Pelican Court (Cedar Cove #3)(90)

“Of course,” Troy Davis assured her.

“I understand you knew my father.” Hannah’s question was directed at Bob.

He nodded. “We spent a year together in Nam.”

“Can you tell me what he was like then?”

Bob leaned back in his chair and took a moment to compose his thoughts. “What I remember most about Max is his guitar. At the end of the day, we’d sit around and he’d bring it out and strum a few songs. You can’t imagine how much music can do to take the edge off, especially in the situation your dad and I were in.”

“I didn’t know my father played the guitar.”

“He didn’t after—” Bob stopped abruptly and faltered. “Something happened in the war that affected both your father and me. War is like that. It can destroy your soul.”

“He never spoke of the war,” she said softly.

Bob didn’t, either. When he’d first returned from Nam, Peggy had thought it would help if her husband talked about his experiences. He’d refused. Had she known what demons hounded him, she would’ve suggested counseling, but he kept many of his experiences hidden from her. It wasn’t until he’d just about drowned in a bottle that she understood why, and by then it was almost too late.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask us?” Peggy inquired.

Hannah shook her head. “I appreciate that you let me come. I wondered, you know. Anyone would. He’s gone…both he and my mom. I just wondered….”

Like Hannah, Peggy wondered if she and Bob would ever find peace.

Rosie tried not to dwell on Zach’s confession that he’d relied emotionally on his personal assistant. In essence, Zach had admitted to falling in love with the other woman. She’d known in her heart that he’d been unfaithful, and he’d proved her at least partially right. Rosie could only speculate about what had happened, but—as he’d admitted—eventually Zach would have become Janice’s lover.

Their divorce had been final for months, and by now she should be ready to move on. Instead, she felt as if she was falling deeper and deeper into an abyss, a place of uncertainty and sadness.

Sunday afternoon she waited until she was sure Zach would be out of the house before she arrived. Her entrance didn’t cause much of a stir. Eddie was reading one of the Harry Potter books and Allison was in her bedroom with the door closed.

“What’s for dinner?” Eddie asked, glancing up when she came in, carrying two plastic grocery bags.

“How about spaghetti?” she asked, knowing it was her son’s favorite.

“We had that last night, and I like Dad’s spaghetti sauce better than yours.”

“Thank you so much,” she muttered under her breath. Her son was nothing if not honest.

When Rosie walked into the kitchen, she set the groceries on the counter and stared around her in complete awe. The room was meticulously clean. The floor had been washed and waxed to such a bright sheen she could see her own reflection. Not only that, the countertops were cleared off and wiped down. The stove had a shine to it that had been sadly absent since the day they’d moved into the house. Rosie walked over to the wall-mounted oven and opened it. Sure enough, that, too, was spotless.

“Who cleaned the kitchen?” Rosie called out to her son.

“Dad.”

It hurt like hell to admit that her ex-husband was a better housekeeper and cook than she’d ever been. Rosie tried not to feel sorry for herself. She should be counting her blessings instead of complaining. The kitchen was immaculate. She’d wanted to clean it for weeks, but even in her heyday as a wife and mother, she’d never have managed anything close to the perfection that lay before her now.

“Hi, Mom,” Allison said, wandering into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out a can of soda.

Even without looking, Rosie knew it had been cleaned, too.

“Sloppy joes okay with you for dinner?”

“I guess.”

Such enthusiasm. “Do you think Dad’s a better cook than I am?” Rosie wasn’t sure why she bothered to ask. Her daughter was bound to heap salt onto her already bleeding wounds.

“Do you want me to be honest?” Allison said, pulling the tab on the soda can.

That, on its own, was answer enough. Rosie crossed her arms and mentally prepared herself for the answer. “Go ahead.”

Allison took a deep swallow of her soda. “At first Dad cooked the same things you did, but then he really seemed to get into it. He doesn’t have a lot of time, you know, so he does fun things like chicken salad with grapes and pineapple and lettuce. I sometimes help him,” she added proudly. “We use bottled sauce—the gourmet stuff. It’s really yummy. I’ll give you the recipe if you want.”

“No, thanks.”

“His spaghetti’s really good, too. He adds sliced olives, and last night he threw in a can of jalapeños. It was great. Dad said that’s called fusion cooking.”

“It’s what?”

“Fusion. Come on, Mom, get with it.”

For reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely, tears filled Rosie’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She tried to hide them from her daughter but should have known better.

“Mom, are you crying?”