Debbie Macomber - 92 Pacific Boulevard

“I apologize for not sending you that thank-you note,” she told him again.

“It doesn’t matter. I only wanted to make sure you found the gift.” He brightened. “But.” he said in a teasing voice “… you could make it up to me.” He’d keep it light, easy, relaxed.

“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning instantly. “How?”

“I know you’re a widow.”

She took a small step in retreat, as though the subject wasn’t one she intended to discuss with him. That was fine; Will had no desire to draw her dead husband into the conversation. He just wanted to establish her availability—and his.

“As I mentioned earlier, I’m on my own, too. I thought we could get together one evening,” he said, “or maybe we could meet one afternoon.”

Shirley took another small step away from him. Now that she had her check, she seemed eager to leave.

“Nothing formal, you understand,” Will clarified. “Lunch or coffee, that sort of thing.”

She gave him a slight smile. “I’m not sure I’m ready to date.”

“This wouldn’t be a date,” he said. “This would be a chat over coffee, a getting-to-know-you session, that’s all. I’d love to hear more of your ideas for the gallery,” he added, to remind her of the conversation they’d already had back in the fall. “I’m free now, if you are. I hear the Pot Belly Deli has an excellent selection of coffees and teas.”

“You mean now? As in right now?”

“If it’s convenient. We can walk down the hill. It’s not far.” At least she hadn’t immediately turned him down—that was encouraging.

“Perhaps another time,” she said after a long moment.

“Sure, whenever.” He shrugged off her rejection.

“I’ll call you,” she said next, as if to suggest she’d prefer it if he didn’t call her.

Okay, on to plan B. “I had some news regarding Shaw,” he told her, hoping to give her extra incentive to accept his invitation.

“Really.”

Her interest was piqued, he could see. That was good. He hated to resort to manipulation but she wasn’t leaving him a lot of options. In the past, he’d rarely had to be so blatant.

“I had another talk with the friend who looked at Shaw’s work.” Will didn’t offer any more information than that. Nor was he disposed to do so. If she wanted an update, she’d have to meet him for coffee.

With the check in her hand, she waited for an awkward minute or two, and when the information regarding Shaw wasn’t forthcoming, she made her excuses.

“I’ll see you to the door,” Will said, walking beside her.

“You don’t need to do that.”

He was tempted to extend the conversation, delay her parting. He could bring up any number of topics she’d find relevant or interesting. However, he said nothing.

“Thank you again,” she murmured as she stepped into the darkening afternoon.

“You’re welcome.” Will closed the door and locked it behind her, knowing she’d hear the turn of the lock. That was intentional. He didn’t want her to think he was begging or that he was desperate for her company. And yet, it was increasingly how he felt. She intrigued and attracted him and he felt intuitively that they could be good for each other. And, he had to acknowledge with a hint of shame, he wasn’t immune to the thrill of the chase.

Briefly he wondered if something was holding Shirley back—some gossip she’d heard about him. He frowned. He didn’t think Grace Harding had mentioned their Internet relationship. His sister wouldn’t have, either. No, that couldn’t be it.

What had happened with Grace was regrettable. Little did Will know then that within a few years he’d be returning to live in Cedar Cove. That whole situation, which had begun as a mild flirtation via the Internet, had become extremely unpleasant, and he was happy to put it behind him. He’d been genuinely fond of Grace, still was. Her husband was a nice guy—and not someone he wanted to cross. He was glad her marriage had worked out. Besides, he didn’t believe in fouling his own nest, so to speak.

Will turned off the gallery showroom lights and went upstairs to his small apartment. He’d made the transition from his previous apartment to the space above the gallery because he’d found someone to sublet the place he’d first rented. Mack, the son of P.I. Roy McAfee down the street, had recently joined the Cedar Cove fire department, so the timing was perfect.

His residence in the gallery still needed plenty of work, but it was adequate for now. Sighing, he decided to relax with a glass of wine. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting in front of the television when the phone rang, jolting him out of his stupor.

Caller ID informed him it was Shirley Bliss.

With a knowing smile, he muted the volume on the TV and reached for the receiver. “Hello, Shirley.”

“Mr. Jefferson.”

“Please call me Will.”

“All right, Will. Is that invitation for coffee still open?”

“Sure.” He tried not to reveal how pleased he was to hear from her.

“Great.” She sounded anxious to see him now.

“When would you like to meet?” He set his wineglass on the side table and leaned back in his recliner.

“Could we make it this evening, like you suggested?”

“Perfect,” he said. “It’s a bit late now. Can I convince you to dine with me?”

“No.” Her response was clipped. “Not tonight… . As I said, I have a previous engagement.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that. Coffee it is, then.”

“Could we meet at Mocha Mama’s?”

“Of course.” He didn’t particularly care where they went. He hoped to put her at ease, and if everything went as he wished, this “previous engagement” would disappear as the evening progressed.

“Shall we say in fifteen minutes?” Shirley asked.

“I can manage that.” Will lowered his feet from the ottoman.

“Would it be okay if I brought my daughter along?”

That definitely wasn’t part of his game plan. “Why. sure.”

“Shaw’s at work. When I mentioned to Tanni that you had some information for Shaw, she called him and he’d like to join us, too.”

“But if he’s working …”

“He is,” Shirley elaborated. “At Mocha Mama’s. We’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” she said cheerfully.

“Okay,” he responded. “I’ll be there.” But she’d already hung up.

Rachel Peyton lightly sprayed Grace Harding’s hair and turned the stylist’s chair around so she could see the full effect in the mirror. Grace held up the small hand mirror, then shook her head and watched as her hair swung forward.

She’d told Rachel she’d been looking for a new style, something short, sassy and easy to care for. “I like it,” Grace said, smiling.

It was always a relief to have a customer confirm her own feelings. “This is shorter than I’ve ever seen you wear your hair.” Initially she’d had her doubts that such a breezy style would suit Grace, the town’s head librarian, but she’d been wrong.

“Seeing that Olivia has short hair now, it seems only fitting that I do, too. We’ve always been best friends.” Grace laughed. “Actually, she’s completely bald. I love her, but I’m not willing to go that far.”

“Her hair will grow back,” Rachel said, “but it might be a different color or texture.” Olivia had come in earlier that week and had what remained of her hair shaved off. She’d started her regimen of chemotherapy, and after the second session her hair had fallen out in clumps. Rachel had cut it quite short before the chemo, so the change wasn’t as great as it might have been.

“The way I see it,” Grace continued, “Olivia and I can let our hair grow back together—unless I like this style so much I don’t want to change.”