Absolutely, Positively

  “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “I know. Why don’t you sleep on it? It’s a big decision.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” she said softly.

  I hung up. Sean was rinsing his hand. “Grendel took the cheese, and gave me a nice thank-you.” A long scratch stretched across his wrist.

  I grabbed a paper towel, wadded it up, and dampened it. Carefully I lifted Sean’s wrist and dabbed at the wound.

  “And he still won’t come out from under the bed. Was that Meaghan?”

  “She’s going to call with a decision in the morning.”

  I lifted his arm to my mouth, kissed it. “Better?”

  His eyes sparkled. “I’m not sure. Try again.”

  I gently kissed his forearm again, working my way up to the tender spot on the underside of his elbow. “Now?”

  “My arm’s okay, but I have this other ache.…”

  “Oh? I’m feeling a bit achy myself.”

  “We’ll just have to see what we can do about that.” He pulled in, kissed me hungrily as his hands slipped under my shirt, skimmed my skin. The heat from his palms seeped in, infusing my blood with a heat so blistering I wanted to strip off my clothes.

  Sean must have read my mind. He unbuttoned my blazer, let it slide to the floor. His fingers grabbed the hem of my sweater, pulled it over my head.

  My hands threaded through his hair as I kissed him with blind passion. It was always like this with us—a desperate desire, as though we were never going to let each other go. As though we knew that at any moment what we had could be gone.

  His hands went to the buttons of my shirt. “Just how many layers do you have on, Ms. Valentine?”

  “Only two more. Well, three if you count the bra.”

  He groaned. “You’re killing me.”

  I smiled against his lips. “It’s winter. It’s cold. I need layers.”

  The buttons were finally free and he slid my shirt down my arms. “Funny,” he said as he lifted my camisole. “You don’t feel cold.”

  I tugged his shirt over his head, ran my hands down his chest until they stopped on the button of his jeans. With a twist, I had it undone. “Imagine that.”

  He was reaching for the hook on my bra when my phone rang my tinny version of the Hawaii Five-O theme song.

  Sean’s hand stilled. “It’s late.”

  I glanced at the ringing phone. “Only bad news comes this late.”

  I thought of all the cases I’d helped Aiden with. The late-night calls usually meant a fresh case, someone recently reported missing. Time was of the essence. There was a three-hour window crucial to an abduction.

  “Go on,” Sean said, handing me the phone.

  I let out a breath, stared longingly at my hand, still on the zipper of his pants. I reached for the phone.

  “Sorry, Lucy,” Aiden said when I answered. “I know it’s late.”

  “A new case?” I was suddenly chilled, though it had nothing to do with my lack of clothing.

  “In a way. I just got a call from Agent Thomas.”

  An icy finger of dread slid down my spine. I shivered. “And?”

  “He wanted to let us know … I’m sorry to tell you this, but Anthony Spero is dead.… And there’s a massive manhunt on for Tristan Rourke.”

  14

  For the three hours I was actually in bed, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I just lay there, wide awake, staring at the shadows shifting along the ceiling. I was afraid to move, to jar Sean. I was afraid of what the day would bring. How was I going to break the news to Meaghan that Tristan was wanted for murder? I was just … afraid.

  I didn’t like it. Not a single bit. Yet I hadn’t figured out how to change it.

  For years I had busied myself with dead-end jobs, numbly going about my days, feeling I couldn’t use my psychic abilities for anything other than finding the odd lost object. A book, a cell phone, car keys. Nothing important. I’d spent almost ten years flitting from one job to another as a paralegal, a dog walker, a day-care worker. As hard as I tried, nothing made me feel like I was making any difference with my life.

  But when I found that lost boy in Wompatuck, utilizing my abilities in an altogether new way, I realized I’d held the key to my happiness all along. Using my ESP, I had the power to help other people, to locate loved ones, to find closure. It was a calling, truly a gift. One I treasured.

  Why, then, did I suddenly feel like going back to work as a telemarketer? Back to the days when missing-person cases were news bites, when evil was something on the fringe of someone else’s life, never smack-dab in the middle of mine.

  On days like today, I had to remember the sheer joy I received from reuniting long-lost loves, from finding a missing child. Even the simple pleasure of locating a lost ring for my mum.

  And I would do well to remember I’d hated telemarketing. That job had lasted less than three hours.

  By seven, I was up and dressed. I fed some Cheerios to Odysseus, who immediately stuffed them in his cheeks and went back to his burrow.

  I glanced at Sean, who was sleeping on his side, a fistful of blankets twisted under his arm. He was a restless sleeper, often tossing and turning fitfully in the night, his dreams taking him places I suspected I’d never been.

  What startled me most was that before now it hadn’t mattered. Whatever he’d been through had shaped him into the man he was today. But now I longed to know more of him. I wanted to know all those little secrets, his dreams, even his nightmares. It only seemed fair since he knew mine.

  I tapped my leg to get Thoreau’s attention. He bounded to the floor. Not to be outdone, Grendel raced him to the kitchen. I fed them both, setting their bowls a good two feet apart (Grendel had been known to distract Thoreau to steal his food), and poured myself a cup of coffee. It was endlessly amusing to watch them eat, with Grendel’s method of dragging his kibble from his bowl to pounce on it and Thoreau inhaling rather than eating so Grendel didn’t steal his breakfast.

  A soft knock sounded from the front door. Thoreau yipped and bounced on all four paws as if he were on a trampoline.

  “You’re ferocious,” I said to him as I peeked out the window before opening the door.

  “I saw your light on while I was walking the beast,” Dovie said. Rufus sat peacefully at her heel.

  “Vicious.” If Rufus and Thoreau tag-teamed, they might be able to take down a Slim Jim.

  “I have a huge breakfast cooking up at the house. Come up. Marisol’s here.”

  I brightened. “She is?”

  “Came to see the pup.”

  Rufus was hardly a pup, though sometimes he still acted like one. “Sean’s still sleeping.”

  “Leave him a note.”

  “I haven’t showered yet.”

  “We’re scandalized,” Dovie drawled. Slyly she added, “The waffles are already on the table.”

  My stomach ached and I wasn’t very hungry, but waffles were my favorite and Dovie had made the effort to come down here. “You make a tempting offer.”

  She winked and strode off the porch. “See you in a couple of minutes.”

  I let Thoreau out to do his thing, rinsed my mug, and left a note for Sean on the counter next to the coffeepot.

  The sun was barely breaking the horizon as I trudged through the snow and carefully navigated Dovie’s back steps. I could smell bacon from the deck. I stamped the snow from my boots and looked down toward my cottage, nestled at the bottom of the lane, the bluffs and a fifty-foot drop on one side, a small garden and woods on the other. It was an idyllic little house, postcard perfect. I felt such strong affection that it was my home.

  I turned to go into Dovie’s, and from the corner of my eye I caught a flash of movement in the trees. Startled, I squinted. I couldn’t see anything, anyone, yet there was a feeling deep in my stomach.

  The back door swung open. “Lucy!”

  I nearly fell over the railing. Pressing my hand to my pounding heart, I asked Preston,
“Why not scare me to death?”

  “It would be a great story. What are you looking at?”

  “Do you see anything in the woods?”

  The woods were still rimmed in dusky darkness, the pines a deep dark green, the scruff along the forest floor a dense, dark ominous cloak.

  Preston squinted. “Trees?”

  “You’re funny.” I eyed the woods. All was still. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Dovie invited me for breakfast. There’s waffles.” Her nose wrinkled. “You haven’t showered yet?”

  I brushed past her, leaving my paranoia behind. I was being overly sensitive was all. A perfectly normal response after what had happened last night. Anthony Spero had been walking from the parking lot of the hotel where Catherine had booked rooms to the front door when he’d been run over by a speeding car. He’d died on the way to the hospital from massive brain trauma. Boston PD had confiscated the hotel’s security footage and was looking for the car, but there was only one suspect.

  And there was still no sign of Tristan Rourke.

  In the kitchen, Dovie had the South Shore Beacon spread across the island. Marisol and Em were sitting at the breakfast table. Preston and I joined them. Em had brochures spread out in front of her.

  Eye to eye with Rufus, Marisol engaged him in conversation. “I know you miss him,” she said, “but you need to eat.”

  Rufus tipped his head.

  “Even if you’re not very hungry,” she added.

  He pawed his rubber chicken, which was lying at Marisol’s feet. She sighed and threw the chicken. Rufus galloped through the kitchen and down the hallway.

  “I don’t know, Dovie. I think he may need to come into the clinic for some tests.”

  Dovie took off her reading glasses. “You really think so? He seems fine other than the food.”

  I eyed Em’s brochures. Palm trees and lots of beaches. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Hawaii,” Em said. “You were right, Lucy.”

  “I was?”

  “She was?” Preston echoed.

  Em’s hair was pulled up and twisted into a sloppy bun. The look showed off her high cheekbones, long graceful neck. “I shouldn’t spend my whole break just sitting around, moping. I’m trading in my plane tickets to Paris and going somewhere warm and sunny. I think I’ll spend whole afternoons on a beach just … being.”

  “Paris?” Preston asked. “You’re trading in Paris for Hawaii? Are you crazy?”

  I shoved the plate of waffles toward her and glared. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” Em said. To Preston, she clarified, “Joseph and I were supposed to go to Paris for our honeymoon.”

  “Oh.” Preston stared at her plate. She forked a huge piece of waffle and made a show of shoving it in her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out, reminding me of Odysseus. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “It’s okay,” Em said. “I think the more I talk about the breakup the better I’ll be. I mean, thanks to Oscar, I know Joseph and I weren’t meant to last—”

  My stomach free-fell.

  Marisol started coughing, hacking really.

  Dovie rushed over, started slapping Marisol on the back, and shoved a piece of bacon in Em’s mouth. “Tasty, isn’t it? Now, Marisol, what were you saying about Rufus?”

  At his name, Rufus barked and brought his chicken over and set it in Preston’s lap. She threw it down the hall. “Wait. Back up. How would Oscar know—”

  “Rufus could really be sick,” Marisol said loudly. “We should get him checked out immediately.” She jumped up. “The sooner, the better.”

  Em mouthed, Sorry, to me. She’d forgotten Preston didn’t know about the auras. Easy enough to do—Preston was around a lot these days, so much so that it was hard to remember she wasn’t another branch of our dysfunctional, piecemeal family tree, but a reporter who’d love nothing better than a big scoop.

  “Right now?” Dovie asked.

  “Right now. You can pick him up this afternoon.”

  “I can get him on my way home from work,” I volunteered.

  “No!” Marisol shouted.

  We all stared at her.

  “I mean, there will be paperwork. It has to be Dovie.”

  “I’ll get his leash,” Dovie said.

  Marisol grabbed my arm. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  As she pulled me into the front hall, I heard Preston say to Em, “How much do you know about Cutter?”

  I should have stayed in bed.

  Marisol’s shoes tapped along the slate floor in the entranceway. A wide stairway split the large front hall, and I leaned against the oak newel post. “What’s going on, Marisol?”

  “Shh, shh. Okay, so you know how you’re looking for a boyfriend for Dovie?” Marisol’s dark eyes gleamed. “I was thinking she’d be a great match with Dr. Kearney.” She took her quilted coat from the rack near the door and did a fancy looping thing with her scarf.

  “Your boss, Dr. Kearney?”

  Indirect sunlight was starting to spill through the transom window and sidelights, illuminating just how cozy Dovie had made her home over the years. The warm woods, the natural elements like the stone floor, and the rich colors all worked so well together. Throw in the little bits of glitz and glam, like the tiny crystals on the curtains, and the place fairly radiated Dovie’s personality—the interesting mix between an elegant woman and the showgirl she used to be. “Didn’t you sleep with him?”

  “No, he’s twenty years older than me!” Her tone tried for offended but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  I tapped my chin. “Didn’t you want to sleep with him?”

  Sheepishly she tucked her hands in her coat pockets and rocked on her heels. “Briefly, during my Professor Higgins phase.”

  Marisol had gone through many phases. “But didn’t you two date?”

  “We had coffee. Once. Lucy!” She clapped her hands. “You’re getting sidetracked.”

  “But he’s twenty years younger than Dovie.”

  Marisol grinned. “I know. Isn’t it great? Dovie as a cougar?”

  “What cougar?” Dovie asked, coming down the hall with Rufus, his toenails clacking on the stone. “Don’t tell me you have one at the clinic.”

  Marisol’s dark eyes sparkled. “I will this afternoon.”

  Dovie glanced my way with an I-didn’t-serve-mimosas-this-morning-I-swear kind of look, but before she could say anything, Marisol grabbed the leash, the rubber chicken, and kissed my cheek, then Dovie’s. “Thanks for breakfast. Bye!” she yelled down the hall, and slipped out the front door, Rufus leading the way down the curving walkway.

  Dovie stared after them with a long-lost look in her eye.

  I sidled up, slid my arm around her shoulders. “You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?”

  “Ha! He’s such a nuisance. Always begging me to throw that damn rubber chicken.” She craned her neck to watch as Marisol opened the back door of her SUV and urged Rufus inside. Dovie might not have realized it, but her hands were shooing him into the car from afar. “I’m going to get carpal tunnel from that mutt.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I closed the door and Dovie moved to peek through the sidelight as Marisol drove down the lane, disappeared down the slope leading to the street.

  “Well, back to the real world. I need to get ready for Zumba, and stop at the bakery, and my nails are in desperate need of a manicure. Oh, and a massage would be heavenly.” She stopped, grabbed my arm. “He’ll be okay, right?”

  I smiled. “He’s in the best of hands.”

  She nodded, but I knew she wouldn’t be convinced until Rufus was home.

  In the kitchen, Em was alone at the breakfast table. “Where’s Preston?” I asked.

  “Powder room. What do you think? Kauai or Maui?” She held two brochures, one in each hand, as if weighing them.

  “Can’t go wrong with either.” Dovie patted Em’s head as she walked by.

  I noticed the
newspaper on the counter. I skimmed the article. “Preston wrote a story about Rufus getting a new home?”

  Dovie rinsed a mug, set it in the dishwasher. “I may have mentioned it would be a good way to keep Mac’s name in the news. Someone has to know something. People just don’t disappear without a trace.”

  I worried my lip. I didn’t want to burst Dovie’s bubble, but many people often disappeared just that way. Poof, gone, as Preston would say.

  “I’m going to go back to Mac’s house today. Mac’s granddaughter, Christa, mentioned something about Rufus’s food. I wonder if he eats a special blend. That might explain why he’s not eating now. While I’m there I can press Jemima Hayes for more information. Have you met her husband?”

  “Rick? No.”

  “Rick Hayes?” Em said, dropping her brochures. “My God,” Em sputtered. “I had a poster of him on my wall as a teenager.”

  “Who?” Preston said, coming into the room.

  “Rick Hayes,” I said.

  “Jemima’s husband? Why?”

  “He was hot,” Em said.

  “He’s old,” Preston said, wrinkling her nose.

  Dovie shot her a look. Rick had to be at least twenty-five years younger than my grandmother. And if there was one thing Dovie didn’t like being labeled, it was old.

  Em explained how Rick had been a contemporary of Bryan Adams and George Michael (a name Preston actually recognized but for all the wrong reasons), but he had never really had a hit until the late nineties, when one of his songs was chosen as the theme for a popular sitcom. It stayed at the top of the charts for months and even won a Grammy. Rick toured for a while, the arenas getting smaller and smaller. Now he took jobs wherever he could.

  “I saw him sing at the Marshfield Fair last year,” Em said, heading for the coffeepot. “He wasn’t very good, but he still has a certain appeal.”

  “He’s broke,” Dovie said, “and trying to sell a reality show based on him making a comeback.”

  Shaking her head, Em said, “That’s just sad.”

  There was nothing worse than a fallen idol.

  I glanced at the plate of waffles, but sadly I had no appetite. I poured a cup of juice.

  Preston said, “I have to go— Algebra calls. Have you talked to Meaghan Archibald yet, Lucy?”