44 Cranberry Point

He had a point. "No, that was the same."



"With Allison, the ultrasound didn't show anything abnormal, either."



Again all she could do was agree. "We're married now," she said.



"I married you in my heart the first night we made love. Even before that, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."



"Oh, Ian." At times he could be the most romantic man in the world. At others...well, he was a man.



He sighed. "I'm trying not to worry."



"I know, but it really is different with this baby. For one thing, you're home now and you're not scheduled to go back to sea until after my due date."



He sighed, more loudly this time. "No guarantees on that."



"I know, but they won't send you out so soon, especially after you were away for six months. The navy wouldn't be so heartless."



"I want everything to be perfect for you and the baby," he said hoarsely. "I'm trying not to worry, Cecilia, but I can't help it."



"Wait and see. We're going to have a perfectly healthy baby girl."



He closed his eyes. "I pray that you're right."



So did Cecilia, but she had no guarantees to give him either.



Forty-Two



Colonel Stewart Samuels was coming to Cedar Cove sometime in the middle of September. During their telephone conversation, the colonel hadn't been able to give Bob an exact date. Soon, though, he'd be here and as the time crept closer, Bob grew increasingly uneasy.



After the last performance of Chicago, Bob removed his makeup and changed clothes. Usually he hung around with the rest of the cast. Tonight, in particular, was a festive occasion, since the wrap party would take place once the set was struck. But the last thing Bob felt was festive, so he made his excuses and left after the show.



In addition to not feeling sociable, he was nervous. Ever since he'd arrived at the theater, Bob had the feeling someone was watching him offstage as well as on.



As he walked into the dark parking lot, an eerie sensation shuddered down his spine. The temptation to whirl around and confront whoever might be following him was nearly overwhelming. He resisted, half hoping that his nemesis would do him the favor of killing him and be done with it.



No such luck.



Since he'd been allowed to live, Bob climbed into his car and started the engine. The headlights shot twin beams across the mostly empty lot. Bob stared out the windshield and, to his disappointment, saw nothing out of the ordinary.



His depression had begun shortly after Pastor Flemming's sermon, but it had been simmering from the time Maxwell Russell had died in Bob's home. Even before the body had been identified, Bob knew this dead man was somehow connected to him. Max Russell had haunted him, reminded him of sins long past. They'd never learned his reasons for coming to Cedar Cove—to the Thyme and Tide. Bob guessed it had something to do with Dan's suicide, but that was only speculation. They'd never know for sure.



Bob pulled out of the parking lot and onto Harbor Street



. From town, the road wound along the waterfront. Normally Bob followed it down to Cranberry Point, but as soon as he reached Harbor, a pair of headlights came up behind him.



Bob smiled to himself. So his instincts were right. He'd been watched and whoever was watching had decided to follow him. Surprisingly he experienced no dread or fear; instead he felt a sense of vindication. This proved he'd been right all along.



The car turned off Harbor and onto Cedar Cove Drive



, which Bob hadn't expected. Apparently his stalker knew he'd been caught. For reasons he didn't want to analyze, Bob made a sudden decision to follow whoever it was. He found a convenient spot to turn around and speeded after the other vehicle. Bob flicked his high beams on and off and felt a certain satisfaction in letting the follower know he was being followed.



This was all a bit silly, but he stayed behind the car, eager to find out what he could. The vehicle slowed and turned into The Pink Dog tavern. A pink neon French Poodle flashed on the bar's sign. If Cedar Cove had a seedy area, this was it. Workers from the shipyard stopped in for a beer on the way home; they were the Pink Dog's regular clientele. On Saturday nights, the parking lot was nearly full. Bob turned in and watched as the other car claimed one of the few empty parking spaces.



Riveted, Bob sat in his vehicle, staring as a man climbed out of the car and headed for the front door. Bob strained for a better look, but the light was too weak and all he got was a general impression. Tall, with a thick waist, the guy had a beer gut that hung over his belt, faded jeans and a grease-smudged shirt. He didn't so much as glance in Bob's direction. Bob suspected this guy hadn't been tailing him, after all. He looked more interested in a cold beer and a good time than anything to do with Bob.



He waited and then parked facing the front door so he could check out everyone who came and went. Still, Bob didn't know what he should do if he saw the man again—or if he'd even recognize him.



He hadn't been anywhere close to this kind of establishment in years. He knew better. He'd been sober since 1983. For several minutes all he did was stare at the flashing sign. It hypnotized him, that sign, reminding him of days when his best friend in the world was a bottle of beer.



His mouth started to water and the urge for a drink was so strong that he held the steering wheel in a death grip. He could taste a beer. He remembered how, on a hot day, there was nothing that satisfied him more.



It felt as if he were in a trance. He was shocked by how powerful the pull was, and he knew he was no more immune to the lure of alcohol now than he'd been the day after his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting twenty-one years ago.



Bob took out his cell phone. He needed help, and the first person he thought of calling was Jack. He pushed the speed dial button and waited. Jack had a cell that he kept in his car but constantly forgot to recharge. No answer. With increasing desperation he called the house.



After three rings, Olivia picked up.



"Oh hi, Bob," she said after he'd asked for Jack. "He's on his way home from BainbridgeIsland. Did you try his cell?"



"I did. No need to tell him I phoned, I'll catch him later." All Bob wanted was someone to tell him not to go inside that bar. Anyone. He had to hear it, because the pull toward that front door grew stronger and more compelling with every breath he drew.



"Of course," Olivia said. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Is everything all right?"



"Sure," he lied but realized he must have sounded as desperate as he felt. "On second thought, have him call me, would you?"



"The minute he walks in, I'll let him know. You want him to call your cell phone?"



"Please." Bob didn't bother to say goodbye. He ended the call and put his hand on the door handle. He'd tried. If he walked into the Pink Dog, it was because Jack hadn't answered his phone. He'd been there for Jack countless times over the past fourteen years, but now—when he needed a friend, someone to talk sense into him—Jack was nowhere to be found. Typical. When he needed help, his good friend Jack was unavailable.



As Bob opened the car door, a cool breeze blew inside. He breathed in the scent of the night and closed his eyes, knowing full well that if he walked into that bar, it would be the end. He'd go right back to the hell his life had been twenty-one years ago. Right back to the insanity, the madness that had controlled him.



He placed one foot and then the other on the ground outside the car. He blamed his golfing partner, Pastor Dave Flemming, for this. In his frame of mind, it was easy to cast blame. All this talk about healing and forgiveness. What Dave didn't understand was that some sins couldn't be forgiven. Yeah, he talked about forgiving yourself, but that wasn't an option for Bob, not with what he'd done. Some acts defied forgiveness. A man couldn't slaughter women, children, old people, and ever be the same again. It just wasn't possible. Maybe he should've died that day.



Bob remembered returning from Vietnam. He'd landed in San Francisco, grateful to get home alive. When he was granted leave, he'd been warned against wearing his uniform into town. Returning soldiers were called "baby killers" and had blood thrown at them. Bob defied the order. He would have welcomed the attack. Then the whole world would know what he'd done; he wouldn't have to hide it any longer.



Rocking slightly now, Bob stabbed his fingers through his hair. He wanted a drink. One. He'd stop with one. That was all he needed. After twenty-one years, he knew what he could handle and what he couldn't. One beer would satisfy this need and then he'd turn around and walk out.



Blindly he grabbed the cell phone on the seat next to him. As he stared at it, he knew that if he walked into that tavern he was as good as dead. He might as well blow his brains out the same way Dan Sherman had. Drinking would take longer to actually kill him; that was the only difference.



Death wasn't such a bad thing, he reasoned. People died every day and the people they left behind mourned them, but life continued.



As if in slow motion, Bob hit speed dial for Roy McAfee's home number; fortunately, he'd programmed it in after that other incident. He'd try one last time, reach out. Roy didn't need to know his dilemma, but he could provide human contact, a human voice. Bob gazed up at the heavens, deciding that if his friend didn't pick up, he had his answer. He'd know it was useless and he should just give in and have that beer. Hell, he'd buy the whole tavern a round. But if Roy answered, then God was telling him to get back in his car and drive away. It'd be God's fault if he started drinking again, he thought, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat.



The phone rang four times, and Bob swore that each ring lasted ten seconds longer than the one before. When the answering machine clicked on, he bolted upright at the unexpectedness of it.



"You've reached the home of Roy and Corrie McAfee. We aren't available to take your call right now...."



Bob severed the connection and stared down at the phone.



Then he looked up at the night sky again. "That wasn't the deal," he shouted. Roy had answered, all right, but it wasn't really Roy, just his voice on an answering machine. In other words, God had given Bob a half-assed answer.



Bob felt the torture of indecision. He longed to test his strength and prove he was strong enough to have one drink and walk away. But he knew... Everything he'd ever learned in AA told him otherwise. Still, he didn't care. He wanted that drink. Needed that drink. Craved that drink.



The sound of his cell phone ringing jolted him badly. He grabbed it with both hands and fumbled at the keypad.



"Yes," he snapped.



"Where are you?" It was Peggy.



"Why?" he demanded. He didn't want to talk to his wife. Didn't she realize he had a life-altering decision to make?



"Something's wrong. I could feel it. Where are you?"



Bob opened his eyes wide. Could Peggy be the answer to his prayer? He slid back inside the car.



"I thought you'd be home by now," she continued. She sounded troubled. Almost afraid. "This isn't like you."



"I'm all right."



"Are you sure?"



He was now. "I thought there was someone following me again."



"Was there?"



"No.. .I'm on my way home."



"I'll be waiting."



Bob started the engine and backed out of the space.