Cranberry Point (Cedar Cove #4)(84)

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?"