By Debbie Macomber
I'm no longer a lot of a letter author. because the sheriff the following, I'm used to writing incident studies, no longer chatty letters. yet my daughter, Megan--who'll be making me a grandfather soon--told me I needed to do that. So right here goes.
I'll let you know directly out that I'd was hoping to marry religion Beckwith (my onetime highschool female friend) yet she ended the connection final month, although we're either widowed and on hand. there have been a couple of misunderstandings among us, a few of them inadvertently attributable to Megan.
However, I've received lots to maintain me occupied, just like the unidentified continues to be present in a cave outdoor city. And the truth that my buddy pass judgement on Olivia Griffin is combating melanoma. And the break-ins at 204 Rosewood Lane--the condo religion occurs to be renting from Grace Harding...
If you need to pay attention extra, come on over to my position or the sheriff 's office--if you could stand the stale coffee!
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Additional info for 92 Pacific Boulevard (Cedar Cove, Book 9)
It’s the smell of money, he says. You know, says Rolf as he sets down beers for Bessie and her daughter, I ought to stuff a few and give them a good home over by the salad bar. When you get a chance, Rolf, the cashier repeats. The door. I’ve got to give her a raise. Rolf winks at the two women, moves to the door and jiggles it closed against his great bulk. Then he wanders off through the arch two old grizzlies make over the kitchen entry. Some date, says the daughter. He owns the whole bar, and all the animals, and all the tourists who come to look at the animals who pay for drinks 42 to look.
Bessie nods and pushes her glass across the table. Please. Mrs. Hardy pours in more soda instead of scotch, topping off her own glass too. You didn’t dream about your son, did you? No, says Bessie. That dream is over. My daughter says he is in town, but I don’t see him. But I want to see him. Whatever he’s doing, I still want to see him. She rubs her ﬁngers with drops from her drink to get off the polish. The dream was in a big ﬁeld. I never dream things outside, says Mrs. Hardy. The light is all wrong.
They are amazed and silent. They always sleep out during a hunt. Do you want to sleep next to someone you think might be a god? Wouldn’t you rather have a shelter with such a man around? says Tall Pigeon Eye. He is careful not to say this man is a god, just that he might be. The problem is a matter of comfort in the end. When people meet God, they want to be as uncomfortable as possible, dragging themselves up thousands of steps on their knees, or hungry. A ﬁne line exists between those who actually enjoy this way of meeting God and those who don’t, who simply feel their face to God must be stretched tight in anguish, a release from comfort and the everyday.