Debbie Macomber - 50 Harbor Street

Of all the women he dated during college, he’d fallen in love with her. Theirs hadn’t been an easy courtship, though. They’d broken up for more than a year, and then reunited. Once they were back together, they realized how much they loved each other; there’d been no uncertainty about their feelings. They were married shortly after graduation and their love had endured through trials and tribulations, through good years and bad. They’d had plenty of both.

“Talk about what?” Roy asked casually.

His nonchalance didn’t fool Corrie. Her husband knew exactly what was on her mind. “Does THE PAST HAS A WAY OF CATCHING UP WITH THE PRESENT tell you anything?” she murmured, sitting down in the chair normally reserved for clients. She wanted Roy to understand that she wouldn’t be put off easily. She was afraid he knew more about these postcards than he’d let on. It would be just like him to try to protect her.

Roy frowned. “Those messages don’t have anything to do with you, so don’t worry about it.”

His answer infuriated her. “How can you say that? Everything that happens to you affects me.”

He seemed about to argue, but after all these years, he recognized that she wasn’t going to be satisfied with glib reassurances. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I’ve made enemies and, yes, I have regrets, but who doesn’t?”

Roy had reached the rank of detective for the Seattle Police Department and been forced into early retirement because of a back injury. In the beginning, Corrie had been excited to have her husband at home. She’d hoped they’d be able to travel and do some of the things they’d always planned, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Roy had the time now, but their finances had been adversely affected when he’d had to take early retirement. Their income was less than it had been by at least twenty percent. In a money-saving effort, they’d moved from Seattle and across Puget Sound to the community of Cedar Cove. The cost of property was much more reasonable in Kitsap County, which also offered a slower pace of life. When the real estate agent showed them the house at 50 Harbor Street, with its wide front porch and sweeping view of the cove and lighthouse, Corrie knew immediately that this house and this town would become their home.

They’d moved from the big city, and it hadn’t been as much of an adjustment as Corrie had feared. Folks in town were pleasant, and Roy and Corrie had made a few good friends—notably the Beldons—but kept mostly to themselves. They knew their neighbors’ names and exchanged greetings, but that was about it.

To Corrie’s disappointment, Roy had grown restless with retirement. His moods had reflected his boredom, and he was frequently cantankerous. Everything changed when he decided to rent office space and hang out his shingle as a private investigator. It was a decision Corrie had encouraged. Soon her husband was busy and looking forward to each day. He took on the cases that suited him and turned down those that didn’t. Corrie was proud of Roy’s skills, proud of his success and the way he cared about his clients. Never did it occur to her, or apparently to Roy, that one day he’d be solving his own mystery.

“You could be in danger,” Corrie murmured, letting her anxiety show. She refused to hide her feelings, refused to pretend all was well when it wasn’t.

Roy shrugged. “I doubt I’m in jeopardy. If anyone wanted to do me harm, they would’ve done so before now.”

“How can you say that?” she asked irritably. “Bob was followed, and we both know it wasn’t Bob they were interested in. He was driving your car. They thought they were following you. ”

Bob Beldon, together with his wife, Peggy, was the owner of the local Bed-and-Breakfast, Thyme and Tide. Bob had borrowed Roy’s car and phoned in a near panic, sure he was being followed. Roy had advised him to drive immediately to the sheriff’s office. As soon as Bob had pulled in to the station, the tail had left him. Only later did Roy and Corrie figure it out. Whoever had shadowed Bob had assumed it was Roy driving.

“The letter said we’re in no danger,” her husband reminded her.

“Of course! That’s what they want us to think,” Corrie argued. “Whoever’s doing this wants us to lower our guard.”

“Now, Corrie—”

She cut him off, rejecting any further attempts to pacify her. “That basket was delivered to our front porch. This…stranger walked right up to our home and left it, and now you’re telling me we have nothing to worry about?” Her voice quavered, and she realized how close she was to losing control of her emotions. She was tired of being afraid, tired of waiting for the next message—or worse. Tired of waking up with her eyes burning from lack of sleep. Her first conscious thought every morning was fear of what might happen that day.

“The basket came over a week ago, and we’ve heard nothing since.” Roy said this as if this was supposed to comfort her. It didn’t.

“There was no postcard in the mail today, was there?” he asked, and she heard an unmistakable hint of tension in his voice.

“No.” Corrie had collected the mail, flipped through it and tossed the bundle of bills and circulars on her desk.

Roy nodded, as if to say Well, then?

“Roy,” she said with deceptive calm, “I can’t remember the last time I slept a night straight through. You’re not sleeping well, either.”

He didn’t agree or disagree.

“We can’t go on pretending everything’s all right.”

Roy’s handsome features tightened. “I’m doing everything I can,” he told her curtly.

“I know, but it isn’t enough.”

“It has to be.”

Corrie wasn’t an expert in the area of investigations, but she knew when it was time to seek help, and they were well past that point. “You need to talk to somebody.”

“Who?” he asked.

The only person she could suggest was the local sheriff. “Troy Davis…”

“Not a good idea,” Roy said. “Whatever this is about happened long before we moved to Cedar Cove.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Regrets. Every postcard mentions regrets. There isn’t a cop who doesn’t have regrets—about things we’ve done or haven’t done or should’ve done differently.”

She thought—but didn’t say—that every human being had regrets. It wasn’t restricted to cops.

“The last message said I JUST WANT YOU TO THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU DID. DON’T YOU HAVE A SINGLE REGRET? To me, that implies I did something—arrested someone, testified against someone—when I was a detective for Seattle.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “You were on the force a lot of years. Surely there’s a case or two that stands out in your mind.”

Roy shook his head. “Do you think I haven’t thought about that? You’ve seen me read through my files and notes, going all the way back to my first year on the force, and there’s nothing.”

“I don’t know…You haven’t talked to me. You block me out.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“Don’t!” she cried with barely controlled anger. “I need to know—I have to know. Don’t you see what this is doing to me?”

Roy leaned forward then, bracing his elbows against the desk. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve wracked my brain and I can’t think of anyone who’d come after me like this.”

“But there must be some case…One you might’ve forgotten.”

Obviously at a loss, Roy shook his head again. “Clearly I have. I’ve put murderers away and received my share of threats over the years, but I can’t think of anyone who’d do this. Yet who else could it be?” he said, almost to himself.