paper decorated with glittery stick-on hearts. Beth’s contribution to the table. “Of course all of you can have some of my candy. Tomorrow. Any more sugar today—beyond dessert, of course—and you’ll be swinging from the curtain rods.”
Cory apparently found this funny and laughed. Milk came snorting out his nose.
“Eeiuw. Gross.” Bethany scooted as far away from him as she could.
Cathryn gave her brood a glare of mock impatience. “All right, settle down. It’s time to give thanks.”
Bottoms wiggled on chairs, throats were cleared, and a semblance of order descended.
“Thanks” was a casual ritual at the McGrath house, an observance more conversational than prayerful. During thanks, they passed food, dug into meals, and sometimes strayed off subject. But Cathryn didn’t mind. It worked. She could see a sense of gratitude taking root in her children, a mindfulness of the small blessings in their lives. With such an attitude, they’d be able to find happiness anytime, anywhere, no matter what calamity befell them.
“I’m thankful I got a seventy-five on my math quiz today,” Justin said, the first to volunteer. With a sheepish grin he confessed, “I didn’t study.”
Dylan growled at him scoldingly.
Chewing a slice of cucumber, Bethany mumbled, “I’m grateful Jason Toomey stopped chasing me in the schoolyard.”
“Yes, we’re all grateful for that,” Cathryn agreed, as she passed the basket of rolls.
Cory pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m thankful for all the cards I got today in school.”
Cathryn’s heart went out to her middle child—her Charlie Brown. Had he thought he wouldn’t get any?
“And I’m thankful for this table,” Dylan said. “The food, the flowers and decorations, everything. It’s wonderful, Cath. As usual.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Mom,” Justin said, and the other kids chimed in.
“Your turn, Mommy.” Beth was the only one who still called her Mommy.
Cathryn had been so busy listening to others, she hadn’t really thought about her own contribution. Off the top of her head she said, “I’m thankful that I have such a thankful family, even when I serve pasta that needs to be cut with a chain saw.”
Everyone laughed and then settled into serious eating, and it was a while before Cathryn thought about the earrings again. Almost simultaneously she thought about having another child. The two ideas had become entwined. She and Dylan didn’t need another child. Neither did the overpopulated planet, which was Dylan’s strongest argument.
But maybe another child needed them.
Of course! They could adopt. She’d propose the idea tonight. How could Dylan object?
That night before going to bed, Cathryn showered, donned her prettiest nightgown and spritzed on Dylan’s favorite perfume. But when she waltzed into the bedroom, her husband was sprawled across three-quarters of the bed, already asleep. Swallowing her disappointment, she reasoned that falling asleep had been unintentional and surely he’d appreciate being roused.
She sat on the bed and gave Dylan’s shoulder a gentle shake. Nothing. She bounced and jiggled the mattress, which earned her a dull moan. She turned on the radio and flicked the light, but the only response that elicited was a mumbled, “For Crissake, Cath, knock it off,” before Dylan dropped deep into sleep once again.
With dismay pressing heavily on her, Cathryn slipped into bed and pulled the blankets to her chin. Where were her earrings? she implored the enshrouding darkness. Where was her mushy card? And what about the talk she’d hoped to have about another baby—to say nothing of the lovemaking she’d anticipated all week long?
Maybe tomorrow, she thought, sighing downheartedly. Putting off the surprise until the day after Valentine’s would be odd, but obviously Dylan had his reasons.
But the next day dawned, and Cathryn got the kids off to school, and she and Dylan attended Walter Lang’s funeral, and the likelihood of his presenting her with a belated Valentine gift grew more and more remote. During brunch at the Lang house afterward, she overheard him saying that as soon as he got home, he planned to change out of his suit and go scope out a new project.
Maybe tonight, Cathryn thought, struggling to keep her optimism buoyant. Maybe tonight…
Several guests had already left and Cathryn was helping Sarah round up used plates and coffee cups, when the front door opened and someone new arrived, a thirty-something blonde whom Cathryn recognized only vaguely. She certainly wasn’t a permanent resident of Harmony. After exchanging a few words with Sarah, the newcomer approached Tucker, who happened to be talking with Dylan.
The woman was sleek, graceful and attractive in a wealthy sort of way. She’d given her coat to Sarah at the door, and now stood before the two men in a cowl-necked, black, angora knit dress that made an absolute drama of her rich blond hair, peaches-and-cream complexion and turquoise eyes. It didn’t exactly detract from her figure, either. Cathryn felt like a frump in comparison, dressed in her high-collared Victorian blouse, gray cardigan and calf-length challis skirt.
For some irrational reason, she also felt she was needed at her husband’s side.
The woman extended her hand to Tucker. “Mr. Lang,” she said, her tone as soft and smooth as the angora that enveloped her, “I was unable to attend your uncle’s funeral, but I couldn’t let the day go by without coming over to offer my sympathy.”
“Thank you,” Tucker replied, one eyebrow arched and betraying the fact that he had no idea who she was.
“Zoe Anderson,” she said, introducing herself. “I have a summer home out on Sandy Point, and for the past three years I’ve trusted no one but Walter with my Land Rover. He was a marvelous mechanic. Marvelous. I’ll miss him terribly.”
Tucker’s eyebrow lifted higher. “You’re a cottager?”
“Yes. From New York.”
“What are you doing on Harmony at this time of year?”
She laughed musically. “The island has its charms, even in winter. In fact, lately I find myself spending as much time here during the off-seasons as I do during the summer.” Unexpectedly she turned her smile on Dylan. “Of course, this man knows all about that. Don’t you, Mr. McGrath?”
Cathryn glanced sharply at her husband. His face was flushed and he was widening his eyes at the woman. Cathryn was well acquainted with the expression, but didn’t understand it in its present context.
“Dylan is my landscape architect,” Zoe Anderson continued, her quick survey of Cathryn leaving her feeling invisible.
Cathryn glanced at her husband again. “Landscape architect?” she questioned him. Just when she’d adjusted to his upgrade from a simple landscaper to a landscape designer… he was changing what he called himself again?
Dylan shrugged self-consciously, avoiding her eyes.
“Last year,” the Anderson woman continued animatedly, “we made extensive changes to the backyard.
