Deeply, Desperately

  We set a time to meet here this evening and hung up. I quickly made sure the Handmaiden letter was tucked away in my tote bag and opened the front door. In the distance, I spotted Dovie headed down the hill from her house.

  I really needed that aspirin to kick in soon.

  “Hi, Mum.” I kissed her cheek, let her squish me. There was nothing quite like my mother’s embrace, all warm, soft, and … home. And she always seemed to hug for dear life, as though she hadn’t seen me in months. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came to pick up Dovie and saw you were still home. Thought I’d pop in and say hi since I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Two days?”

  “Interminable.”

  I smiled, closed the door to keep the cold from seeping in.

  My mother tipped her head as she stared at my Christmas tree.

  “It’s not you. It has a crooked trunk. Watch your neck or you’ll get a crick. Coffee?”

  “My God above, I’d love some. Could it be colder?” She drew herself up onto a counter stool. She hid her generous curves beneath a beautifully knitted shawl, clasped at the shoulder with an emerald brooch. A pair of trouser-style jeans skimmed her ankles, and cozy suede boots rested on the stool’s foot bar. “I hear a storm is coming. A doozy.”

  I smiled as I poured. No one loved a good storm like my mother. The (disturbing) enthusiasm of the local forecasters had nothing on her.

  I’d just set my mother’s mug in front of her when a thud came from my front door. I rushed over to open it.

  “Damn it all to hell!” Dovie exclaimed, rubbing her shoulder. “I hate that lock.”

  I had hastily acquired the habit of locking my front door. In the last two weeks, Dovie had yet to adjust.

  I blew across my coffee mug. “If you’d knock first …”

  “Where’s your sympathy for an old lady?”

  I laughed. “You’re not old.”

  “You’re forgiven.” Dovie shivered as she shook off the cold. “Do I hear that coffee calling my name?” She cupped her ear. “Why, yes I do. Dovie, it’s saying. Come drink me. I’m here to chase the chill out of your aging, great-grandchildrenless bones.”

  “Subtle,” Mum said, grinning. Her round cheeks were aglow, her slightly down-turned eyes bright. Highlights glowed throughout her blond pixie cut.

  Dovie parked herself on the stool next to Mum’s. “Subtlety was never my strong suit.”

  “No kidding,” I said.

  “Sassy,” Dovie accused.

  Mum shrugged. “She gets that from me.”

  “As if.” Dovie snorted. “That trait came straight from these aging, great-grandchild—”

  “I get it,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ll see what I can do about having triplets, okay?”

  “Soon?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Grendel looked up from his perch atop the fridge, yawned widely, nestled his head back into the underside of his belly, and curled his tail next to his head so he was in the tightest ball possible.

  Morning had dawned gray and damp. Beyond the bluffs, the ocean rose and fell, whitecaps breaking the monotony of the solid blue.

  Dovie eyed me. “You look like shit.”

  I gasped. “Such language from an old woman!”

  “You said I wasn’t old. You’re un-forgiven.”

  Mum gave me a not-so-sly once-over. “You do look a little rundown.”

  “Like shit,” Dovie repeated.

  “All right!” I cried, making a note to dab on a little more concealer. “Not that I don’t love this little impromptu get-together, but I need to go to work.”

  “Oh, and we should be going too,” Dovie said, downing her coffee in three gulps. She looked like a chic lumberjack with her black turtleneck, cable-knit sweater, and flannel pants. Yes, somehow she made flannel pants look fabulous. Her white hair hung in a sleek twisted ponytail down her back.

  I was afraid to ask but couldn’t help myself. “Where are you two off to?”

  Dovie’s eyes glittered with mischief. “There’s a rally downtown.”

  Mum and Dovie had become instant best friends when they met almost thirty years ago at an antibusing protest. They shared poor backgrounds, an affinity for picketing (but not necessarily for the causes), and a similar history with Valentine men. Their friendship drove my father nuts, which was an added perk in Mum’s and Dovie’s eyes.

  “What kind of rally?” I asked. “A war protest?”

  “No, no,” Mum said. “That’s next week. Today is the annual tree protest.”

  “Ah.” She didn’t need to explain. Every year the city of Boston received a cut Christmas tree from Nova Scotia, a thank-you for helping the province in the aftermath of an explosion way back in 1914. The enormous tree was set up on Boston Common, decorated and lit. And every year a small group of protesters picketed the gift tree, asking instead that a live tree be used, all in the name of a greener earth.

  I hadn’t come by my Christmas-tree requirements by accident.

  “Care to join us?” Dovie asked, slipping off her stool.

  “I’ll pass this year,” I said through a yawn. My head hurt less, though knowing I had to face Sean in an hour had turned my stomach. Who is she?

  My mother patted my cheek. “Wise choice.”

  “Just don’t get arrested,” I said as they headed for Mum’s car.

  Their laughter carried on the wind.

  That didn’t bode well for my mental health either.

  My preferred mode of transportation to work was the commuter ferry. I disembarked at Rowes Wharf, not far from the New England Aquarium. I hurried, head down, toward the Boston Harbor Hotel. I spotted Raphael waiting to pick me up, a rare treat he bestowed on especially cold mornings.

  When he saw me coming, he slid out of the driver’s seat, smooth as silk, and walked toward me, giving me a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

  “Quick escape last night,” he said as we settled into the heated leather seats.

  I bit back a contented sigh. The temperature outside was hovering around eighteen degrees with a wind chill that knocked it down another ten.

  “Marisol thinks Em is unhappy.”

  “What do you think?”

  I recalled what my father had said, about Em and Aiden being a match. It was hard to miss the chemistry between the two, but I didn’t know what to do about this new knowledge. “I don’t know. I think she’s comfortable. And there’s not anything wrong with that except …”

  “Except?”

  I glanced at him. “We know Joseph isn’t her true love. I can’t say anything without giving away Dad’s secret.”

  “It’s of my belief that what is meant to be is meant to be. Aiden and Emerson have met. They know. They feel. What they choose to do about it is a different matter—and their decision.”

  “You met Maggie at least a dozen times before realizing you were her soul mate.”

  “I”—he looked at me—“am stubborn.”

  I laughed. The radio was set to WEEI, the local sports talk radio. There was a heated conversation about the Patriots’ quarterback and his off-the-field relationships.

  I nibbled the corner of my lip. “What if Aiden and Em’s decision could be helped along?”

  We slowed to a stop at a red light. “Helped how?”

  I hedged.

  “Uva?”

  “With, let’s say, with a little investigative work. As in investigating whether a certain someone due to be married soon might be dabbling on the side.”

  With a sly smile, he said, “Emerson? I’m shocked.”

  He teased with good reason. Em was the most straitlaced, monogamous person I knew. It had to be killing her to have feelings for Aiden.

  “Marisol and I are going to follow Joseph.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Very dangerous.”

  I had a feeling he’d say that. “I know.”

  Because if we found anything, how were we going to explain t
o Em? And if we didn’t say anything, how could we let her marry a slimeball?

  Either way, I knew there was no stopping Marisol. I was along for the ride, whether I liked it or not.

  We turned from Essex onto Charles. Walkers looked frozen stiff as they marched along, briefcases in hand.

  “Is Dad already at work?” I asked, wanting to talk to him as soon as I arrived.

  Raphael shook his head as the car inched along in traffic. “Took the morning off.”

  “Oh?” That was unusual, especially this time of year. “Late night?”

  “Quite.”

  I rubbed a finger along the console. “Do you know who he went out with?”

  “Uh-uh-uh, Uva. My lips are sealed.”

  I sighed. Though Raphael loved me like a daughter, his first loyalty was to my father.

  “I’m just asking because he seemed a little stressed out last night. As far as you know, everything is okay with him, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And you’d know.”

  “Uva.”

  “I’m just worried.”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  Only I was worried. Worried about Dad’s stress levels, his health, and why he’d added Preston to Dovie’s guest list. It didn’t make sense.

  The car crept along. I turned down the radio. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Always.”

  I shifted in my seat, looked at him. “Do you know anyone named Oliver McCutchan? Cutter?”

  I shocked him—I could tell by the way he snapped his head to look at me.

  In a blink, gone was the surprise, replaced by his usual tranquil mask. “The artist?”

  “That would be him. Why did you look so taken aback?”

  Smoothly, he said, “I didn’t know you knew him. He paints fine art. Usually portraits of famous sports figures. His most recent works include Red Sox players.”

  Ah. Raphael wasn’t one to follow the art scene, but he knew the Red Sox in and out. “I don’t know him. I know of him. Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Has my father?”

  “Why all the questions, Uva?”

  I explained about the invitation. “I see.”

  “And Dad was the one who asked they both be invited.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought you might know why since you know everything about Dad.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know why Dad invited them?”

  He turned up the radio. “Sorry.”

  When he didn’t say anything more, I suspected he was holding back.

  He double-parked along Beacon. “Will you need a ride back to the wharf later today?”

  “I think Sean is bringing me home.”

  “If you need me, call.”

  I leaned over the console, gave him a kiss on his furry cheek. “I will. And if you think of anything you may have forgotten”—I stressed the word—“then call me.”

  Inside the Porcupine, Maggie was straightening tablecloths as I walked by. She looked up and I waved. From experience I knew Raphael would find a parking spot, then double back to share a cup of coffee with Maggie and help her around the restaurant.

  How long before it became a full-time job? How long before he walked away from my father for Maggie?

  I couldn’t imagine that day would come.

  And didn’t know what I’d do if it did.

  7

  I dragged myself up the stairs to Sean’s office. Better just to get the questions over with and get on with the day. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why a woman was answering Sean’s phone. Perfectly. Reasonable.

  “Hello,” a young man said as I walked into SD Investigations. “Do you have an appointment?”

  He sat behind an antique table that doubled as a desk. His black-and-white Pumas stretched out far beyond the wonderful turned legs of the table, his jeans torn in the latest teen style. The hood of a UMASS sweatshirt covered his head, the strings pulled tight around his jaw.

  The table was an original from the early nineteenth century. Dovie had a similar one at Aerie and I coveted that as much as I did this one—found by the interior designer Sam had hired to spiff up the place. But Federal-style tables simply weren’t in my meager budget.

  There were some days, like today, when I questioned why I ignored my trust fund.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the young man asked again. A worn, dog-eared Dennis Lehane novel lay facedown on the desk. He loosened the strings around his face, pushed his hood back an inch or two. Thick hair tumbled forward onto his forehead.

  The hood, I noted, wasn’t a fashion statement. It was self-preservation. The room was freezing, and the feeble warmth of a humming space heater lacked the power to fight off the chill in the air.

  “Why is it so cold?” I asked.

  A voice came from my left. “The freaking furnace is on the blink.” Sam wore a thick corduroy barn coat. “It’s being worked on right now. I’m thinking about taking the rest of the day off, just to defrost.”

  Defrosting sounded good. I was suddenly missing the seat warmers in my father’s car.

  “I see you’ve met Andrew.” Sam nodded to the new receptionist.

  “Not quite. I’m Lucy Valentine. I work downstairs. Sean and I … work together.”

  “Closely,” Sam added, completely straight-faced.

  The boy’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind drooping tawny bangs.

  I threw Sam an outraged look. I supposed this was payback for steaming up his hallway yesterday.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Andrew,” I said. “I hope, ah, that I’ll be seeing you again.”

  He shot a look at Sam, who was giving me his own outraged look.

  “Is Sean in?” I asked.

  Sam said, “Um, yeah, I think so. With a”—he coughed—“client. Coffee? You look like you need some coffee.”

  Coffee sounded amazing. My toes had gone numb. I followed Sam to the kitchen.

  “Does Andrew know about the curse?” I asked as Sam pulled a mug from the cabinet.

  Sam glanced nervously over his shoulder. “There’s no such thing, Lucy.”

  “Oh, is that right? Should we start the pool now to see how long he lasts?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Sean and I already did.”

  I laughed. “I’ll take two hours.”

  “Generous,” he said sarcastically, looking again over his shoulder. “I’ll, um, be right back. You know where everything is, right?”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you acting so strangely?”

  “Strange? Me? No.” He laughed. “Must be the cold air. Not enough oxygen getting to my brain.”

  I stared at him. He stared back.

  “Right,” he said. “Be back in a minute.”

  I poured coffee to the rim of my mug, enjoyed the warmth as it slid down my throat as I took my first sip.

  The mirror in the hallway beckoned. I looked like something dragged in the ferry’s undertow. My hair was a mess, windblown and frizzy. Nothing much I could do about it. Giving up, I turned … and found a woman staring at me with hard eyes. She was beautiful with an olive complexion, high cheekbones, and shimmering dark hair. Before I could say hello, she rushed forward, bumped into me, and kept on going. Coffee dripped down my hand, soaked into my trousers, puddled around my feet, leached into the thick throw rug.

  “Cara!” Sean yelled, flying around the corner. One look at me and he drew up short, nearly knocking into me too.

  Sam stood behind him. “I’m going to, ah, see about the furnace.” He edged around us and hurried away.

  I blinked. Cara? Cara Franklin? Sean’s ex-fiancée Cara?

  “Shit,” Sean mumbled.

  I couldn’t find my voice. I hadn’t known he’d been speaking with her, let alone seeing her.
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  He brushed past me, turning into the kitchen. A roll of paper towels in hand, he tore a few off, handed them to me. He knelt down, dabbed at my leg. My calf smoldered beneath his touch.

  20 – 4 is …

  “Do you need to go after her?” I finally said.

  16.

  He tapped my foot so I’d lift it. Carefully, he slid a paper towel over my boot. “The dry cleaner should be able to get the coffee out of your pants. Send me the bill.” He sponged the carpet.

  “Do you need to go after her?” I repeated. I didn’t know much about Cara other than her name, she was a nurse, and she’d been unable to deal with Sean’s health troubles. And now I knew she was absolutely beautiful.

  I could have done without that knowledge.

  Whoever said knowledge was power had to have been crazy. Denial … now that was a sentiment I could get behind.

  “No.” Paper towels dripped as he stood. He carried them into the kitchen. He came back out, dragging a hand over his face. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

  My voice cracked as I asked, “Wanted what? Wait. You were with her last night, weren’t you? I called. She answered.”

  “She showed up on Sam’s doorstep last night, sobbing.”

  Sean and his dog Thoreau had been staying with Sam since moving out of the place he’d shared with Cara last month.

  Stressed, I jumped right into division problems, which said a lot, because I hated division.

  24/4 is 6.

  “Lucy?”

  I tried to breathe. “Are you going back to her?”

  “What? No.”

  My stomach was starting to ache. “Then why was she here?”

  “Come into my office.”

  I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t budge. It took the searing heat of Sean’s hand at the small of my back to get me moving.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yeah?” I sank into a chair.

  “Look at me.”

  I really didn’t want to. “No, thank you.”

  “Please?”

  I looked. His eyes, those alluring, sexy milky-gray eyes, held such tenderness that my breath caught.

  “Sorry about the coffee,” he said, his breath sweet against my lips.

  “Why was she here?” My voice hardly shook at all, but it was a good thing I was sitting because my knees would have probably buckled.