“She’s dating my father!”
Sean’s gaze whipped to my mother. “True?”
Mum stood. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
Although they’d been separated just shy of forever, they remained close friends. Sometimes lovers. But I’d never seen Mum this gaga over him. I didn’t know how I felt about it. My parents had been happily separated for over twenty-five years, content to lead their own lives. Without each other.
Often with other people.
Hence, Cutter’s existence.
“I thought Dad was seeing Sabrina?” Mum’s news had tipped my world a little, sending emotional baggage tumbling. Sean was wisely keeping quiet.
Fussing with the cowl of her sweater, she said, “That ended almost as soon as it began.”
Sabrina McCutchan and Dad had rekindled an old flame right around the time Cutter’s true paternity had been revealed.
“But thank you for bringing her up, Debbie Downer.” Mum pursed her lips.
I immediately thought of Preston. She’d be using the phrase in no time. “I’m sorry, but you know how Dad is.”
For decades Dad’s playboy status had been kept quiet—until the day he had a heart attack during a rendezvous with a paramour. The Herald caught wind of the affair, and the gossip was just now settling. But the fact that my father was—is—a playboy remained.
“How long have you two been dating?” I recognized how silly the question sounded. My parents were still legally married. “It must be really serious if you’re asking about your engagement ring.”
She rubbed the toe of her shoe against the area rug. “A while now.”
“And I’m just finding out?”
“We wanted to keep it to ourselves for a bit. I thought you’d be happy. Doesn’t every child want their parents back together?”
“I … am happy.” Maybe. “Does Dovie know?”
“Yes.”
“The subterfuge.”
“We asked her not to tell you.”
“The deception.”
“Dramatics don’t become you, LucyD.”
“Raphael?” I asked, my lungs squeezing.
“Doesn’t Raphael know everything?”
Raphael was my father’s valet, his right-hand man, his closest friend for nearly twenty-five years. And a second father to me. He and his girlfriend, Maggie Constantine, were planning a monthlong getaway to put their relationship to the test. Both were having a hard time believing true love had been under their noses all along. Although Raphael was still working full-time with my father and still living at my dad’s penthouse, he spent a good part of his day helping Maggie as a chef downstairs at the Porcupine, the restaurant she leased on the first floor of the building.
Unlike Raphael, I didn’t have a colorful guarantee Sean and I were destined to be together. All I had was blind trust. And I was having a hard time with it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Raphael’s romance had played a role in my parents’ rekindling. It was only a matter of time before Raphael and Maggie married and Raphael moved out. My father wasn’t a man who liked to be alone.
It was cause for concern. And to know all these people had been keeping secrets smarted. “I’m a big girl.”
Over Mum’s shoulder, Sean was looking as if he wanted to escape. But then he winked at me and set my heart aflutter.
“But still my baby,” Mum said, coming over to me and pressing her cheek against mine. She was all curves, soft and enveloping. As she looped her arms around me, the sweet Chanel scent she always wore wrapped around my heart. She was … my home.
It was so cheesy, I wanted to laugh. But more than that, I wanted to hang on. The last thing I wanted was for her to be hurt. “You and Dad—”
She interrupted. “I can see you’re concerned, but there’s no reason to be. We’re adults. We know what we’re doing.”
I pulled back, my eyes wide in shock as I realized something. “That’s what this diet is all about!” Dad was a health nut, obsessed with eating right and fitness. His heart attack months ago had been quite a surprise. “I should have figured that out.”
“Hush now,” Mum said. “It’s time I took care of myself.”
“As long as you’re doing it for yourself and not for Dad.”
“I am.” She tucked my hair behind my ear. “We’re happy, Lucy.”
Grudgingly I had to admit she was right. My father had been in a great mood lately. And all it took was one look to see Mum was practically floating.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be happy for you.”
“That’s my girl. Now about the ring. I want to surprise your father by wearing the set again.”
A guilty flush crept up my neck. When I was younger, I used to love dressing up in Mum’s jewelry. I especially coveted her engagement ring and had declared, as only a child could, that there was not a more beautiful piece of jewelry ever made. I had a sickening feeling that I had misplaced the ring, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I might have stashed it.
“Lucy?” Mum held out her hand. “Please?”
Crisscrossing lines sank into her soft fleshy skin. Which was the love line? If I could read palms, would I be able to tell at a glance if this current fling with my father would work out?
No point in going there. I couldn’t read palms. But I could find her ring.
Reaching out my hand, I settled it on top of hers. My ability to find lost objects came straight from the energy released from the palm—contact must be made. Images came in a dizzying blur.
I pulled my hand away and opened my eyes, trying to chase away the lingering vertigo.
“Did you see it?” Mum asked.
I crinkled my nose. “Yes.”
“What’s with the nose?”
“It’s in my old room. In the little music box next to my bed, mixed in with a bunch of old trinkets.”
“What, LucyD, is it doing there?”
I shrugged and gave my best “mea culpa” smile while I explained my love of the ring. “I must have forgotten to return it. Sorry.”
“No, no, I’m glad you used it. It is too nice be stuck away in a drawer, but honestly? I always thought it too much.”
I gasped.
“I know, but I’m a simple girl.”
So was I, but I loved that ring.
“You won’t tell your dad I said so, will you?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good. You know how he is; everything has to be over-the-top. He wouldn’t understand.”
True. Very true.
She eyed her bare fingers. “I don’t know why I even care. It’s not as though your father is going to put on his ring.”
“He has one?”
Mum laughed. “He never wore it even when we were first married. I should have known then what I was in for.”
“Yet now all that’s changed?”
“Absolutely.”
“Positively?”
“As certain as I can be.”
She sounded so sure, she almost convinced me. I felt the need to offer support. “Em rarely wore her engagement ring. She wanted something small, but Joseph didn’t listen.”
It was also in kindergarten that I fell in love for the second time. With my best friends, Marisol Valerius and Emerson Baumbach.
Mum put her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to say my relationship won’t work out, either?”
Em had recently broken off her engagement and was currently living with Dovie. “Not at all!” Okay, maybe subliminally.
Mum kissed my cheeks, squeezed Sean’s hand. “It will be fine; don’t worry.” She sashayed out of the room.
I drew in a deep breath.
Sean came up behind me, circled me in his arms. “You’re going to worry, aren’t you?”
Between my parents dating, Preston on the trail of uncovering my family’s biggest secrets, Meaghan Archibald’s love life, and the disappearance of Mac Gladstone …
I could pr
actically feel the ulcer starting. “Not at all.”
5
I was packing up for the day, skipping out early so Sean and I could go to Mac Gladstone’s house, when there was a knock on my office door.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Oliver “Cutter” McCutchan kissed my cheek. “Just came to say good-bye. I’m on the way to the airport. My flight leaves in two hours.”
“Good-bye?” Every time I saw him I was taken aback by how much he resembled my father. His height, his smile, his chiseled cheeks, his strong chin. Even his mannerisms.
“I’m hitting the road for a while. I have a showing in New York, and then one in Miami at the end of the week. I should be back this weekend.”
“Busy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I zipped my tote bag closed. “It just feels like you’re on the go a lot these days.”
“That’s the nature of my job.”
He was a gifted artist. His work was amazing, especially his portraits. He used his abilities to see auras and worked them into his pieces. They were breathtaking and were taking the art world by storm. “I know. You’ll send postcards?”
“No.”
“You’ll call?”
“Maybe.”
“E-mail?”
“Definitely.” He gave me a hug. “I should go before Oscar spots me.”
“Something wrong there?”
“Nothing at all if I want to take over the family business.”
My heart sank. “And if you don’t?”
“Then there’s something wrong.”
“Do you think you’ll ever want to match?” He had been through so much in the last couple of months. He learned he had a father he never knew, a sister, a grandmother, and oh yeah, that he’s the last in the line of Valentines to be able to read auras, the end of a legacy.
Reunions should be all about warm and fuzzies, not bottom lines, but on the flip side, I could also see my father’s point of view.
“The company should go to you,” Cutter said.
“It wouldn’t survive. I can’t see the auras anymore, remember? Only you and Dad.”
“That’s a lot of pressure, and I love my art.”
I didn’t want to push but couldn’t help myself. “You could do both.”
“Not you, too, Lucy.”
“Sorry.” I gave him another hug.
“I forgive you.” He smiled. “I might even send you a postcard.”
“Dinner when you get back, you jet-setter?”
“Saturday night. It’s a date.” He checked his watch. “I have to go.”
“Don’t even think about standing me up, because there’s something I want to talk to you about. Rather, someone.”
“Sounds interesting. Are you trying to match me?”
“Hardly.” I had to warn him about Preston. “And maybe it’s time you found out about the curse.”
“The curse?”
“Cupid’s Curse.”
“Why do I feel like I don’t want to know?”
“Because you don’t.”
“But you’re going to tell me.”
“It’s my sisterly duty. Now go. It takes forever to get through security.”
With a wave he was gone. And I was left wondering how I was going to get him and my father to compromise where Valentine, Inc., was concerned. Luckily I had a week to figure it out.
* * *
Cohasset was one of those gorgeous New England towns used in the movies—literally. Several feature films had been shot here. There’s a lot to love. Stunning ocean views, a quaint village with charming shops, harbor, and town green.
Not the kind of place where one disappears without a trace.
Snowflakes fell lazily as Sean turned onto Atlantic Avenue, one of the most picturesque streets in Massachusetts, known for its magnificent oceanfront mansions. In the summer, sightseers clogged the tree-lined road for glimpses of fame and fortune. This area used to be the vacation spot of Boston’s rich and famous, but over the years more people came, stayed, lived. My grandparents settled here in the forties. My mother lived a couple miles away, on Jerusalem Road, another tourist hot spot.
Even though I’d lived here all my life, I never took it for granted. This area was special. Magical. It pained to think something horrible could have happened to Mac here.
I checked my cell phone again. I was expecting a return call from Aiden Holliday. Although Cohasset wasn’t in his jurisdiction, as my connection with the Massachusetts State Police he would be allowed access to the case because of my involvement. I hoped the Cohasset PD or the state police had information that hadn’t been released to the public. Information that might help Sean and me find Mac.
Sean drove past the driveway to Aerie, Dovie’s manor house, and turned into a sleek paved driveway a mile down the road. A wrought-iron gate in a geometric pattern blocked the drive even though Mac’s daughter, Jemima Hayes, was expecting us.
Sean lowered his window, pressed the intercom for the main house, which couldn’t be seen from the road.
A bored voice female said, “Yes?”
“Sean Donahue and Lucy Valentine. We have an appointment.”
The gate slowly swung open.
“Friendly,” Sean said, sliding me a glance and a wry smile.
The driveway snaked uphill through dense woods, filled with evergreens, low-lying shrubs and roots, and bare branches of deciduous trees. The lane was lined on each side with a low granite wall inset with small, round lights. The woods gave way to an expanse of lawn, where the brown tips of dormant grass were sticking through the pristine white of accumulating snow.
The driveway widened, and the granite gradually tapered into a decorative garden border, lining the length of extensive beds, snowy now but probably glorious in summertime.
The house sat proudly, nakedly, at the edge of the bluff. The home stood out as a modern masterpiece with its glass walls, straight lines, and boxy design. It was a rarity among the classic New England architecture of its neighbors. The whole place had been remodeled five years ago after the original manor had burned down—an electrical fire that had killed Mac’s wife, Betty.
The Gladstones had come from money, old money, but Mac had also made a fortune as a children’s book illustrator and print artist. Some of his work had been shown in the New Yorker and Life. Dozens of museums proudly displayed original pieces from early in his career.
Gusts laced with February chill blew off the water. I drew up the collar of my coat, but snowflakes stung my cheeks like little pinpricks. Sean rang the bell and a loud dong went off inside the house.
Through the tinted glass front door, I saw a blurry blob slide across the floor, right itself, then charge toward us. Barking echoed. I held my breath, afraid the dog was going to launch at us straight through the glass, but he slowed and bounced like a giant hyperactive rabbit, waiting impatiently for someone to let us in.
“Rufus, I presume,” I said through chattering teeth.
A silhouette appeared in the distance. “Rufus! Down! Down!”
The va-va-va-voom figure edged the dog aside with the swing of a curvaceous hip as she opened the door. Rufus surged forward. She grabbed hold of his collar, yanked him back. “Damn it, down!”
A colorful pink and black skull bandanna came loose from Rufus’s neck and fluttered to the ground. The dog barked happily.
“Esme! Esme! Come get the dog.” After a second, she muttered something about good help, then dragged the dog toward the stairs. “Christa, honey!”
“Jemima Hayes?” I asked.
“Unfortunately.”
Okay, then.
She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, and built like a mini Mae West, with curves in all the right places. Thick red hair cascaded past her bare shoulders. Enormous breasts bulged from a skintight tube top. The bare skin of her tiny waist showed above the Chanel belt holding up a pair of flared designer jeans that sat sn
ug on her waist. Barbed-wire tattoos circled muscled biceps. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a vibrant pink and dotted with tiny rhinestones.
On one hand, she looked like a groupie from a bad eighties hair band, yet on the other, culture in her voice hinted at a prep-school upbringing. Her makeup was extremely well done. No over-the-top black eyeliner and fake lashes, but a subtle violet smudge of eyeliner that picked up purple flecking in her brown eyes.
Jemima turned toward the marble steps leading to the second floor and shouted, “Christa!”
Maybe Mac had run away.
If so, I wouldn’t blame him a bit, not if this kind of yelling was common around here.
Rufus was nuzzling Sean’s hand. The retriever’s eyes were bright, happy, his golden coat healthy and shiny. Someone was obviously taking care of him.
A thin, pale teen appeared at the top of the steps, an iPod in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Shiny straight auburn hair hung down, covering her face like a shield.
Jemima’s tone softened, and I immediately liked her a little better. Not much, but a little. “Christa, honey, please, please, please come get this dog. Bring him downstairs.” Christa slowly came down the steps and Rufus rushed over to her.
Jemima stooped and picked up the bandanna. She waved it at the girl, then set it on the newel post with a smile. “Pink again? You’re going to give the mutt a complex.” To Sean and me, Jemima said, “Come on back to the kitchen.”
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the girl retie the bandanna around Rufus’s neck.
Jemima looked over her shoulder. “That dog is such a nuisance. All jumpy and slobbery and needy. I’m not a dog person. Never was, never will be. Sit, sit,” she insisted, pointing to two counter stools at the kitchen island. Sleek stainless-steel counters gleamed in the waning sunlight. Floor-to-ceiling windows were dotted with salty sea mist, but the view of the ocean beyond was still breathtaking. The water was choppy today, angry and wild. “Dad wanted a dog after Mom died and who could argue with that? But I can’t take much more.”
A roux simmered on the gas stove top on the other side of the island. Jemima stuck a finger into the sauce, pulled it out, and licked it clean. She added a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a bit of thyme. Picking up a small paring knife, she began expertly dicing cloves of garlic into tiny, perfect bits.