Page 4 of Piece By Piece

David Forrester had done a crossword puzzle every Saturday morning for just about as long as Liza could remember. He would sit at their kitchen table with his cup of black coffee and his beloved blue pen and work through the whole thing before anyone else was even awake.

He said it was his meditation. His church.

He’d been gone about two years now. Brain aneurysm. Very quick. Very final.

On a Tuesday afternoon in October, Liza had gotten the call while she was sitting in a conference room listening to somebody pitch something for a dog food company.

She had gotten up and walked out mid-sentence and then didn’t go back for three days.

She put the book on the nightstand next to the wildflowers and then ran her thumb along the spine.

“I miss you so much, Dad,” she whispered.

Julie sat at the kitchen table at the inn with her laptop and a half-eaten granola bar. Her to-do list lay on the table, and it had somehow grown to three pages.

Finish Chapter 12, whether you think it’s good or not.

Call the linen supplier.

Email Colleen back about the baby’s doctor appointment.

Confirm the date of the festival committee meeting.

Help Dixie with inventory.

Call Dylan’s coach about camp.

Order new welcome binders for the guest rooms.

Return a call from the woman who wanted to book a wedding in September.

Figure out why the porch light keeps flickering.

She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock. It was after nine. She had meant to stop working at seven and sit on the porch with Dawson. But that was hours ago, she realized, as she stared at her cold cup of coffee.

The inn was quiet. The last guests had gone to bed, and the only sound was the hum of the dishwasher and the distant sound of the ocean.

She should have felt peaceful, but, instead, she felt like all she heard was a ticking clock.

Dawson walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He had that look on his face, the one where he was trying to figure out how to say something to her without starting an argument. She’d been married to him long enough now to realize exactly what that look was.

“Julie.”

“Hm?”

“When was the last time you sat on the porch and did absolutely nothing?”

She didn’t look up. “Honey, I don’t have time to do nothing.”

“Well, that’s kind of my point.”

She looked over at him. He wasn’t angry. He was definitely worried. And that was almost worse, because she couldn’t argue with worry the same way she could argue with frustration.

“I’m fine, Dawson. You know, I just have a lot of stuff going on right now.”

“You’ve had a lot of stuff going on for about six months straight. Do you think maybe you’ve overextended yourself?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it because she knew he wasn’t wrong.