Debbie Macomber - 1105 Yakima Street

“No. You aren’t trying to change the subject, are you, Grace?”

“No, I’m serious. She’s got quite the operation. Twenty acres of Christmas trees and a full working crew. The house is lovely, too—a big two-story place, charming as can be.”

“Grace, you know Wednesday is our exercise night.”

“Yes.” Olivia heard reluctance in her voice. “But I sort of got out of the habit.”

“Then it’s more important than ever for us to get back into it.”

“You’re right,” Grace admitted. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for the pep talk. I needed it, and to be honest, I wasn’t all that excited about driving out to Beth’s.” She sighed. “I can do it later in the week.”

“You’re missing Buttercup, aren’t you?”

There was a silence, and Olivia realized her friend was fighting back tears over the loss of her beloved dog. “Yeah, I miss her. She was far more than just a pet. She saw me through the darkest days of my life.”

Olivia felt her own eyes welling up with tears. She’d loved Buttercup, too. Years before, one of her mother’s friends was moving into an assisted living complex; she couldn’t take the golden retriever with her and Charlotte had suggested Grace might want the dog. Dan Sherman, Grace’s first husband, had disappeared a few months earlier and Grace had been alone for the first time in her life. Those had been dark days. It was more than a year before they’d learned of Dan’s fate.

“See you at seven,” Olivia said once she’d recovered her own voice.

“I’ll be there.”

Dinner that evening was a four-course meal Charlotte had spent most of the afternoon preparing. Ben had set the table, and Olivia noticed that he’d arranged their cutlery in the wrong order—very unusual for her always impeccable stepfather. They had squash soup, using squash from Charlotte’s own small garden. That was followed by a mixed green salad with homemade poppyseed dressing. The main course was meat loaf, mashed potato casserole, fresh green beans, plus homemade pickled asparagus and sweet corn relish. And for dessert, a chocolate zucchini cake.

Olivia would’ve preferred a light dinner because of her workout, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’re much too thin as it is,” Charlotte murmured as she heaped a second spoonful of potato casserole onto Olivia’s plate. Olivia forced a smile, took one more bite and then excused herself.

Ten minutes later, Jack joined her in the bedroom. Ten extra minutes during which he was helping himself to seconds of everything on the table.

Olivia sat on the edge of the bed.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, ever sensitive to her moods. “Are you upset about something?”

“My mother is trying so hard to be helpful and God bless her for it, but I’d rather do my own wash and I’d rather she stopped cooking like it’s Thanksgiving every single night.”

Jack’s face broke into a huge grin. “You don’t hear me complaining.”

“Wipe that smile off your face, Jack Griffin.”

He spread out his hands. “Honey …”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me. Look at this.” She flew off the bed to her underwear drawer and yanked it open, then removed the now-pink panties and waved them at him. “Did you see this?”

“Hey, when did you start wearing pink underwear?”

“Apparently today. Mom washed them with the new red towels, which by the way have also turned pink. Oh, and it isn’t just my underwear that’s this lovely color. You’d better hope no one catches a glimpse of you in your pink shorts.”

“Ah …”

“Not quite so funny now, is it?”

He frowned and didn’t answer.

“That isn’t all,” Olivia lamented. “Mom cleaned out my sewing room. I asked her to not touch anything in there but either she forgot or she ignored me. Jack, I had all the fabric cut out for my next quilt and Mom decided to put everything away. Except that I don’t know where away is and obviously it’s slipped her mind, as well.” A great deal had been slipping her mother’s mind these days, and this wasn’t the first time she’d noticed. She needed to make Charlotte an appointment with a gerontologist.

“Your mom straightened out my desk, too.”

Olivia’s eyes went wide. Even she never touched Jack’s desk. “She was only trying to help,” Olivia explained unnecessarily.

“I know.” He sat down beside her and placed his arm around her shoulders.

“I think we need to have Mom tested for Alzheimer’s. Or perhaps she has some other form of dementia. But something’s wrong and we’ve got to find out what it is and what we should do.”

“Olivia … are you sure? That sounds a bit drastic. She’s got a few memory problems, but a lot of people her age do.”

“Their house could have burned to the ground!”

“Thankfully it didn’t,” Jack murmured.

“What about next time? And there will be a next time, Jack. Mom’s memory is declining and it isn’t going to improve.”

“Now, Olivia, I agree there’s a problem but—”

“Jack, you’re a reporter and you’ve researched stories on this.”

“That’s true.” In fact, not three months ago the Chronicle had done a feature on rising rates of dementia, including Alzheimer’s, and local resources for families. “I guess I don’t like seeing it so close to home.”

“You mean at home,” Olivia said with wry humor.

“Yeah. But your mom and Ben might not be able to go back to their house. Would they continue to live with us?”

“No.” That would slowly but surely drive Olivia over the edge of sanity.

“Where would they go, then? A seniors’ complex?”

Olivia hadn’t given the matter much thought. “I think so.”

“There are some pretty good assisted-living places,” Jack said. “Remember we profiled a few for that feature in the paper?”

Olivia nodded. “That makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

Now that she’d acknowledged the problem, much of what had been happening recently suddenly became clear. The fact that Charlotte had left her knitting in the car at Faith and Troy’s wedding, for instance. Her mother was never without her knitting. True, it’d been a traumatic day, since Ben had gone to confront his son David.

If it’d been a single incident, Olivia could easily gloss over it, but there’d been countless other ones. Small things such as forgetting where she’d put Olivia’s quilt fabric. The problem with the laundry. Then there was the fire….

Olivia stood and walked around to her bedside table, where she reached for the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“My brother. I need Will’s input on this.”

Jack’s eyes met hers. “Time for a family conference,” he said.

“Oh, what a lovely painting,” the older, smartly dressed woman commented as she walked around the Harbor Street Art Gallery. While Will was out running errands, Miranda Sullivan had removed the Chandler painting from the wall where he’d placed it. Then she hung it on the opposite wall, which—in her humble opinion—showed off the watercolor to its best effect. It was all about the light, her husband used to say, and who’d know that better than an artist like Hugh Sullivan? She noticed how quickly this customer was drawn to the painting.

“You have good taste. This is one of our loveliest pieces,” Miranda said, walking toward the woman. “Welcome to the Harbor Street Gallery. Are you visiting Cedar Cove? I’m Miranda Sullivan.”

“I’m Veronica Vanderhuff. My husband and I recently moved to the area and we’re looking for a few pieces by local artists. Your gallery was recommended.”