The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind.” Anne Marie remembered her mother singing that song as a girl. Perhaps it was unusual to find herself good friends with a woman who was her mother’s contemporary. Sadly, although Anne Marie was an only child, she and her mother weren’t close. Her parents had divorced when she was in sixth grade, and the bitterness, especially on her mother’s part, had lingered through the years. It didn’t help that Anne Marie resembled her father. She’d had little contact with him after the divorce, and he died in a boating accident on Lake Washington when she was twenty-five. Her mother had never remarried.

Because they had such an uneasy relationship, Anne Marie avoided frequent visits home. She made a point of calling her mother at least once a month. Even then, it seemed they didn’t have much to discuss. Sad as it was to admit, Anne Marie had more in common with Lillie than she did with her own mother.

As Lillie’s voice grew louder, Anne Marie stayed quiet, afraid that if she attempted to sing she’d embarrass herself. After about twenty minutes, Lillie exited the freeway and drove toward the road that ran beside the banks of the Green River.

This was about as perfect a moment as Anne Marie could remember since Robert’s death. They had the road to themselves. The sun was on her face and the wind tossed her hair in every direction and she couldn’t have cared less.

Lillie, however, had wrapped a silk scarf over her elegantly arranged hair, which held it neatly in place.

Darting around the twisting country roads, Lillie revealed her skill as a driver. Then, in the middle of a sharp turn, she let out a small cry of alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Anne Marie was instantly on edge. She grasped the passenger door as Lillie struggled to control the vehicle.

“The steering wheel,” she gasped. She pulled the car over to the side of the road and cut the engine. She looked wide-eyed at Anne Marie. “There’s something wrong with the steering.”

“This is a brand-new car!”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Lillie said through clenched teeth. She opened the car door and got out, then reached behind the seat for her purse. Taking out her cell phone, she exhaled slowly. “Fortunately I have the dealership’s number in my Calls Received.” She wrapped one arm around her waist while she waited for someone to answer.

“Hello,” she said, speaking without even a hint of irritation in her voice. “This is Lillie Higgins. I was in the dealership earlier this afternoon. Could I speak with Darryl Pierpont, please? He’s the salesman who sold me this vehicle.” She waited, and it seemed the salesman was unavailable because Lillie asked to speak with the manager, who was apparently out of the office, as well. Lillie then said, “All right, answer me this. Has the dealership deposited the check I wrote?” She turned to Anne Marie, eyes fierce. “I suggest you don’t, as I’m about to put a stop payment order on it.”

That quickly got her the attention she sought. After explaining what had happened and listening for a moment, then describing her location, Lillie closed the cell.

“The dealership’s sending a tow truck for the car. The service manager is bringing me a replacement vehicle until they can determine what’s wrong with mine.”

“As they should.”

“Until then we have to sit here and wait.”

They climbed back into the car and chatted for half an hour or so until another BMW arrived, followed by a tow truck. A Hispanic man stepped out of the car. “Ms. Higgins?” he asked with a slight Mexican accent, looking at Lillie.

“Yes.”

“I’m Hector Silva, manager of the service department. I would like to personally apologize for this inconvenience.”

“I’ve owned this car for less than two hours!”

Hector shook his head. “I give you my word that we will find out what caused the problem and repair it properly. Until then, the dealership would like you to use this loaner car.”

Anne Marie liked the man immediately. He was around Lillie’s age, she guessed, with lovely tanned skin and salt-and-pepper hair. He handed Lillie some papers to sign and then the keys to the other car.

“Would you like a ride back to the dealership, Mr. Silva?” Lillie offered, surprising Anne Marie.

“No, thank you, I’ll escort your convertible with the tow truck driver. I’ll have your car back to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

He bowed his head. “It is my pleasure, Ms. Higgins.”

While Hector Silva and the driver of the tow truck conferred, Lillie and Anne Marie slipped into the second car, a luxury sedan.

“He was so nice,” Anne Marie commented. The service manager couldn’t have been more accommodating or polite.

“I was looking forward to giving the dealership a piece of my mind,” Lillie said with a sigh. “But how can I when everyone’s being so wonderful? Well,” she said, grinning, “after I threatened them.”

“That had nothing to do with Mr. Silva, though.”

“I agree,” Lillie said. “He struck me as genuine.”

They resumed their drive, except that this time Lillie headed straight back to the city, stopping in front of Blossom Street Books.

“Thank you, Lillie,” Anne Marie said as she climbed out. “I’ve never enjoyed a car ride more.”

“Bye.” And with a smile that shone from her eyes and her heart, Lillie drove off.

Chapter 3

Standing in front of WoodrowWilson Elementary School, Anne Marie took a deep breath. Elise Beaumont had repeatedly encouraged her to become a volunteer and had recommended the Lunch Buddy program. Elise herself was a Lunch Buddy at a different school—her grandson’s—but WoodrowWilson was closer to Blossom Street. She’d sounded so positive about the experience that Anne Marie had felt inspired to make the initial call. Volunteering was now number three on her list of Twenty Wishes, after the red boots and learning to knit.

Lillie had bought her red BMW convertible and despite the problems that first day, she was thrilled with her purchase. Buoyed by that sense of exhilaration, Lillie had decided to look more closely into the financial matters she’d left in the hands of others. She, too, was working on her list, as were Barbie and Elise.

Last week Elise had said she was applying for a part-time job. For the last three years of her husband’s illness, she’d been Maverick’s primary caregiver. Now that her husband was gone, Elise needed some kind of activity to fill her time. Maverick wouldn’t have wanted her to mope uselessly around the house, she insisted.

Although Anne Marie had only met Maverick Beaumont—a professional poker player—once or twice, she felt Elise was right. Maverick was obviously a man of action and he would’ve urged his wife to do something constructive and meaningful with her remaining years. The Lunch Buddy program was a worthwhile start, but Elise had extra time, lots of it, and energy to spare.

Anne Marie wasn’t sure how Robert would react if he were to find out she’d volunteered as a Lunch Buddy—let alone that she’d begun a list of Twenty Wishes. Would he consider it frivolous? Self-involved? Or would he think it was a good idea, a good way of recapturing her enthusiasm for life? They’d been married almost eleven years and there were days Anne Marie felt she’d never really known her husband.

Robert was a private person who kept his feelings hidden from the world and sometimes even from her. When she first told him she wanted a child, Robert had simply left the room. Not until three days later was he willing to discuss the matter. He’d told her that a second family was out of the question; as far as he was concerned, they’d made that decision before their marriage. He was right. She’d agreed there’d be no children. What he didn’t understand or seem capable of acknowledging was that she’d been at a very different point in her life when she’d married him. She’d been too young to realize how intense the desire for a baby would become as the years went on.

Robert said he already had his family, that it was time to think about grandchildren, not more children. She’d agreed to his terms and, according to him, that agreement was binding.

Anne Marie had tried to ignore her yearning for a child. With Robert’s encouragement and support, she’d purchased Blossom Street Books with a small inheritance from her grand-parents’ estate, which she’d invested years before. That hadn’t solved the problem, nor had Baxter, the Yorkie he’d surprised her with one evening. Much as she loved Robert, her bookstore and her dog, her need for a baby was still there, growing until she could no longer ignore it.

She wanted a baby. Robert’s baby. The promise she’d made him had been more than eleven years ago. She’d changed her mind, but he refused to change his. She’d pleaded and cajoled, all to no avail.

To complicate everything, Robert had discussed this personal and private matter with his daughter, who’d naturally sided with her father. That made Anne Marie’s relationship with Melissa—and with Robert—even more difficult.

Melissa had hated Anne Marie from the day she married Robert. Granted, the girl had only been thirteen at the time, but she’d rejected Anne Marie’s overtures in no uncertain terms, and her attitude had become more adamant, more intolerant, with age. His daughter had always been Daddy’s little girl and her resentment toward Anne Marie was unyielding. Melissa had done everything possible to make her feel like an outsider. Anne Marie hadn’t been invited to graduations, birthdays or other family events. Brandon, her stepson, had accepted her from the beginning, and they’d held their own little celebrations. During the first few years, Robert had tried to build a bridge between her and his daughter, but that effort had fallen by the wayside. After a while both she and Robert had given up. His relationship with Melissa had become something completely separate from his marriage.

Still, Anne Marie felt deeply betrayed when her husband took a private matter between the two of them to his daughter. He’d been disloyal to her. Even worse was learning about it from Melissa, who’d taunted Anne Marie with what she knew. That had added humiliation to the pain.

Robert listened stoically as she wept and cried out her fury. Nothing she said seemed to affect him. He listened, his face impassive, and then a few days later, packed a bag and moved out. Just like that.

The shock of it had left Anne Marie reeling for weeks. After a month in which she refused to give him the satisfaction of calling, Robert had briefly returned to the house to suggest a legal separation.

Remaining as unemotional as possible, Anne Marie had agreed. Perhaps living apart would be best while they both considered their options. By then, Anne Marie had been angry. Okay, furious. She’d wondered if Robert had ever really loved her. How selfish, how unfair, how…male of him.

Anne Marie felt it was imperative that Robert know she was serious about a baby. He’d moved out of the house and, following his lead, she’d moved out, too, leaving the place to sit vacant. Fortunately she had the apartment above the bookstore, which had recently become available. She hoped such a drastic action would give Robert notice that she was more than able to support herself—more than capable of living her life without him. In his own fit of defiance, Robert had listed the house, which was in his name. Everyone was surprised when it sold the first week. Anne Marie’s things, whatever she hadn’t moved to the apartment, had been taken to a storage unit. It had all been so petty, so juvenile.

Their separation had become a battle of wills, each of them intent on showing how unnecessary and superfluous the other was. They were clearly destined for the divorce court, until Anne Marie decided enough was enough. After all, this was the man she loved. Despite everything—her disappointment, her anger toward Melissa—her feelings for her husband hadn’t changed. The day she called Robert at the office had been a turning point. She admitted she missed him and was sorry the situation had deteriorated so far. He seemed surprised to hear from her and at the same time delighted. He said he was sorry, too, and they’d agreed to meet for dinner.

The one stipulation was that there be no talk about Anne Marie having a baby. Although she didn’t like it, she’d promised. Dinner was wonderful and Robert had gone out of his way to make the evening as romantic as possible.

Robert Roche could certainly be charming when he put his mind to it, and that night he’d charmed himself right into her bed. Their lovemaking had always been powerful and it felt so wonderful to be with him again. Then, in the morning when she awoke, Anne Marie discovered he’d left during the night. That was like a slap in the face. It would serve him right if she ended up pregnant, she’d thought angrily.

Only she hadn’t.

They’d continued to meet and to talk regularly but that was the last time they’d made love.

Shaking her head, trying to free herself from the memories, Anne Marie realized she’d been standing in front of the elementary school for ten minutes without moving. Making a determined effort, she walked into the building.

She had an appointment with the school counselor, Ms. Helen Mayer, at ten-thirty and she was already five minutes late.

As soon as Anne Marie entered the school, the hallway immediately filled with noisy youngsters, all of them trying to get past her and outside. But for the first time that day, the sun peeked out through dark clouds, and she took that as a favorable sign.

Eventually Anne Marie located the school office, which had a small waiting area, a large counter that stretched across the room and a number of offices behind it.

“May I help you?” the woman at the counter asked.

“I’m Anne Marie Roche. I have an appointment with Ms. Mayer.”

“You’re here for the Lunch Buddy program?”

“That’s right.” Anne Marie nervously brushed her hair away from her face. She wore it straight, shoulder-length, and had dressed in wool slacks and a white turtleneck sweater. Now that she was actually at the office, her uncertainty returned. She wasn’t convinced this was the best project for her, wish list or not. She didn’t know anything about children of elementary-school age, or any age for that matter. Her experience with Melissa hadn’t exactly inspired confidence in her ability to relate to kids.

“Ms. Mayer is meeting with the other volunteers in Room 121,” the woman told her. “There’s an orientation first.”

“Okay,” Anne Marie said with a nod, figuring the orientation would help her decide. “How do I find Room 121?”

“It’s easy. Just go out the way you came in, take a left and follow the hallway to the end.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the secretary mumbled as she turned back to her computer screen.

Mentally repeating the directions, Anne Marie stepped out of the office. For a moment she hesitated, thinking she could just leave now, simply walk out. She didn’t know any young children and couldn’t imagine what they’d want to talk about. But her hesitation was brief. The prospect of confessing to Elise that she hadn’t even tried compelled Anne Marie to go to Room 121.

Two other women and one man were already seated on metal folding chairs at a long conference table. There was a chalkboard behind them. Helen Mayer welcomed her with a gesture toward an empty seat.

“You must be Anne Marie,” she said. “Meet Maggie, Lois and John.”

Anne Marie nodded in the direction of the other volunteers and pulled out a chair. She still felt the urge to make an excuse and walk out. She couldn’t, though. Not without at least going through the orientation.

“I believe that’s everyone,” Helen said, reaching for a piece of chalk. She walked over to the board and wrote each person’s name.

During the next thirty minutes, Anne Marie learned that this was a four-month commitment. She must agree to meet faithfully with her lunch buddy once a week for that period of time.

“Every week?” one of the other women asked.

“Yes, the same day if possible but it’s understandable if you occasionally need to change days. It’s best for the children to have a sense of routine and trust that you’ll be here for them.”

The others all nodded. A little belatedly, Anne Marie did, too.

“Next, we ask that you eat the food from the cafeteria. Lunch Buddy kids get their lunch free, thanks to a government subsidy, but you can buy yours at a minimal charge. If you must bring in food from outside, please check to be sure the child you’re paired with doesn’t have any food allergies.”

That was reasonable, Anne Marie thought.

“After lunch you can let the child take you to his or her classroom. Or you can go outside for recess if you prefer. The idea is to spend the entire lunch period with your assigned child.”

“Do they still jump rope?” Lois asked.

Ms. Mayer nodded. “With the same rhymes we used when I was a girl.”

The women exchanged smiles.

“The important thing is to interact with the child,” the school counselor continued. “Get to know him or her and forge a friendship.”

“What about seeing the child outside school?” This question came from Maggie, who appeared to be in her early fifties.

“That’ll have to be approved by the child’s parent or guardian.”

Anne Marie couldn’t imagine seeing the child other than inside the protected walls of the school. She didn’t want to get emotionally attached. Besides, that wasn’t part of the deal. All that was required was to come in and have lunch with her young charge. If he or she wanted to show off school assignments, fine. But that was the limit of what Anne Marie could handle. She had enough to cope with; she didn’t need to add anything else to the mix. Any relationship with an at-risk child would have to remain casual. Nothing beyond the most basic obligations.

The orientation meeting took the full half hour. Several additional questions were asked, but Anne Marie only half listened. While the others chatted, she struggled, asking herself over and over if this was the right volunteer program. She couldn’t imagine why Elise seemed to think she’d be a perfect Lunch Buddy. Anne Marie didn’t feel perfect. What she felt was…nothing. Nothing at all. Zoned out. Emotionally dead. Disinterested.

Ms. Mayer handed out the assignments, leaving Anne Marie for last. She must have sensed her doubts because she asked, “Do you have any further questions?”

Anne Marie shook her head. “Not really. I’m just wondering if I’m really a good candidate for this.”

“Why not give it a try? I suspect you’ll enjoy it. Almost everyone does.”

The other woman’s reassurance warmed her. “Okay, I will.”

“The child I have in mind for you is named Ellen Falk,” she went on to say. “Ellen is eight years old and in second grade. Because of the Right to Privacy Laws, I’m not allowed to reveal any details about her home background. However, I can tell you that Ellen is currently living with her maternal grandmother.”

“Has she been in this school long?”

“Ellen’s been a student here for the past two years.”

“Okay.”

Before Anne Marie could ask why the school counselor had decided to pair her with this particular child, Helen Mayer continued.“ Ellen is an intense child. Very quiet. Shy. She doesn’t have a lot to say, but don’t let that discourage you.”

“Okay,” Anne Marie said again.

“Talk to her and be patient. She’ll speak to you when she’s ready.”

Oh, great. She’d have to carry the entire conversation for heaven only knew how many weeks. “Is there a reason you decided to match me up with this child?” she asked. Surely there was another one, another little girl who was more personable. Anne Marie wasn’t much of a talker herself these days, and she wasn’t sure that pairing her with an intense, reticent child would work.

“That’s an excellent question,” Helen Mayer said approvingly. “Ellen loves to read, and since you own Blossom Street Books…well, it seemed to be a good fit.”

“Oh.”

“Ellen is one of our top second-grade readers.”

Rather than suggest being paired with a different child, Anne Marie decided to go ahead with this arrangement. “I look forward to meeting her,” she said, wincing inwardly at the lie.

“Ellen has first lunch, which starts in a few minutes, so if you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.”

Anne Marie still wasn’t convinced she was ready for this. However, it was now or never. Once she walked out of Room 121, Anne Marie knew that unless she met the child immediately, she wouldn’t be back.

Ms. Mayer led her down the hallway to a row of classrooms, each door marked with the grade and the teacher’s name. Ellen was in Ms. Peterski’s class. Helen Mayer waited until a young woman—obviously Ms. Peterski—and twenty or so children had filed out, then walked inside, Anne Marie a few steps behind her.

The first thing Anne Marie noticed was how impossibly small the desks were. The second was the child sitting in the far corner all alone. Her head was lowered, and her stick-straight hair fell forward, hiding her eyes.

“Ellen,” the school counselor said, her voice full of enthusiasm. “I want you to meet your Lunch Buddy.”

The little girl, dressed in dirty tennis shoes, jeans and a red T-shirt, slid out of her chair and moved toward them, her gaze on the floor.

“Anne Marie, meet Ellen.”

“Hello, Ellen,” Anne Marie said dutifully. She kept her voice soft and modulated.

Ellen didn’t acknowledge the greeting.

After an awkward silence, Ms. Mayer spoke again. “Ellen, would you please escort your guest to the lunchroom?”

In response Ellen nodded and walked quickly out of the room. She stood outside the door until Anne Marie caught up.

“That’s a nice T-shirt you’re wearing,” Anne Marie said, testing the waters. “Red is one of my favorite colors.”

No response.

The noise from the cafeteria grew louder as they made their way down the hall. Ellen joined the other students in the lunch line and Anne Marie stood behind her.

“What’s for lunch today?” Anne Marie asked.

Ellen pointed to one of the students at a nearby table, spooning macaroni and cheese into her mouth. “That.”

At last! The eight-year-old actually had a voice.

The line started to move. “Macaroni and cheese used to be one of my favorite lunches,” Anne Marie said. “Do you like it, too?”

Ellen shrugged.

“What’s your favorite?”

She expected the universal response of pizza. Instead Ellen said, “Chili and corn bread.”

“I like that, too.” Well, she didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t one of Anne Marie’s favorites. Thus far they didn’t seem to have a lot in common.

Their lunch consisted of macaroni and cheese, a gelatin salad, carrot sticks, milk and an oatmeal cookie. Carrying her tray, Anne Marie followed the girl to a table near the back of the room. Ellen chose to sit at the far end, away from the other children.

Anne Marie set her tray across from Ellen, then pulled out her chair and sat down. Ellen bowed her head and folded her hands on her lap for a silent moment before she reached for her silverware. Apparently she was saying grace before eating her lunch.

Anne Marie took a sip of milk once Ellen had taken her first bite. “I understand you like to read,” she said conversationally.

Ellen nodded.

“I own a bookstore. Have you read any of the Harry Potter books?”

Ellen shook her head. “My grandma said they’re too advanced for me. She said I could read them in fourth grade.”

“Your grandmother’s probably right.”

Ellen crunched down on a carrot stick.

“Who’s your favorite author?” Anne Marie asked, encouraged by the girl’s response.

Ellen swallowed. “I like lots of authors.”

Again, this was progress. Of a sort. And the girl didn’t talk with her mouth full, which meant she’d been taught some manners.

“When I was your age, books were my best friends.” Anne Marie could recall reading in her bedroom with the door closed to drown out the sound of her parents arguing.

That comment didn’t warrant a response. Anne Marie took another bite of her lunch as she mentally sorted through potential topics of conversation. It was hard to remember what she’d liked when she was eight. She didn’t think Ellen would be interested in hearing about her widowed friends or her list of Twenty Wishes.

They continued to eat in silence until an idea struck Anne Marie. “Do you like dogs?”

Ellen nodded vigorously.

“I have a dog.”

For the first time since they’d sat at the table, Ellen looked up. “A boy dog or a girl dog?”

“A boy. His name is Baxter.”

“Baxter.” A hint of a smile flashed in her eyes.

Anne Marie felt a surge of relief. She’d hit pay dirt. Ellen liked dogs. “He’s a Yorkshire terrier. Do you know what kind of dog that is?”

Ellen shook her head.

“Baxter is small but he has the heart of a tiger. He’s not afraid of anything.”

Ellen’s eyes brightened.

“Would you like to meet him one day?”

Ellen nodded again. “What color is he?”

“Mostly he’s black but his face is sort of a tan, and he has funny-looking ears that stick straight up.”

“My ears stick out, too,” Ellen said in a solemn voice.

Anne Marie studied the child. She could see the faint outline of Ellen’s ears beneath her straight hair, which hung just below her chin. “I had ears like that when I was your age,” Anne Marie told her. “Then I grew up and my ears stayed the same size and everything else got bigger.”

Ellen took another bite of her macaroni and cheese.

Anne Marie did, too. She finished the lunch period by telling the girl stories about Baxter. Ellen asked dozens of questions and even giggled once.

The other children gradually left the lunchroom, drifting out to the schoolyard. The muted sound of their play could be heard through the windows. Anne Marie looked out several times; when she asked if Ellen wanted to go outside, the youngster declined.

The bell finally rang, signaling the end of lunch. Ellen stood.

So did Anne Marie.

Ellen carried her dirty tray to the kitchen and showed Anne Marie where to place it.

“I guess you have to go back to class now,” Anne Marie said.

Ellen nodded. Anne Marie walked her to the classroom door and just as she was about to leave, Ellen whispered something she couldn’t quite hear.

“What did you say?” Anne Marie asked.

Ellen glanced up. “Thank you,” she said more loudly.

“You’re welcome, Ellen. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

Ellen smiled, then quietly entered the room and walked to her desk.

As Anne Marie watched, her chest constricted with a sensation that felt alien to her. It was a good feeling, though—one that came from reaching out to someone else.

Elise was right; Anne Marie did feel better for volunteering. Little Ellen Falk needed a friend.

The ironic thing was that Anne Marie needed one even more.

Chapter 4

After leaving WoodrowWilson Elementary, Anne Marie ran a few errands in the neighborhood. She bought groceries, went to the post office and picked up some dry cleaning. Her Wednesdays were generally crowded with appointments and chores.

When she brought the groceries up to her apartment, she noticed that the light on her answering machine was flashing. After greeting a sleepy Baxter and putting the perishables in the refrigerator, she grabbed a pen and pad and pushed the message button.

The first one was from the school counselor. “Anne Marie, this is Helen Mayer. I wanted to see how everything went with Ellen. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at the school.” She then repeated the phone number. “See you next Wednesday.”

The second message began. “Anne Marie—” Melissa Roche’s voice stopped Anne Marie cold.

“Could you call me at your earliest convenience?” Her question was followed by a slight hesitation. “It’s important.”

The recording ended with Melissa reciting her phone number. “This is a new number. If I don’t hear from you by the end of the day, I’ll call the bookstore.”

That sounded almost like a threat.

Anne Marie wondered about Melissa’s request as she finished putting the groceries away. When she was done, she tentatively reached for the phone. If Melissa was seeking her out, it had to be something serious, although she couldn’t imagine what. The call connected and the phone rang twice. Anne Marie was hoping for a reprieve. She didn’t get one.

“Hello,” Melissa answered. Her voice seemed clipped, defensive.

“This is Anne Marie,” she said, trying to keep her own voice as unemotional as possible.

“I know who it is,” Melissa said. “I have Caller ID.”

“You left a message for me,” Anne Marie reminded her. The enmity between them remained, despite the fact that Robert was gone.

“I need to talk to you,” Melissa told her.

“I’m free now.” Anne Marie would rather get this over with.

“I mean, I need to talk to you face-to-face.”

That was exactly what Anne Marie had hoped to avoid. Naturally, she was suspicious of Melissa’s sudden need for a meeting. “Why?”

“Anne Marie, please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

She exhaled slowly. “All right. When?”

“What about tomorrow night? We could meet for dinner….”

“I close the store on Thursday nights. It would have to be after eight.”

“What about Friday night then?” Melissa suggested.

“Okay.” Anne Marie knew her reluctance must be evident. She could think of a dozen ways she’d rather spend Friday evening than sitting across a table from her stepdaughter.

Melissa chose a restaurant and they set the time. The conversation ended shortly thereafter, and when she put the phone back, Anne Marie felt queasy. Everything about their short conversation had unnerved her. She hated going into this meeting with Melissa so unprepared, but then it occurred to her that perhaps Brandon knew what was going on. She hadn’t spoken to her stepson in a few weeks, and this was a good excuse to catch up with him. She hoped he could clear up the mystery; if he had any idea why Melissa had contacted her after all these months, he’d certainly tell her.

Anne Marie opened a drawer in the kitchen and removed the telephone directory, then flipped through the pages until she found her stepson’s work number.

Brandon answered immediately, obviously pleased to hear from her.

“Anne Marie! How are you doing?” he asked. Although Robert had been especially close to Melissa, the relationship between father and son was often strained.

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“Good. Good. What can I do for you?”

Brandon was a claims adjuster for an insurance company and she was well aware that he didn’t have time to waste on idle chitchat.

“I heard from Melissa this afternoon.”

“Melissa called you?” That was strange enough to instantly get his attention. “What did she want?” he asked curiously.

“To talk to me, or so she says. We’re meeting for dinner. Can you tell me what that’s about?”

“Melissa called you?” Brandon repeated. He seemed completely at a loss. “I couldn’t begin to tell you what she wants.”

Anne Marie sighed. “I can’t figure it out, either. She insists we talk face-to-face.”

“Would you like me to give her a call?” he asked.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll find out soon enough.” Whatever it was didn’t appear to involve Brandon.

“Let me know what’s up, will you?”

“You haven’t heard from her?” Brandon and Melissa had always been fairly close, even though he openly disapproved of his sister’s attitude toward Anne Marie.

“Not in a couple of weeks, which isn’t like her. After Dad died, I heard from her practically every day. Lately, though, she’s been keeping to herself.”

“You haven’t called her?”

“I’ve left her a couple of messages. Apparently she’s been spending all her time with that guy she’s seeing. If I’m reading the situation right, it sounds like she and Michael are serious.”

“Is that good news or bad?” Anne Marie asked.

“I think it’s good. I like Michael and as far as I can tell, he really cares about Melissa.”

“So you’ve met him?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. He came to Dad’s funeral.”

Anne Marie had been too grief-stricken to remember who’d been there; not only that, Michael would’ve been a stranger to her, one among many.

Was Melissa planning to confide in her about this young man? Hard to believe, but Anne Marie’s curiosity was even more pronounced now.

She replaced the phone, staring out the kitchen window onto the alley behind Blossom Street. She’d just have to wait until Friday to learn the reason for Melissa’s phone call.

On Friday, Anne Marie got to the restaurant shortly before the predetermined time of seven. Based on past experience, she expected Melissa to be late; that was usually the case, especially if the event happened to include Anne Marie—like dinner at her and Robert’s house or a holiday get-together. It was yet another way she displayed her complete lack of regard for her stepmother. But when Anne Marie arrived Melissa was already there, pacing outside the restaurant. Anne Marie was shocked, to say the least.

Melissa had suggested a well-known seafood place on the waterfront close to Pike Place Market. Walking fast, it was about twenty minutes from the bookstore, and Anne Marie had worn an extra sweater against the cold wind coming off Elliot Bay.

Her stepdaughter abruptly stopped her pacing the moment she saw her. Because of their long, unfortunate history, Anne Marie didn’t—couldn’t—lower her guard. She’d been sucker punched too many times by some slyly cruel comment or unmistakable slight.

“Hello, Melissa,” she said, maintaining a cool facade. “You’re looking well.” Her stepdaughter was an attractive woman, tall and willowy in stature. Her hair was dark and fell in soft natural curls about her face. She was wearing black jeans and an expensive three-quarter-length khaki raincoat. Even as a girl, she’d been almost obsessed with fashion and appearances, an obsession her father had indulged.

“You look good, too,” Melissa said carelessly. “Are you dating anyone?”

Anne Marie bit her tongue. “No. If that’s what you want to talk about, I think I should leave now.”

“Calm down, would you?” Melissa snapped. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you dating.”

The derisive, scornful attitude was there in full display, and Anne Marie wondered why she still tried. Her stepdaughter seemed unreachable—by her, anyway—and had been from the day they met.

“I…I shouldn’t have asked,” Melissa murmured in what might have passed for an apology if her voice hadn’t held the same level of hostility. “It isn’t really any of my business.”

“Shall we go inside?” Anne Marie said. The wind was growing stronger, and the rain seemed about to start any minute.

“Yes,” Melissa agreed, moving quickly to the door.

Melissa had made a reservation, and they were soon seated at a table by the window. The water was as dark as the sky but Anne Marie gazed out at the lights, dimly visible in the fog. Then she turned to her menu. She and Melissa both seemed determined to make a thorough study of it. With her nerves on edge, Anne Marie didn’t have much of an appetite. She decided on clam chowder in a bread bowl and when the server came, she was surprised to hear Melissa order the same thing.

“I’d like some coffee, too,” Melissa told him.

“I would, as well.”

Once the waiter had left, Melissa nervously reached for her linen napkin, which she spread carefully across her lap. Then she rearranged her silverware.

“Are you ready to tell me what this is about?” Anne Marie asked. Any exchange of pleasantries was pointless.

There was a pause. “It’s probably unfair to come to you about this,” Melissa finally said, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Anne Marie closed her eyes briefly. “Rather than hint at what you want to say, why don’t you just say it?”

Melissa placed her hands in her lap and lowered her head. “I…I haven’t been doing well since Dad died.”

Anne Marie nodded. “I haven’t, either.”

Melissa looked up and bit her lip. “I miss him so much.”

Anne Marie tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. “Me, too.”

“I thought if I went into his office and talked to his friends I’d feel better.”

The waiter brought their coffee, and Anne Marie welcomed the distraction. She could feel tears welling up and she didn’t want the embarrassment of crying in front of Melissa.

When they were alone again, Melissa dumped sugar in her coffee. “Like I said, I decided to stop by the office,” she muttered, scooping up three tiny half-and-half cups and peeling away the tops. “Dad was always so proud of his role in the business.”

Robert had every right to be proud. He’d worked for the data storage business almost from its inception and much of the company’s success could be attributed to his efforts. He enjoyed his job, although the demands on his time had increased constantly. For three consecutive years, Robert had planned to take Anne Marie to Paris for their wedding anniversary. Each year he’d been forced to cancel their vacation plans because of business.

“Everyone must’ve been happy to see you,” Anne Marie commented politely.

Melissa shrugged. “Even in this short amount of time, there’ve been a lot of changes.”

That was understandable. Robert had died almost ten months ago, and life had a way of creeping forward, no matter what the circumstances.

“Do you remember Rebecca Gilroy?” Melissa asked.

“Of course.” The young woman had been Robert’s personal assistant. As Anne Marie recalled, Rebecca had started working for the company a year or so before Robert’s heart attack.

“She had a baby.”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant.” Had she learned of it, Anne Marie would’ve sent her a gift. She’d only met Rebecca on a few occasions, but she’d liked her.

“She isn’t married.” Melissa’s gaze held hers.

Anne Marie didn’t consider that significant. “It’s hardly a prerequisite these days.”

Melissa picked up her coffee and Anne Marie noticed that her hands were trembling.

“Do you remember exactly when you and my dad separated?”

Anne Marie expelled her breath. “It’s not something I’m likely to forget, Melissa. Of course I remember. He…left on September 18th the year before last.” She lifted her shoulders as she took in a deep breath, feeling raw and vulnerable. “I was miserable without your father. I still am.” She wasn’t sure where this conversation was leading and strained to hold on to her patience. Exhaling, she added, “Despite the fact that you dislike me, we’ve always had something very important in common. We both loved your father.”

Melissa didn’t acknowledge the comment; instead she stared down at the table. “One night a couple of months after you and Dad separated, I decided to treat him to dinner. He was working too hard and he often stayed late at the office.”

That was a fairly typical occurrence throughout their marriage. As a company executive, Robert put in long hours.

“I picked up a couple of sandwiches and some of his favorite soup and went over there to surprise him.”

Anne Marie nodded patiently, wondering when her stepdaughter would get to the point.

“The security guard let me in and when I walked into the office…”

The waiter approached the table with their order; Melissa stopped talking and even seemed grateful for the intrusion.

Anne Marie took her first taste, delicious despite her lack of appetite. Realizing Melissa hadn’t continued, she gestured with her spoon. “Go on. You walked into the office and?”

Melissa nodded and reluctantly picked up her own spoon. “Rebecca was there, too.”

“Mandatory overtime was one of the job requirements.”

“She wasn’t exactly…working.”

Anne Marie frowned. “What do you mean?”

Melissa glared at her then. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” she demanded. “If you’re going to make me say it, then fine. Rebecca and my father were…they were having sex.”

Anne Marie’s spoon clattered to the floor as the shock overwhelmed her. Her body felt mercifully numb, and her mind refused to accept what she’d heard. It was like the day the company president had come to the bookstore to personally tell her Robert had died. The same kind of dazed unbelief.

“I’m sorry, Anne Marie,” Melissa whispered. “I…I shouldn’t have been so straightforward, but I didn’t know how else to say it.”

Melissa’s words had begun to fall together in her mind. Robert and Rebecca sexually involved. Rebecca pregnant and unmarried. Rebecca had a child.

Anne Marie could no longer breathe.

“Rebecca’s baby…”

Melissa’s eyes held hers. “I’m not positive…but I think so. You know her better than I do. I only saw her the one time… with Dad, and then when I stopped by the office recently. I…I had the impression that she isn’t the type to sleep around. Oh, and she was at the funeral.”

Anne Marie closed her eyes and shook her head. All of a sudden, the few spoonfuls of soup she’d managed to swallow came back up her throat. Grabbing her napkin, she held it over her mouth and leaped from her chair. She weaved unsteadily around the tables, then bolted for the ladies’ room and made it inside just in time. Stumbling into a vacant stall, Anne Marie was violently ill. When she finished, she was so weak she couldn’t immediately get up.

Melissa was waiting for her as she came out of the stall and handed her a dampened paper towel. Tears had forged wet trails down the younger woman’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry…I shouldn’t have told you. I…I had no idea what else to do.”

Anne Marie held the cold, wet towel to her face with both hands. Shock, betrayal, outrage—all these emotions bombarded her with such force she didn’t know which one to react to first.

“I should’ve talked to Brandon,” Melissa whispered, leaning against the wall. She slid down until she was in a crouching position. “I shouldn’t have told you…I shouldn’t have told you.”

A waitress came into the ladies’ room. “Is everything all right?” she asked, looking concerned. “The manager asked me to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong with your dinner.”

As Melissa straightened, Anne Marie tried to reassure the woman that this had nothing to do with the food. “We’re fine. It wasn’t the soup…it’s nothing to worry about.”

“There’ll be no charge for your dinners.”

“No, please. I’ll pay.” The anger had begun to fortify her now, and she washed her hands with a grim determination that was sure to kill any potential germs.

Melissa waited for her by the washroom door, following her back to the table. Anne Marie scooped up her purse and slapped two twenty-dollar bills down on the table. That should more than cover their soup and coffee. Like a stray puppy, her stepdaughter trailed her outside, a foot or two behind.

The rain had begun in earnest by then and was falling so hard large drops bounced on the sidewalk. Anne Marie flattened herself against the side of the building while she struggled to comprehend what she’d heard. It seemed impossible. Unbelievable.

It couldn’t be right. Robert would never risk getting Rebecca pregnant. Even the one night they’d spent together—She froze. They hadn’t used protection. She’d told him she was off her birth control pills and it was as if it no longer mattered to him. His lack of concern had thrilled Anne Marie. She saw it as the first crack in his stubborn unwillingness to accept her need for a baby.

“Anne Marie…” Melissa choked out her name. The tears ran down her stepdaughter’s face, mingling with the rain. Her hair hung in wet clumps but she didn’t seem to notice. “Someone needs to talk to Rebecca—to ask her…”

“Not me.”

“I can’t,” Melissa wailed.

“Why not?” she asked. “What difference does it make now?”

“If the baby’s Dad’s, then…then it’s related to me. And if that baby really is Dad’s, then…I have to know. I’ve got a right to know.”

Anne Marie wondered if Robert’s daughter would have been as tolerant toward a child she might have had. “Did Rebecca—did she have a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

The pain was as searing as a hot poker against her skin. It took her a moment to find her voice. “If the child is Robert’s, why hasn’t Rebecca said anything?”

“I…I don’t know,” Melissa whispered. “I shouldn’t have told you….”

“You wanted to hurt me,” Anne Marie said coldly.

“No!” Melissa’s denial was instantaneous.

“There’s no love lost between us.” Anne Marie had no illusions about her stepdaughter’s motives. “You don’t like me. You never have. All these years you’ve been trying to get back at me, to punish me, and now you have.”

Not bothering to deny the accusation, Melissa buried her face in her hands and started to weep uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Anne Marie wanted to turn her back on Robert’s daughter and walk away. But she couldn’t bear to hear Melissa weep. Even though she was the one Robert had betrayed, Anne Marie reached for his daughter and folded her arms around Melissa.

The two women clung together, hardly aware of the people scurrying by.

Anne Marie’s reserve broke apart and the pain of Robert’s betrayal came over her in an explosive, unstoppable rush. She wept as she never had before, even at Robert’s funeral. Her shoulders heaved and the noisy, racking sobs consumed her.

Then it was Melissa who was holding her, comforting her. After all the years of looking for common ground with her stepdaughter, Anne Marie had finally found it.

In her husband’s betrayal.

Chapter 5

Barbie Foster stood in line at the movie theater multiplex, waiting to purchase a ticket, preferably for a comedy. She needed a reason to laugh. Her day had started early when she opened Barbie’s, her dress shop, two blocks off Blossom Street. The shop was high-end, exclusive and very expensive. Her clientele were women who could easily afford to drop four figures on a dress. Barbie made sure they got their money’s worth, providing advice, accessories and free alterations. She had a number of regular customers who counted on her for their entire wardrobes. Her own sense of style had served her well.

She didn’t want to sound conceited, but Barbie was aware that she was an attractive woman. Since Gary’s death, she’d received no shortage of attention from the opposite sex. Men wanted a woman like her on their arm—and, she suspected, they wanted her money. Barbie, however, wasn’t easily swayed by flattery. She’d been happy in her marriage and had loved her husband. At this point in her life she wasn’t willing to settle for mere companionship or, heaven forbid, no-strings sex. She wanted love. She longed for a man who’d treat her like a princess the way Gary had. Her friends told her that was a dated attitude; Barbie didn’t care. Unfortunately there weren’t many princes around these days.

She’d married young. In retrospect she recognized how fortunate she’d been in finding Gary. She’d had no real life experience, so the fact that she’d met a really wonderful man and fallen in love with him was pure luck. He was ten years her senior; at thirty, he’d had a wisdom beyond his years and a great capacity for love, for loyalty. He’d been working for her father at the time and came to the house often. She’d had a crush on him that developed into genuine love, although it took her a few years to recognize just how genuine it was. At nineteen, she always made sure she happened to be around whenever he stopped by, and enjoyed parading through the house to the pool—in her bikini, of course. She still smiled at the way Gary had looked in every direction except hers.

They’d married when she was twenty-one, with her father’s blessing and, surprisingly perhaps, her mother’s. She got pregnant the first week of their honeymoon. When she’d delivered identical twin sons, Gary had been over the moon. The pregnancy had been difficult, however, and he’d insisted the two boys were family enough.

The twins, Eric and Kurt, filled their lives and they were idyllically happy. Not that she and Gary didn’t have their share of differences and arguments, but they forgave each other quickly and never confused disagreement with anger. Their household had been calm, orderly, contented. The plane crash ended all that. Barbie had always been close to her sons, but following the tragic deaths, of Gary and her father, the three of them were closer than ever. They helped one another through their grief, and even now they talked almost every day.

Encouraged by her mother and sons, a year after Gary’s death Barbie started her own business. The dress shop helped take her mind off her loneliness and gave her purpose. Her sons were eighteen and growing increasingly independent. They’d be on their own soon. As it happened, they were attending colleges on the opposite side of the country. Swallowing her natural instinct to hold on to her children, she flew out to Boston and New York with her sons, got them settled in their respective schools and then flew home. She’d wept like a baby throughout the entire five-hour flight back to the West Coast.

Her house seemed so empty without the boys—her house and her life. She’d never felt more alone than she had since last September when she’d accompanied Kurt and Eric to their East Coast schools. Thankfully, though, they’d both come home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

She’d kept herself occupied with the shop, but the Valentine’s get-together with the other widows had revealed a different kind of opportunity. Barbie had begun to compose her list of Twenty Wishes, hoping to discover a new objective, some new goal to pursue. Her mother had leaped at this idea with an enthusiasm she hadn’t shown in years, and if for no other reason, Barbie had followed suit. They often did things together and, in fact, her mother was Barbie’s best friend.

The line moved. Barbie approached the teenage cashier and handed her a ten-dollar bill.

“Which movie?”

Barbie smiled at her. “You decide. Preferably a comedy.”

The girl searched her face. “There are three or four showing. You don’t care which one?”

“Not really.” All Barbie wanted to do was escape reality for the next two hours.

The teenager took her money and a single ticket shot up, which she gave Barbie, along with her change. “Theater number twelve,” she instructed. “The movie starts at four twenty-five.”

Although she wasn’t hungry, the instant Barbie stepped into the lobby, the scent of popcorn made her mouth water. She purchased a small bag and a soft drink, then headed for the-ater number twelve.

The previews were underway, and Barbie quickly located a seat in a middle row. She settled down with her popcorn and drink, dropping her purse in the empty seat beside her.

Glancing about, Barbie saw nothing but couples, most of them older and presumably retired. She nibbled on her popcorn and all at once her throat went dry. The entire world seemed to be made up of people in love. She envied the other women in the audience their long-lasting relationships, their forever loves, which was what she and Gary should have had. She wanted another chance. She was attractive, well-off, a nice person—and alone. Falling in love again was first on her list of wishes. But she didn’t want another relationship unless she could find a man like Gary and there didn’t seem to be many of those.

Until the other widows had started talking about those stupid wishes, Barbie’s life had seemed to be trudging along satisfactorily enough. Her mother’s list was nearly complete. Not Barbie’s. She’d written down a few things besides falling in love. She wanted to learn how to belly dance. She and Gary had seen a belly dance performance during a brief stopover in Cairo years before and she’d been intrigued by the sensuous, feminine movements. She’d listed something else, too. She wanted to go snorkeling in Hawaii and shopping in Paris and sightseeing in London—all of which she’d done with Gary and enjoyed. But she didn’t want to do them alone.

At the moment, her desire to fall in love again seemed an illusion beyond her grasp. But she wasn’t exactly looking for a relationship. If she truly wanted to love and be loved, she had to be receptive to love, open to it, willing to risk the pain of loss.

She shook her head, telling herself there was no point in believing that a man might one day love her the way Gary had. Love her. Not her money, not her beauty. Her.

All of a sudden tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them angrily away. She didn’t have a thing to cry about. Not a single, solitary thing. Dozens of women, hundreds of them, would envy her life. She had no money problems, her children were responsible adults, and at forty she didn’t look a day over thirty. The tears made no sense whatsoever, and yet there was no denying them.

Reaching for her purse, Barbie pulled out a pack of tissues, grabbed one and loudly blew her nose.

The previews for upcoming features were still flashing across the screen. They were apparently comedies because the audience found the clips amusing. Sporadic laughter broke out around her.

Sniffling and dabbing her eyes, she noticed a man in a wheelchair approaching the row. He was staring at her, which wasn’t uncommon. Men liked to look at her. Only it wasn’t appreciation or approval she saw in his gaze. Instead, he seemed to be regarding her with irritation.

Maneuvering his chair into the empty space beside Barbie, he turned to glare at her. “In case you weren’t aware of it, you’re sitting in the row reserved for people with wheelchairs and their companions.”

“Oh.” Barbie hadn’t realized that, although now he’d mentioned it, she saw the row was clearly marked.

“You’ll need to leave.” His words lacked any hint of friendliness.

He must have someone with him and wanted the seat for that person. No wonder he frowned at her as if she’d trespassed on his personal property.

Retrieving her large purse, she draped it over her shoulder, grabbed her popcorn and soft drink and stood. Instead of walking all the way through the empty row, she tried to get past him.

In an effort to give her the necessary room, he started to roll back his wheelchair and somehow caught the hem of her pants. Barbie stumbled and in the process of righting herself, dumped the entire contents of her soft drink in his lap.

The man gasped at the shock as the soda drenched his pants and ice cubes slid to the floor.

“Oh, I am so sorry.” Barbie plunged her hand in her purse for the tissue packet and managed to spill her popcorn on him as well.

“I…I couldn’t be sorrier,” she muttered, more embarrassed than she’d ever felt before.

“Would you kindly just leave.”

“I—”

He pointed in the direction he wanted her to go, then shook his head in disgust.

Barbie couldn’t get out of the row fast enough. Feeling like a clumsy fool, she rushed into the empty lobby. She yanked a handful of napkins from the dispenser and hurriedly returned to the theater.

The man was still brushing popcorn off his lap when she offered him the napkins.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked in a loud whisper.

His intense blue eyes glared back at her. “I think you’ve already done enough. The best thing you could do is leave me alone.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t need to be so rude. “I said I was sorry,” she told him.

“Fine. Apology accepted. Now if it’s possible, I’d like to enjoy the movie.”

Barbie gritted her teeth. She felt like dumping another soft drink on his head. It wasn’t as if she’d purposely spilled the soda. It’d been an accident and she’d apologized repeatedly. She felt her regret turn into annoyance at his ungracious reaction.

Because he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted her far away, Barbie took an empty seat on the aisle five rows back from the wheelchair section. She made a determined effort to focus her attention on the movie, which had started about ten minutes earlier.

It was a comedy, just as she’d requested, only now she wasn’t in any mood to laugh. Instead, she tapped her foot compulsively, scowling at the unfriendly man seated below her. When she saw that her tapping was irritating others, she crossed her legs and allowed her foot to swing. In all her life she’d never met anyone so incredibly rude. He deserved to have that soda dumped in his lap!

The rest of the audience laughed at the antics on the screen. Barbie might have, too, if she’d been able to concentrate. Almost against her will, her eyes kept traveling to the man in the wheelchair. The little girl in her wanted to stick her tongue out at him.

He’d asked her to move and yet no one sat next to him. In fact, the entire row was empty. He hadn’t come with anyone; he just didn’t want her sitting next to him.

What exactly was wrong with her? Lots of men would have welcomed her company. And they would’ve been more polite about that little accident, too. She was tempted to give that… that Neanderthal a piece of her mind. He had a lot of nerve asking her to leave. It was a free country and she could sit anywhere she darn well pleased.

Barbie left halfway through the movie, pacing the lobby in her exasperation. Where did he get off acting like such a jerk—and worse, making her feel like one? The teenager who’d sold her the ticket watched her for several minutes.

“Is everything okay?” she called out.

Barbie whirled around, her agitation mounting. “I was just insulted,” she said, although there wasn’t anything the girl could do about it. “Without realizing it, I sat in the wheelchair seating and this man told me to move.”

The girl looked down, but not before Barbie caught her smiling.

“Do you think that’s funny?” she asked.

“No, no, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to move if you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t know that at the time. I assumed there was someone with him and I’d taken his or her spot.”

“He was alone.”

“So it seems. Furthermore, I didn’t mean to spill my drink on him. It was an accident.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You spilled your drink? On him?”

“In his lap.”

The teenager giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Did he get mad?”

“Well, yes, but it was an accident. The popcorn, too.”

Another giggle escaped. “Oh, my gosh.”

Barbie raised her eyebrows at this girl’s amusement. “I have never met a more unreasonable or ruder man in my entire life,” she said pointedly.

“That’s my uncle Mark,” the girl explained, grinning openly now.

“He’s your…uncle.” Barbie seemed to leap from one fire into another. Every word she’d said was likely to be repeated to “Uncle Mark.” Well, good. Someone should give that arrogant, supercilious hothead a real talking-to. Who did he think he was, anyway?

“Unfortunately, he can be a bit unreasonable,” the girl said.

“Tell me about it.”

“You shouldn’t let him bother you.”

Barbie opened her mouth to argue and then decided the girl was right. She’d paid for her ticket, the same as he had, and could sit wherever she pleased. If she chose to sit in the wheelchair area, that was her business, as long as no one legitimately needed the seat. And no one did.

“Why don’t you go back in?” the girl suggested. “It’s a very funny movie, you know.”

“Thanks—I will.” Barbie marched into the theater, determined to sit where she wanted.

And lost her nerve.

It just wasn’t in her to create a scene. Instead she walked over to her previous seat. She slipped into it, balancing her purse on her lap, and stared at the screen. Whatever was happening in the movie bypassed her completely.

Giving up on the film, she studied the back of the man’s head. He must’ve sensed her watching him because he shifted his position, as though he felt uncomfortable. Fine with her.

In another thirty minutes, the movie ended and the lights came on. The theater emptied, but Barbie remained in her seat. Mark whatever-his-name stayed where he was, too. When the last person had walked out, he wheeled his chair toward the exit.

“Are you always so rude?” she asked, striding after him.

He wheeled around and for an instant seemed surprised to see her.

“I’m rude when the situation calls for it,” Mark informed her.

In the darkened theater Barbie hadn’t gotten a good look at him. She did now and almost did a double take. The man was gorgeous. Mean as a snake, though. Gary would never have talked to a woman the way this man did. He’d always been respectful. Polite.

“I wish I hadn’t apologized,” she muttered. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“Listen, you do whatever you want. All I ask is that you stay out of my way.”

“Gladly.” She marched ahead with all the righteousness she could muster. But before she left the building, Barbie decided to stop at the ladies’ room.

She’d just emerged when she saw Mark wheel himself into the theater lobby.

“He was pretty annoyed,” his niece said in a low voice, joining Barbie.

“I told him exactly what I thought of him.”

The girl smiled gleefully. “Did you really?”

Barbie nodded. “And then some.” Although she was beginning to suspect she’d overreacted.

“People tiptoe around him.”

“Not me.” She and Gary had believed in treating people equally. Anything else was a form of discrimination, of seeing the disability and not the person.

“It’s because everyone in the family feels sorry for him and he hates that.”

“Oh.” Well, she certainly hadn’t shown him any pity—but maybe she’d been somewhat rude herself.

“I don’t, though,” the girl went on, “which is one reason he stops in here on the evenings I’m working.”

“Does he come to the movies often?” Barbie wasn’t sure what had prompted the question.

“Uncle Mark comes to the movies every Monday night.” The girl held Barbie’s look for an extra-long moment. “I’m Tessa, by the way, and Mark Bassett is my uncle’s name.” She thrust out her hand.

Barbie shook it. “And I’m Barbie.”

“You’ll come again, won’t you?” Tessa asked.

“I live in the neighborhood.” Well, sort of. It was a twenty-minute drive, but this theater was the closest multiplex in her vicinity.

“I wish you would,” Tessa said, walking her to the glass doors that led to the parking lot. She held one open. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“You will,” Barbie said, removing the car keys from her purse. Sitting inside her vehicle, she let the conversation with Tessa run through her mind. Tessa was basically asking her to return the following Monday—and she’d more or less agreed. She’d need to give that some thought. She felt an undeniable attraction to this man, not to mention a sense of challenge and the exhilaration that came with it. In fact, she hadn’t reacted that strongly to anyone in…years. She didn’t understand the intensity of her own response.

As she always did when she was upset or confused, Barbie phoned her mother. Lillie answered right away.

“Sweetheart, where were you?”

“I decided to go to the movies. I’m on my cell.”

“I left you a message,” her mother said. “I was hoping you’d come by the house and have dinner with me.”

Suddenly ravenous, Barbie remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything more than some toast and a few handfuls of popcorn all day.

“Thanks,” she said. “Do you want me to pick anything up?”

“No, I got groceries earlier today.”

“Do you have your car yet?” Barbie asked. The red-hot convertible had gone back to the dealership for the same problem as before. The shop had worked on the steering mechanism twice now.

“No, but I’m not worried.”

“You’re so calm about all this.” Barbie marveled at her mother’s patience. She hadn’t complained even once.

“Is everything all right, dear?” her mother asked. “You sound agitated.”

“I am, a little.” Barbie went on to explain what had happened—without, for some reason, mentioning that the man was in a wheelchair. To her dismay, her mother laughed.

“Mother!” she protested. “This isn’t funny.”

“I know…. It’s just that I can’t imagine you being so clumsy.”

“It was his fault,” Barbie insisted. “He’s just fortunate I didn’t land in his lap.”

Instantly a picture appeared in her mind, and to her shock, it wasn’t an unpleasant one. Barbie saw herself sitting on Mark’s lap, her arms around his neck, their eyes meeting, their lips… She shook her head. She didn’t know where that vision had come from because the man was so…unpleasant.

“You can tell me all about it once you’re here,” Lillie said.

“See you in a few minutes, then.” Barbie was about to snap her cell phone shut when her mother’s voice stopped her. “Barbie, listen, I almost forgot. Jacqueline Donovan invited us to a small gathering next Monday. You’ll be able to attend, won’t you?”

“Monday?” she repeated. “What time?”

“Around six.”

“Sorry, Mom,” she said, making her decision. “I’m afraid I’ve already got plans.”

Mark Bassett wasn’t going to get rid of her as easily as he no doubt hoped.

Chapter 6

Anne Marie had been in emotional free fall ever since her Friday-night dinner with Melissa. She’d tried to push the conversation from her mind but hadn’t succeeded. Robert’s unfaithfulness hung over her every minute of every day—the betrayal, the pain, the anger. It wouldn’t hurt as much if she hadn’t so desperately wanted her husband’s child. For him to adamantly refuse her and then fall into bed with another woman, a woman who now had a child that might be his, bordered on cruelty.

Another complication was her stepdaughter. Anne Marie didn’t want to believe that Melissa had purposely set out to hurt and humiliate her, and yet she was suspicious. Still, she felt that Robert’s daughter was distressed by her father’s actions and had told the truth when she said she wasn’t sure where else to turn. Anne Marie didn’t understand, though, why Melissa hadn’t confided in her brother. Surely Brandon would’ve been a more natural choice. Had she come to Anne Marie because she wanted to talk to another woman? Because she knew that no one else had loved Robert as much? One thing was certain; the instant Melissa had seen how badly she’d hurt Anne Marie, she was genuinely regretful. In the end, Melissa had been the one comforting her.

On Sunday Anne Marie hid inside her small apartment with only Baxter for company. She didn’t answer the phone, didn’t check her messages. How she managed to work even half of Saturday was a mystery. At about noon, she pleaded a migraine and left the shop in Theresa’s hands. Thankfully, the store was closed on Sundays.

Anne Marie didn’t leave her apartment other than to take Baxter for brief walks. She wandered from room to room with a box of tissues while she vented her pain and her grief.

How could Robert have let this happen? How could he betray her in such a fundamental way? The phone rang a number of times but she didn’t answer. Her display screen showed that most of the calls were from Melissa, the last person she wanted to hear from. The messages accumulated until her voice-mail box was full. Anne Marie didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, the less contact with the outside world the better.

Monday she had to work again. Intuitively, her staff—Theresa Newman and a college student named Cathy O’Donnell—seemed to understand she needed space. As much as possible, she stayed in the office at the back and shuffled through mounds of paperwork. She didn’t feel capable of dealing with the public.

At twelve-thirty, Theresa entered the office. “Someone out front would like to see you,” she said.

“A customer?”

“Umm…” Theresa acted uncertain. “I think it might be your stepdaughter.”

Anne Marie tensed. If Melissa had come to the store, it likely wasn’t a social visit. After Friday, Anne Marie was wary; she felt too fragile to deal with anything else her stepdaughter might have to tell her.

“Anne Marie?” Melissa pushed her way past Theresa and stepped into the office.

Theresa cast Anne Marie an apologetic look and excused herself.

Melissa stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” she demanded. “I called and called. It was like you dropped off the face of the earth.”

She would’ve thought the answer was fairly obvious. “I…I wasn’t up to talking to anyone.”

“I’ve been worried about you. Brandon has, too.”

“You told him?”

Melissa nodded. “He was furious with me. He said…he said I should never have told you.”

Harsh words trembled on the tip of her tongue. How she wished Melissa had gone to her brother first. But she supposed that eventually she would’ve uncovered the truth on her own. Now or later, did it really matter?

Melissa seemed close to tears. “Brandon’s right.” Her voice was shaky. “I’m sorry, Anne Marie. At the time I…I felt I should tell you. I knew it would shock you like it did me, but I didn’t realize how hurt you’d be. I was stupid and thoughtless. I’m so sorry.”

It would’ve been easy to dissolve into tears all over again. Anne Marie made an effort to maintain the tight control she held on her emotions. “In a way you did the right thing,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “I would’ve needed to learn about this baby at some point.”

Melissa advanced one step into the room. “I still feel terrible.” “Let’s put it behind us,” Anne Marie said. The girl would never know what it cost her to make that offer. Instinctively she wanted to blame her for this pain, but Anne Marie discovered she couldn’t do it. After years of trying to find some kind of connection with her stepdaughter, she didn’t want to destroy the tenuous one they now shared.

“Can I do something to make it up to you?” Melissa pleaded.

Anne Marie shook her head.

“Can I get you anything?” she implored next.

She drew in a deep breath. “Do you have a new heart for me?” she asked, in a tone she hoped was offhand and witty. From the sad look in her stepdaughter’s eyes, Anne Marie knew it hadn’t been.

“Maybe I should just go.” Melissa’s shoulders slumped as she half-turned to leave.

“Why don’t we have tea one day soon,” Anne Marie suggested.

“You’d do that?” Melissa asked in disbelief.

“You’re Robert’s daughter and no matter what you think of me, I loved your father,” Anne Marie said, unwilling to be dishonest.

“Even now?” Melissa asked. “Knowing he betrayed you?”

Love was difficult to explain. Robert’s actions had devastated her, and while she wanted to confront him, force him to own up to his betrayal, that possibility had been taken away from her. And yet…she loved him.

“Dad hurt you badly, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. I could hate him for that but—”

“I would,” Melissa cut in, eyes narrowed.

“And what good would that do?” Anne Marie asked her. “Believe me, I’ve been over this time and again. I could let the news bury me—and for a while it did.”

“I know…. I blame myself for that.”

“Don’t worry. I meant what I said about putting this behind us. Anyway, I’m dealing with everything as best I can. At first I wanted to lash out, but I couldn’t see how that would help. My pain and anger aren’t going to change a thing, are they?”

Melissa stared at her for a long moment. “You’re a better person than I am.”

“I doubt that—just a bit more experienced, a bit more broken and bruised.” She’d never expected Melissa to compliment her on anything. “You’re still young. Life kicks us all in the teeth sooner or later.” She didn’t mean to sound so negative, but at this point it was difficult not to. “I appreciate that you wanted to check up on me.”

“I felt so awful about what my father did. And the news about Rebecca’s baby hit me hard. So I turned to you and I shouldn’t have.”

Anne Marie waved one hand airily. “Like I said, I’m beyond all that.” It wasn’t completely true; she didn’t think she’d ever recover from Robert’s betrayal—and the way she’d found out.

Melissa stayed a few more minutes and then left for her afternoon class. The invitation for tea was intentionally open-ended. Anne Marie would call her when she felt more… prepared.

An hour later, she felt composed enough to meet the public again. Cathy had gone for the day, and while Theresa took her lunch break, Anne Marie handled the cash register. Mondays were generally slow and she had only two customers, neither of whom needed help. She was emotionally off-balance, although she had to admit she felt better after talking to her stepdaughter. Melissa’s concern, and Brandon’s, had comforted her, at least a little.

The shop door opened and Elise Beaumont came inside. Her expression was speculative, but if she noticed that Anne Marie looked pale and drawn, she didn’t mention it.

“Hello, Elise,” Anne Marie said, trying to act cheerful. “I’ve put aside a couple of new titles you might like.”

“Thanks.” Elise walked up to the counter. “I came to see how it went with the Lunch Buddy program last week.”

She’d almost forgotten about her volunteer project. “Oh, yes. It was fine.”

“Did the school pair you up with a child?”

Anne Marie nodded. “Her name’s Ellen Falk and she’s in second grade.” It took her a moment to conjure up Ellen’s face, recalling how shy and awkward the young girl had been.

Elise picked up one of the books Anne Marie placed in front of her and flipped it open. “You don’t seem too enthusiastic.”

“I’m not sure Ellen and I are the best match.” She went on to explain how the eight-year-old had barely said a word the entire lunch period. Over the weekend she’d lost whatever optimism she’d felt at the end of their previous session.

“It’s early yet. Give it time,” Elise urged.

“I will.” However, Anne Marie still had her doubts about the project. She’d finish out the school year but then she’d look for a different volunteer organization. “I need to call the school counselor,” she said. “The only real enthusiasm Ellen showed was when I talked about Baxter.”

“The child’s interested in dogs?”

“I think so. I thought if I got permission to bring him to the school, Ellen would enjoy meeting him.” Baxter was a good-natured dog who seemed to do well with children, and Anne Marie had no worries about his behavior.

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Elise decided to buy one of the books Anne Marie had recommended, a debut novel by a former journalist, and then wandered the store for a few minutes. With her own background as a librarian, she was an avid reader and a good customer. In fact, she often knew more about books and authors than Anne Marie did. With a second purchase in hand, Elise returned to the counter.

“Something’s bothering you,” she announced, studying Anne Marie.

“I—I’m fine,” Anne Marie insisted.

“Actually, you aren’t and that brave front is crumbling fast. You need someone to talk to. I’m available.”

Elise liked to get to the point. She wasn’t one to ease into a subject or look for a circumspect approach. Anne Marie usually appreciated her friend’s directness. Now, however, she didn’t feel ready to unburden herself.

“Well?” Elise pressed.

“I…I received some shocking news last Friday,” she began. “But I’m dealing with it.”

Elise waited patiently for her to continue.

Anne Marie glanced over her shoulder at another customer who’d just walked in and was scanning the shelves. “I don’t want to talk about it here.”

Elise patted her hand. “That’s understandable. We’ll just wait until—”

The shop door opened, as if on cue, and Theresa came back from lunch. “The French Café has a fabulous squash soup today,” she said breezily. “You should try it.”

“I might do that.” Anne Marie hadn’t eaten much of anything since Friday night. She was too thin as it was but she wasn’t hungry, and this latest incident had contributed to her lack of appetite.

“I was thinking of having a bite to eat myself. Join me,” Elise said.

It was more of a decree than a request; still, Anne Marie agreed. Elise was probably right—it would help to talk about this and to eat. With the glimmer of a smile she recalled Elise’s advice at the Valentine’s get-together. Theresa took over for her, and Anne Marie collected her purse and walked out with Elise.

“You should be wearing more than a sweater,” the older woman told her.

Anne Marie shrugged half heartedly. “You’re beginning to sound like my mother,” she murmured.

“From the look in your eyes, I’d say you need one.”

That comment brought immediate tears, which Anne Marie struggled to hide as she returned to the office for her jacket. She grabbed a tissue to wipe her nose, then tossed it in the waste basket. She certainly couldn’t talk to her mother about what she’d learned. Laura Bostwick would use it as an opportunity to harangue Anne Marie about the huge mistake she’d made in marrying Robert. Laura had disapproved from the start. Trapped in her own unhappiness, she seemed to take a malevolent pleasure in destroying other people’s joy.

Elise linked arms with her as they crossed the street. “You’re so thin now I’m afraid a strong wind will blow you away.”

“Oh, come on, Elise. Don’t exaggerate.”

“It’s a problem I wish I had,” Elise muttered. “When Maverick died, I’m afraid I buried my sorrows in food. Isn’t that ridiculous, considering how closely I watched his diet?” Unexpectedly she smiled. “He said he ate like a bird—flax seed, blueberries, wheat germ… Maverick had such a delightful sense of humor. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever stop missing him.” She shook her head and brought her attention back to Anne Marie.

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