Deeply, Desperately (7 page)

"Sean and I don't have that kind of relationship." Much to my dismay.

"I know. And it's getting old. I'm getting old. Too old to enjoy my great-grandbabies should you
ever
have any."

"You're forgetting the Curse ..."

"I've been thinking."

"Dangerous."

She shook her finger at me. "I'm wondering if you're crying Curse every time you get close to someone out of fear."

"Of course I am. I've seen what happens to the relationships in this family."

"But you've never been a victim of the Curse, LucyD. Perhaps you wouldn't even be afflicted. Maybe that lightning strike zapped it out of you? Have you ever thought of that? Hmm? Hmm?"

I hadn't.

"I didn't think so," she went on. "It's time you gave commitment a chance. Maybe there's hope for you yet. And hope I'll get those great-grandbabies before I die."

"Have you been talking to Raphael?"

"Raphael?"

"Never mind," I murmured, the words "commitment" and "hope" dancing in my head like sugar plums.

The possibility that there might be a chance with Sean excited and frightened me at the same time. It was something to think about. But who was that woman who'd answered his phone?

The next morning pain radiated through my head, lobbing between my temples. It was an ache that had started last night after Dovie left and hadn't subsided. I partly blamed it on all the wine I'd drunk and partly on that phone call to Sean.

He hadn't called me back.

I didn't want to think about it. It didn't bode well for my mental health.

Neither did thinking about Preston Bailey. Why had my father insisted on inviting her to Dovie's party? And who was Cutter McCutchan? It was strange he had ties to my family. Too coincidental to ignore.

I sipped at my coffee, hoping the aspirin I took would kick in before I hit the road. I was meeting Sean at the office and then heading to the antiques shop in Falmouth to see about Leo's class ring. Any lead at this point was a good lead.

My cell phone rang a peppy canned version of "Deck the Halls." It hurt my head. Why couldn't I have picked a more sedate, hangover-friendly tune? Like "Christmas Canon" by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra? Now, there was a song I could get behind
right now. Or not. Because unfortunately, it was a version of Pachelbel's
Canon
, a classic wedding processional. Which reminded me of Sean. Which hurt my head even more.

The phone went into a second chorus. I didn't recognize the number. Wincing, I said, "This is Lucy."

Grendel strode into the room looking like a poofy fur ball, eyed his food dish, and glared my way.

"Ms. Valentine, this is Faye Dodd, Sarah Loehman's mother. Aiden Holliday gave me your number. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."

I was suddenly very awake. "I'm sorry for all you've been through."

A deep exhale came across the line. "It's been rough."

I sprinkled some kibble into Grendel's bowl. He stuck his fluffy tail in the air and walked off, his limp barely noticeable.

"I'm going to be honest," Faye said. "I don't know if I believe in psychics. But I'm desperate."

"I understand." Many people didn't know what to believe, what not. Often it took proving my abilities to someone before they accepted what they could not understand. Even then, there were still skeptics who would rather believe any absurd notion than see what was plainly in front of their eyes.

"We'll have to meet." I sank into my favorite chair and swiveled in time to see my mother's Land Rover coming down the lane. "I can only do readings through palms."

"Can we meet soon?" she asked hesitantly.

"Tonight?"

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 to 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."