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pulled the
band out of her hair, then ventured into Will's domain. She couldn't deny his
nearness made her heart beat a little faster. And from the warmth creeping up
her face she knew it was flushed. "Actually it's dishwater blond," she said, unnerved. "But even we dishwater blonds
have our moments of glory when the sun's setting."
    Will gathered a
lock of hair and let it slip through his fingers. "No, you're not a
dishwater blond," he said, toying with her hair. "Definitely not
dishwater."
    His gesture
stirred in Nellie longings she wasn't prepared to deal with. "Please don't
do that," she said, unsettled with their nearness. He released her hair,
but when he dropped his hand, a sense of loneliness settled over her, a
desolate kind of emptiness that made her feel alone and vulnerable. And right
now she needed strength for herself, and for her son. Holding that thought, she
turned and fled to the security of the Isadora .

CHAPTER 3

 
    To her dismay,
Nellie learned that her van needed a new transmission. After pondering whether
to pay for repairs or sell the van for junk, she opted on selling. There were
no dealers in Port Townsend interested in buying, but the mechanic was willing
to take it off her hands for parts and the new tires she'd only recently had
mounted. But she needed the money desperately, so she accepted his offer. Since
she'd paid for a mini-storage in Medford for six months, she’d deal with the
problem of transporting their belongings to Port Townsend later.
    Around the
corner from the motel, she saw that the tan sedan with the Oregon license plate
was parked in the same location. It looked as if it hadn't been moved. Feeling
foolish, and assuming it belonged to someone living in the house near where it
was parked, she decided to give it no further thought. There were more
important things to worry about, like the fact that without her van she was
dependent on Will to transfer her belongings from the van to the boathouse, and
he'd also have to take her to the job interviews she'd scheduled for that
afternoon.
    Of the phone
calls she'd made the day before in response to job listings in the newspaper, a
doctor, an attorney, and the curator of the museum were open to interviewing a
bookkeeper on short notice. She had no expectation of stepping into a
high-paying job. Port Townsend was definitely not a city in the path of
progress. But she counted on the picturesque old seaport having a lower cost of
living to compensate for a low salary.
    Standing in the
master stateroom two hours later, she studied herself in the long narrow mirror
on the locker door. Her navy blue pant suit was rumpled, and her black heels
were scuffed, but that couldn’t be helped. Nor was she ready to be interviewed.
But she had no choice. Although her survivor benefits and unemployment helped
offset expenses, after making the monthly payments to her cell phone service,
the dentist for her root canal, and the agency that consolidated her debts,
what remained would barely cover minimal living expenses. And she had less than
eight-hundred dollars in her savings.
    Brushing her
hair vigorously, she caught it at her nape and fastened it with a clip, hoping
to appear competent and businesslike, a picture of
office efficiency.
    "Mom!"
A series of sharp raps accompanied Mike's voice. "When are we going?"
    "In a few
minutes, honey," Nellie called through the door. "Wait in Mr.
Edenshaw's truck."
    She heard a few
disgruntled words from Mike that sounded suspiciously like words on his
"forbidden word" list, but decided to let it pass. Later, they'd have
a mother-son talk about his recent behavior, and his dubious vocabulary.
    When she
stepped on deck she found Will standing on the dock across from her, and as she
walked toward him, the admiring look in his eyes made her heart quicken.
Grasping his extended hand, she stepped from the boat to the dock, balancing on
high heels. Feeling Will's fingers curl warmly around hers, she glanced up to
find