92 Pacific Boulevard

“Based on everything I’ve heard, I think you’re right.”

Her expression softened. “I’m so grateful you agree with me. Linc’s adamant that David pay support. I’ve told my brother that David has constant money problems, but Linc still believes he should pay. How’s he going to do that?”

“In other words, there’s no getting blood out of a turnip.”

Mary Jo glanced down. “I wouldn’t care if he had all the money in the world. I still wouldn’t want my daughter anywhere near him.”

Again Mack agreed.

“Ben Rhodes has generously set up a trust fund for Noelle, like he did for David’s other daughter. He also offered to help me financially, knowing his son either couldn’t or wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I remember. Are you sure you should turn him down?”

“Yes,” Mary Jo was quick to tell him. “I wouldn’t feel good about it.”

Mack understood—and shared—her point of view.

“I really like this town,” Mary Jo said next in a transparent effort to change the subject. “From the moment I stepped off the ferry on Christmas Eve, I felt at peace here, almost as if…as if I belonged. I suspect that when I asked to visit this afternoon, I was secretly hoping to find a way for Noelle and me to live here.”

“I’d be happy if you did.”

Their eyes held and Mack felt the tension building between them. Under other circumstances he might have kissed her but he was afraid of frightening her off.

Mack was a patient man, though. He knew what he wanted, and every minute he spent with Mary Jo and Noelle made him more aware of what that was.

Seventeen

Charlotte Rhodes worried about Ben as she poured his first coffee of the day while he retrieved the morning paper from the porch.

Ben just hadn’t been himself since returning from the cruise. Even her special homemade coconut cake didn’t interest him, and that was highly unusual.

When they’d come home from the Caribbean, she’d assumed his malady was physical. In the weeks since, she’d realized that what ailed him was emotional. Her husband was depressed.

“The Seniors’ Potluck is this afternoon,” she reminded him as she carried in his coffee. Harry, her cat, had curled up on Ben’s lap and made himself comfortable. Harry hadn’t initially accepted Ben, but once he had, the cat had become her husband’s constant companion.

“Would you mind if I skipped it this time?” Ben mumbled from behind the paper.

Charlotte started to protest, then stopped herself. “Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked, sitting on the ottoman by his chair. She rested her hand on his knee and gazed up at him, wanting so desperately to help.

Ben lowered the paper and looked at her briefly, then stared into the distance. “I’m fine,” he said with a halfhearted smile. “I’d just prefer to stay home this afternoon.”

“All right, dear, if that’s what you want.”

“I do.” He reached out his hand to squeeze hers. “Thanks for understanding.”

After lingering for a moment, Charlotte returned to the bedroom, where she dressed and got ready for her day. She’d never, ever thought Ben would purposely avoid the Seniors’ Potluck. It was the social highlight of their month, when they saw their dearest friends. Half the widows in town were in love with Ben, and Charlotte knew why. He wasn’t only handsome, charming and witty, he was a man of integrity. He’d truly blessed her life.

All their friends were bound to ask about him and she wasn’t sure what to say. Well, she’d think of something. Poor Ben. She had to assume his depression stemmed, at least in part, from his son David’s appalling behavior. She wished she knew how to help him through this, yet she felt at a loss. Offering comfort and reassurance was all she could do.

As soon as she’d finished dressing, Charlotte went back to the kitchen to prepare her contribution for that day’s potluck. As in most family homes, the kitchen was the center of activity. Not only did she do her cooking and baking there, but her best thinking took place while standing in front of the sink, washing dishes. Most serious discussions with her children had taken place here, as well.

What to bring to the potluck? Her broccoli lasagna had been a huge hit in January, and she’d received numerous requests for the recipe. In fact, these meals generally turned into a recipe exchange. Some of her favorite ones came from the potlucks, and from wakes, too. The recipe for the best casserole she’d ever tasted had come from the wake for her husband Clyde’s dearest friend, Sam. Every time she served it, she thought of him. Of both of them.

“Ben,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen as she tied her apron around her waist. “Should I bring the stuffed peppers or my chicken potpie?”

He didn’t respond right away, as if he was considering the decision. “The potpie.”

“Good. I was leaning toward that myself.”

He nodded.

“I’ll make three, so there’ll be plenty for you, and I’ll take one over to Olivia and Jack this afternoon.”

“Great idea.” He set aside the paper to pet Harry, who slept contentedly in his lap.

Charlotte returned to the kitchen and got out the flour and lard. None of those store-bought piecrusts for her! She had the time and a recipe she’d inherited from her mother, one that couldn’t be matched.

“Come and chat with me,” she called out to Ben as she kneaded the flour and lard. The dough was soft and supple; her mother had always warned her not to knead it too long, but the timing had become a matter of instinct. Charlotte sighed. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been a wonderful cook.

Some of the recipes she’d been collecting for Justine and her new restaurant were from Charlotte’s mother. Admittedly, there were a few that were a bit challenging to translate for a modern kitchen—and a cook who couldn’t spend all day preparing them!

“What’s so amusing?” Ben asked as he slid into a kitchen chair.

“Oh, I was just thinking about my mother and her recipe for dumplings.”

“Oh?”

“For years she told me it was a secret family recipe. Some secret. Flour and water were the two main ingredients.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, there are a couple of other things, but no big deal. The real secret was in cooking them for a good long while. That’s what she used to say—a good long while. I decided that was too vague and imprecise for Justine, so I left the recipe out.”

“Have you given them to her yet?”

“No, but the collection’s nearly ready.” Many of the original recipes had been lost over the years—or never written down—and Charlotte had to reconstruct them from memory. The project had helped fill the dreary winter days. With Ben so depressed lately, she’d stayed close to home.

“I feel guilty using grilled chicken from the deli in this potpie,” Charlotte confessed. She’d picked up two of them the day before, since they came in handy and never went to waste.

Ben dismissed her concern. “No one will know.”

“I will, but it’s nearly as tasty and it does save me time.”

Ben got up and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “I heard from David yesterday afternoon.”

Charlotte’s hands momentarily stilled. The call must have come while she was out getting groceries. She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she felt compelled to remain silent. Ben would tell her as soon as he was ready.

“He wanted another loan.”

That was hardly a shock. The only time his youngest son called was when he needed financial assistance. David was a user and had no skills when it came to money management. No ethics, either—he’d lie about anything to anyone, including that young girl who’d just had his baby. And his father.

“What did you say to him?” Charlotte asked.

“I told him no.”

“And he got angry with you.” This was a pattern. Ben had held firm to his stipulation. He refused to lend his son any more money until David paid back the loans he’d already made. Over the course of their marriage, Ben had received a few checks from David, but they’d all bounced due to insufficient funds.

Nothing had upset her husband more, however, than discovering that his son had fathered a child and then abandoned the mother—and this was after his divorce. Naturally David denied that he was responsible for Mary Jo’s pregnancy, but given his history and given the girl’s sincerity, that denial was just another lie.

“We had an argument,” Ben murmured, obviously distraught.

Charlotte dumped the pie dough on a floured board. “I have a son who’s disappointed me, too,” she said, wanting to reassure him that many parents faced such trials. She rarely referred to Will as a disappointment, but the fact that he’d been repeatedly unfaithful to his wife had distressed Charlotte deeply. Like any mother, she wanted to believe the best of her child. Sadly, she recognized that was no longer possible with the man Will had become.

Ben shook his head. “Will’s transgressions are bad enough, but they don’t come close to David’s.”

“I suppose so…” At least Will hadn’t tried to steal from her or, she was positive, anyone else. And he’d been a good brother to Olivia during her illness.

“I keep wondering what I could’ve done to set David straight when he was young,” Ben said.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Charlotte countered quickly, “any more than I can blame myself for Will’s…weaknesses.”

Ben seemed to agree with her. “Intellectually I know you’re right, but that doesn’t wipe out the regrets.”

Charlotte identified with his sorrow. When she’d learned how Will had taken advantage of Grace Sherman, how he’d lied and misled her, she’d been horrified. Acknowledging character flaws in one’s child was a dull ache in a parent’s heart.

“Besides, Will’s straightened out his life,” Ben said. “It sure looks like it, anyway.”

Charlotte fervently hoped that was the case, but she couldn’t be positive. He’d never shown her that deceitful side of himself. Outwardly he was the perfect son but she couldn’t ignore the less-than-salutary aspects of his behavior.

“I talked to him recently,” she said, “and the gallery seems to be doing well. It’s good to see him excited about what’s happening there.”

“I heard he’s seeing Shirley Bliss.”

Charlotte had heard that bit of local gossip, too. The artist had immediately caught her son’s eye. She hoped this relationship was right for them.

Ben wandered back to the living room and his paper, and Charlotte continued her cooking. After she’d placed the bottom crusts in three different casserole dishes, she made the gravy and added the cut-up chicken and sautéed vegetables. When she’d finished, she poured the mixture into the piecrusts, arranged the strips of lattice on top and set all three dishes in the oven.