The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs

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СКАЧАТЬ of loving and knowing people in more than one place.

      —MIRIAM ADENEY

      

      Running into—literally running into—Caroline Shelby on a random foggy morning threw Will Jensen off his game.

      Not that he had game, but he had athletes in training. Their morning run had been interrupted so unexpectedly that after the strange chance encounter, Will sent the team to the locker room early that morning. He offered an extra high five to Gil Stanton, the guy who had spotted the lost little girl asleep in the car.

      Will tried to get his head around the idea that Caroline “I’m never having kids” Shelby had two kids. How did he not know that? How had he not heard anything through the grapevine?

      One thing he did know—though not from experience—was that a missing child was every parent’s worst nightmare.

      “See you in class, Coach,” said Augie Sandoval, the captain of the cross-country team.

      Will drained his water bottle and headed back to the athletic compound, where his office was located. He flipped on the coffeemaker and turned on his laptop. There was a small private shower room for the coach, closer and more convenient than going back home to get ready for the day. Besides, Sierra had been up late the night before, and he didn’t want to wake her.

      These days he took a lot of showers at work.

      After the brutally short, not-even-lukewarm showers he’d endured during his service in the navy, a long blast of hot water was a luxury that never got old. While indulging in the morning ritual, he usually thought about his day—algebra, trig, vo-tech, office hours. After school, there would be one or more of the ubiquitous meetings—planning and development, compliance, community outreach—a couple of which he had somehow managed to be appointed to chair.

      Then home to work on the house. Another consuming project, but that one was a labor of love. After his discharge following the injury, he had pursued a different dream—restoring the generations-old family home known as Water’s Edge. The rambling Carpenter Gothic had been built by his ancestor, Arne Jensen, an oysterman who made a living shipping fresh oysters to the Bay Area during the years of the Gold Rush.

      Will had spent the summers of his boyhood with his grandparents in the old house on the generous green parcel, with its big barn, oyster sheds and docks, and fleet of dinghies and powerboats. Over time, the house had deteriorated, and when his grandparents had retired to Arizona, they’d deeded the place to Will. He’d always dreamed of restoring it to its former glory.

      Today he had something else on his mind—Caroline Shelby. He wished he didn’t know that it had been ten years since he’d last seen her. He wished he didn’t know the exact date he’d watched her drive away, tires spitting crushed oyster shells in their wake—the day he’d married her best friend, Sierra Moore.

      But he did know, and that bugged the shit out of him.

      He wondered what she was doing back here. She was supposed to be living large in New York City, making her name as a famous designer. He hadn’t thought about her in years, and suddenly there she was, clearly exhausted and stressed by her two little kids—damn, two kids—and an old car crammed with baggage. Despite the circumstances, Caroline still looked like the girl he’d known for most of his life—small and intense, her mouth like a red valentine, her movements quick with agitation, her cropped, mussed hair streaked with crazy neon highlights like one of his high school kids.

      The town being what it was, local gossip was bound to fill in the answers to the questions buzzing through his mind. Mainly, the kids. A girl named Addie. A boy named Flick. What the hell? Where was their dad?

      Apparently, Caroline had been busy with more than her career.

      With steam swirling around him, he stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel.

      “Here you go.” Someone placed it in his hand.

      “Jesus.” He snatched the towel and jumped back. Then he recovered, leaned forward through the dissipating steam, and kissed his wife—lightly and briefly, so she wouldn’t remind him not to muss her makeup. “Hi, babe,” he said. “You’re up early.”

      “Heading down to Portland,” she said. “I stopped in to say goodbye.”

      Again?

      “The fall catalog shoot,” she reminded him, stepping out of the tiny cubicle.

      He scrubbed his head to dry his hair. “Fall, huh?”

      “In the fashion world, the seasons are reversed, remember?” She wiped the fogged shaving mirror with her sleeve and leaned in to inspect her face. “Miriam Goddard was asking me where I get my hair done. Was that a veiled insult, do you think?”

      “I don’t get it. Your hair’s perfect, like the rest of you.”

      Her smile was fleeting. “I’ll take your word for it. We live in a fishbowl here. I feel like everyone has an opinion about us.”

      He let the towel drop and reached around behind her. “You’re always complaining about the town gossips. Let’s give them something to gossip about.”

      She pushed her hand against his chest. “Very funny. You need to get to class, and I need to get on the road.”

      “Let’s be late.”

      “Let’s not.” She patted him lightly on the shoulder, then stepped out into the office. “You can’t get away with anything in a town like this.”

      “I like small-town life,” he said, dressing quickly. “I like the slow pace, the sense of community.”

      “The sense that everyone knows everyone else’s business,” she said. “Trust me, being Pastor Moore’s only daughter was no picnic. You were a navy brat. You have no idea what it’s like, having to make sure you don’t embarrass your parents.”

      Sierra sometimes chafed under the scrutiny, but Will was philosophical. “Good thing we’re old enough now, and married. Nothing for folks to see here, simple as that.”

      “It’s not so simple,” she said. “Some people will always find something to gossip about.”

      “Could be you’re right.” He came out of the bathroom with his tie slung around his neck. “Remember that summer your dad caught us making out in the choir loft? I had my hand up your—”

      “Knock it off,” she said, removing his hand. Then she stepped forward and tied his tie for him in a now-familiar ritual. “You headed back to the city, and I was left to face the consequences.”

      “Come on, we had fun. Your folks are my biggest fans now.”

      “Indeed. Sometimes I think they like you better than me.” She was all done up as usual, her hair gleaming, makeup airbrushed to perfection over a forehead smoothed by Botox injections she insisted she needed.

      “Guess СКАЧАТЬ