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She envisioned shopping with Blake, holding hands as they discussed their likes and dislikes. With money in her purse, she could buy whatever she wanted—without that gnawing feeling that she needed to pay someone back.

  "Did you see these black wall cubbies?" Nancy pointed to a boxed set of three, pulling Claire out of her daydream. "Decorators say to put a touch of black in every room. Plus, you can put books in one, a potted plant in another . . ."

  Claire studied the box. She liked the idea. "Let's get them. "It was easier simply to go along with these women. She could always return items if things got out of hand. A black easel floor mirror caught her attention. She looked at the price tag. Seventy dollars. She mentally calculated the hours it would take to earn that amount of money.

  Nancy ran her hand over the wood. "Oh, you have to have this. It would look so cute in the corner of your room. When you have a hot date you can make sure you're looking your best. Not that you need any help in that department." She rolled her eyes. "I'd do anything to be in my early twenties again."

  Vivian scowled. "You have nothing to fret about. You are quite petite, my dear sister, and you have a man who loves you. What more do you want?"

  "Claire, look at this." Geraldine's voice surprised Claire.

  "I thought you were still asleep." Claire placed a hand on Geraldine's shoulder. "What did you find?"

  The floral tapestry—a collection of vases filled with colorful wildflowers and pink tulips with a scenic countryside in the background, drew her in. "Geraldine, this is beautiful."

  "Well, then, it must go in your room."

  The matter appeared to be settled as far as Geraldine was concerned.

  "What about a lamp?" Vivian grabbed the handles of Geraldine's wheelchair and turned down the next aisle. "I think they're this way."

  Geraldine held the wall tapestry on her lap, Nancy carried the box of wall cubbies, and Claire grabbed the mirror. Claire never had such nice things. With these added decorations, her room would be a place to relax and enjoy. The women stopped at the checkout counter.

  "Would you mind holding these for us?" Nancy handed her box to the clerk, gathered the remaining items, and piled them on the counter. "We're not quite finished."

  The young woman nodded and then answered the ringing telephone.

  "Come on, ladies, follow us." Vivian lumbered toward the lighting department as she steered Geraldine's chair in the right direction.

  There were so many lamps to choose from, it made Claire's head spin. But after twenty minutes, she settled on a white glossy milk-glass lamp, topped with a natural colored drum shade.

  Nancy nudged Claire's elbow. "I think you picked the right one. This is fun, isn't it?"

  Claire smiled. "I didn't think so at first, but I'm getting used to it—as long as you know that I'm going to pay you back for every purchase."

  "Okay, Claire, I won't fight you on this. I respect your decision. "Nancy wrapped an arm around Claire's shoulder. "My chance at motherhood was snatched away from me—I would have loved the chance to spoil my little girl."

  Claire's mind whirled at Nancy's statement as they headed toward the furniture department. What did she mean? The photo of the baby in Nancy's hallway crossed her mind. Her throat constricted. Nancy may have lost a daughter. She had lost a mother. Claire blinked back tears as they walked toward the bedroom furniture. She spotted a darling twin bed set with a matching dresser—just right for a little girl. Claire eyed Nancy as they walked past. She would have wanted only the best for her daughter.

  After much discussion, Geraldine ordered a mahogany bedside table and dresser, along with a Victorian metal headboard to be shipped and ready for pick-up in a couple of weeks. The furniture was beautiful and exactly what Claire would have chosen.

  "On to the paint store!" Vivian rubbed her hands together. "I'll even come over and help you paint."

  Claire searched Geraldine's eyes. "Will Michael mind?" She didn't want to do anything to risk the new relationship she had with her landlord.

  "Oh, phooey." Geraldine swatted the air with her hand. "When will Michael ever see your room? I know he recently had the whole house painted, but it's ours to do with as we wish now. In fact, I was thinking my room would look nice in blue."

  Claire laughed out loud. Geraldine was a kick. She wished they had gotten better acquainted when they both lived in L.A. The hard days when her mother was ill could have been a little brighter with Geraldine's sense of humor.

  Geraldine fanned her face as they left Macy's and headed to Nancy's car with purchases in hand. "I'm exhausted. I think I'll stay in the car while you shop at King's Paint. I don't drive so you don't have to worry about my highjacking your car, Nancy." She chuckled. "Claire, you know the color of my comforter. Can you help Vivian pick out a nice blue for my room?"

  Geraldine trusts me to make a decision. "I'd love to." A sense of pride welled up inside her. She opened the door and helped the elderly woman get in the car.

  The minute the women walked into the paint store, Claire could see Vivian's excitement. She continued to rub her hands together, as if she couldn't wait to get hold of a paintbrush. Vivian walked directly to the color strips, pulled out several samples of yellow and blue, and flipped through them, discarding those she didn't like.

  Claire walked over to the historical display swatches. She liked the warm, subtle hues. The colors reminded her of peace and harmony. She fingered several swatches and finally decided on Hawthorne Yellow for her room and Jamestown Blue for Geraldine's.

  Nancy stood next to Claire. "You've got great taste. The inside of my house is painted with historical colors, too."

  Vivian positioned her arms across her ample bosom. "Are you sure you don't like these?"

  Claire burst out laughing. She wouldn't be able to sleep with the bright yellow Vivian chose. And Geraldine would faint if she saw the blue that Vivian picked—bright turquoise. "Sorry, Vivian. But Hawthorne Yellow and Jamestown Blue it is."

  "Okay, then." Vivian snatched the swatches out of Claire's hand and brought them to the counter for the paint to be mixed and purchased.

  Claire carried both cans of paint as they exited the paint store.

  "Do you have time for coffee?" Vivian asked as they reached the car.

  "I've got to be at work soon." Nancy glanced at her watch. "It's close to six o'clock."

  "Vivian, do you want to come over for dinner? Blake cooks enough for ten people." The minute the words were out of her mouth, Claire cringed. She hoped Vivian didn't take offense.

  "I've heard about your handsome neighbor." She flexed her eyebrows. "Do you think he could drive me back to Nancy's afterward?"

  Claire loaded the paint next to the wheelchair in the trunk. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

  Nancy unlocked the doors. As the women climbed in, Claire's pulse pounded. Something was drastically wrong. "Where's Geraldine?" She seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

  20

  The phone call set him on edge. "What do you mean my mother isn't with you?" Michael's jaw flexed.

  "Has she been known to take off by herself?" Claire's voice was shaky, obviously upset.

  "On occasion," Michael said flatly. "She doesn't go far." He paced the family room. "Where are you?"

  "King's Paint."

  "I had the house painted. Why are you there?" Michael's voice was louder than he planned. "Never mind, I'm on my way—"

  "Mr. Thompson, I mean, Michael, wait a minute . . ."

  He heard women's voices in the background. Then, his mother came on the line.

  "Michael, dear, I'm fine. I stepped out of the car for fresh air, then I spotted a furniture store. I'd like a new chair in my bedroom."

  His mother sounded chipper, like her usual self.

  "You went by yourself?" Michael couldn't hold back his agitation.

  "I had my cane with me. I can't lose all my independence. Claire didn't see me is all. Go back to what you were doing."

  "Mother?" Michael knew h
is tone was reprimanding. "What are you and Claire doing at King's Paint?"

  "We have a little project going, so mind your own business." Her voice held a teasing tone.

  "Okay, I get the point." Michael sat down on the couch. "How's it going with Claire? Are you two getting along?"

  "Splendidly. Now I need to go. Blake will be showing up at the house any minute to make dinner. My, that man can cook. Nice-looking, too."

  "I think he's more Claire's age, Mom." Michael laughed into the phone, the conversation shifting to lighter things.

  "You're right. There are sparks there. I'll weave my magic like I did on you."

  "That's right, you're the one who introduced me to Sandy." Michael remembered the day he met his wife. He was graduating from UCSC in a week, and his mother thought he needed to give a tour of the campus to her friend's niece. Sandy would be a junior at UCSC when she transferred from a school back east.

  His mother whispered into the phone. "I was thinking more along the lines of the summer after you graduated from high school."

  "I've got to run. Tell Claire I'm glad you're all right. I'll check in with you later in the week. Love you, Mom." Michael hung up the phone before his mother had another chance to remind him of his past mistakes—especially in front of Claire. He tossed the phone on the couch. Why couldn't his mother leave him alone? It was bad enough that the letter had resurfaced after all these years. He didn't want to be reminded of that time in his life. And he certainly didn't want to admit he knew exactly who wrote that letter.

  Michael stomped up the stairs to his bedroom. He opened his closet and saw the box of memorabilia. Was it time to face things head-on? He pulled the box from the shelf and placed it on his bed. With sweaty hands, he slipped off the lid. A musty aroma hit his nostrils. He hadn't opened the box in a long time. A scrapbook of his high school years greeted him. His mother had spent countless hours cutting and pasting newspaper clippings, photos, and souvenirs to create the book. He ran his hand over the cover. 1968-1972. So long ago.

  Michael turned the scrapbook over and opened it from the back. A picture of his friends, the Rat Pack, like the popular entertainers of the 50s, brought a smile to his face. He chuckled at his bell-bottom pants and disco shirt. Martin, Willie, and Glen all wore the same style. They were quite the foursome. They hung out together, worked on cars, and chased girls. Michael touched the photo, running his index finger over Martin's face.

  "Honey, I'm home," Sandy called, her voice interrupting his recollections from the past.

  Michael shut the scrapbook, placed it in the box, and shoved the memories back in the closet.

  He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. "How's my wife?" Michael greeted her from behind, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her toward him. He nuzzled and kissed her neck.

  "What's gotten into you?" Sandy reached into a grocery bag and pulled out lettuce, carrots, and tomatoes.

  "What do you mean?" Michael turned her around and cupped her face with gentle hands. "You, my dear, are the most beautiful woman on the planet." He lowered his face to hers and gave her a tender kiss, then wrapped his arms around her. "I haven't been the best husband lately, and I want to change all that."

  "Oh, yeah." Sandy glanced up at him with a smile. "And how are you going to do that?"

  "First of all, I'm going to show you how much I love you." Michael leaned down for another kiss. "And then, I'm taking you out on the town. Anywhere you want to go."

  "What has gotten into you?" Sandy squinted her eyes. "Do you have bad news to tell me and you're buttering me up?"

  He pushed the guilt away. "Now, why would you say that? I'm trying to be a better husband to you." He ran his hands down her arms, and hugged her close.

  Sandy looked deep into Michael's eyes. "What are you afraid of, Michael?"

  "What are talking about?" He took a step back, the intimate moment gone. She had no idea of his long list of fears—one of them buried in his closet.

  "Is it because your baby girl is getting married?" Sandy closed the gap between them and brought her arms up, clasping her hands behind his neck. "You've been on edge. It's natural to feel sad and old. Remember the movie Father of the Bride?"

  He let out an exasperated sigh, his shoulders sagging.

  Sandy's face softened. She stood on her toes and kissed his chin. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. Now where were we?"

  Michael put his hands in his pockets. "Forget it. Another time. Think I'll go shoot hoops with Eric. He's been wanting to get in shape."

  Sandy let go of his neck, clearly wounded. She turned away from him and continued to unload the groceries. "You'd rather spend time with your coworker?" She grabbed the milk and put it in the refrigerator, slamming the door shut.

  He felt his guard slip a notch. Why was he making such a big deal of the letter? The answer was clear—he couldn't risk Sandy knowing the truth before Julia's wedding.

  "Go ahead. If that's what you want." Sandy turned away from him and placed the dried fruit and canned tuna fish in the pantry.

  No, that's not what he wanted. He wanted to make love to his wife. Why couldn't he say so and fix what was wrong between them? Pride. It had gotten him into more messes than he could count. He inhaled deeply and let out his breath. "I'll be back in an hour."

  Michael threw the basketball to Eric. "Okay, man, show me what you got." Michael didn't want to poke fun of a man attempting to get back in shape, but the sight of Eric had doubled him over with laughter. Long white athletic socks came up to his knees, his knit shorts clung to his body, and his T-shirt was a few sizes too big.

  Eric bounced the ball. "Before you called, Jennifer had asked me to get the kids ready for bed. But when she found out you wanted to work out, she shooed me out the door." He threw the ball, missing the hoop by a good two feet. "Wow, I'm rusty."

  Michael jogged over to the ball and picked it up. He dribbled as he ran toward the hoop, stopping abruptly to take a shot. It bounced off the backboard and swished through the net. "Do you want to run around the gym a few times to loosen up?"

  "Anything to get my body moving." Eric stretched from side to side.

  "Great. Let's go." Michael allowed Eric to set the pace.

  "So, what's been going on with you?" Eric's breath came out in short, quick bursts. "You've been reclusive lately."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We're friends, right?"

  "Yeah. Of course we're friends."

  "Then answer this. Where've you been hiding out?"

  The slow run hurt Michael's knees. "Work. Home. Setting my mother up in the rental. Planning a wedding. Life's been busy."

  "Hey, everyone's busy. That's not what I mean." They rounded a corner of the gym and kept running. "You seem to be deep in thought all the time."

  Leave it to Eric to drill him. He was a good man, husband, and father who seemed to take things in stride. Michael liked that about him. Eric would say it was his faith that kept him going and gave him peace. Did that mean he didn't have enough?

  "Do you have any regrets?" Michael voiced the question that filled his mind. Did he just dig himself a hole?

  Eric laughed. "Are you serious? Of course, we all have."

  They completed a lap. "Do you want to keep running?"

  "Oh, yeah!" Eric waved them on. "I need to show my wife a sweat-soaked shirt when I get home." He flexed his biceps.

  Michael laughed. "Okay, your call." He hoped Eric had forgotten his question. No such luck.

  "So, what do you regret?" Eric pumped his arms and legs.

  "I wrote a letter." The words slipped out before Michael could stop them.

  "Who'd you write to?"

  "A young woman I had a crush on a long time ago."

  "Whoa. When did you do that?" Eric's forehead creased.

  "1972."

  Eric stopped abruptly. "That's over thirty years ago." He laughed. "Let it go."

  Michael grabbed the basketball and ran to the free-throw line.
"I wish I could." He cradled the ball, bounced it a few times, and then took the shot. The basketball hit the rim and dropped through the hoop.

  "What do you mean?" Eric ran to get the ball. He dribbled it down the court, turned suddenly, and took a jump shot. Once again he missed. Eric shrugged his shoulders and retrieved the ball. He tossed it to Michael.

  "I thought the letter was long gone, and then it showed up. I denied writing it or knowing anything about it." Michael took off running and made a layup. He picked up the basketball and passed it to Eric. "I'm surprised this ol' body can still make that shot."

  "Back to this letter . . . If you signed it, why would you deny writing it?" Eric held on to the basketball and motioned for them to sit down on the bleachers.

  "I didn't sign it. I wrote my first initial. But that's the least of my problems. I have other skeletons in my closet."

  21

  Claire dug her toes into the soft sand. Seagulls squawked overhead as the waves crashed on the shore. Geraldine had given her the afternoon off. She told her that she didn't expect Claire to be at her side twenty-four hours a day and insisted she take time for herself.

  The afternoon turned out to be sunny and warm, a perfect day to walk along the beach. With her sunhat on her head and her tote bag over her shoulder, Claire had walked through Capitola Village and down to the shore. She kicked off her flip- flops and tucked them in her bag, then wandered up the beach close to the water's edge, feeling the cold water swirl around her feet. Two joggers ran past. A woman with a golden retriever walked in the opposite direction. Claire breathed in the salty air. Time alone felt good.

  She didn't have a plan for how far she'd walk, but she'd keep going until she'd collected enough shells or was too tired to go any farther. As she rounded the cove, she spotted an elderly couple sitting on beach chairs. The man was reading a magazine while the woman knitted. They looked strangely familiar. Claire picked up her pace. "It couldn't be." Harry and Pearl? She darted up the beach.

  "I thought it was you." Claire stood in front of them, blocking the sun's rays.