Absolutely, Positively (23 page)

“He had a rope anchored to the bluff and a boat waiting for him below. He rappeled down the side of the cliff. I’ve never seen anything like it outside a Hollywood movie.”

I didn’t question the relief I felt—I didn’t like Tristan, but I didn’t necessarily want to see him dead, either. “The police are on their way.” It would be too late to catch Tristan. He’d be long gone by the time the police could contact the Coast Guard.

Sean was pale as he took me in his arms, held me close. “When I saw him coming out the door…”

Suddenly I was flying backward over the threshold. I landed with a bone-jarring thud. Worse, I watched in horror as Sean flew in the opposite direction, across the porch. He landed in a snowbank just beyond the steps.

Stunned, I couldn’t move for a second. It seemed as though I was watching in slow motion. Then my brain kicked in, and I realized what had happened. Sean had been shocked, his heart zapped by his implanted defibrillator. I scrambled to my feet, tripping in my haste to reach him. An overwhelming sense of loss and grief sat heavy on my chest, crushing. I fought to breathe normally. In, out.

This. This had been my vision.

I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t.

I sent frantic pleas to every deity known to man. God, Buddha, the fates, the Tooth Fairy. Anyone who might be able to help me. To save him. To let us share a life together.

Together.

The sirens in the distance sounded to my ears like angels singing as I knelt in the snow next to him. I didn’t even know I was crying until the tears dripped onto his face.

“You better not be faking, Sean Donahue.”

He struggled to sit up. “Or else what?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to kiss you to death or something.”

“Good way to go.”

His voice was quiet, so quiet. I said, “Keep still.”

He reached up, swiped at the tears on my face. “I’m okay.”

How could he say that? Didn’t he know what happened? Hell,
felt
it? His heart had stopped. If not for that shock, he could be dead right now. Dead. I shuddered and tried valiantly to put the word out of my mind, but grief fluttered in my chest.

“Help me up,” he said softly.

“I think you should lie still. The police are almost here.” I could hear the sirens growing louder.

“Lucy, I’m freezing. Please. And your lips are turning blue.”

Me. He was worried about me at a time like this. I didn’t even feel the cold. If I was shaking, it wasn’t because I was only wearing a robe.… It was the fear. The damn fear.

“Please,” he repeated.

Grabbing hold of his forearms, I pulled. I helped him up the steps and into the chair next to the fireplace. He was heavy. I hated that the term “deadweight” came to mind. I used the collar of my robe to dry more tears. I had to stop crying. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. I had to be strong.

“I just need to sit for a minute,” he said.

“You need to go to the hospital. I’ll call an ambulance.” I looked around for my cell phone.

He grabbed my wrist. “No. I’m okay. I just need to call my doctor and transmit the reading. Remember? We talked about this.”

I drew in a shaky breath. We had talked about it. Months ago. He thought I should know what happened during a shock and the common procedure afterward. If he had another shock in the next twenty-four hours, he’d need immediate medical attention, but for now he was right. He just needed to sit and get his bearings. And I needed to calm down.

Ha! Like that was going to happen. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew I had to fake it. For his sake.

It’s just … I had never really expected him to have a shock. On the surface he was so healthy, so alive. Yet just underneath … a time bomb lurked. And it had just reminded me that Sean was living on borrowed time.

27

I was afraid to sleep.

Afraid that if I closed my eyes, when I opened them again Sean would be gone.

Gone, gone.

The forever kind of gone.

It was illogical—I knew he’d be fine at least for the foreseeable future. During my panic earlier, I’d forgotten about my other visions. The beach, the hammock. The white dress, the black suit. They had yet to be fulfilled. It gave me a small measure of relief. But then what? What if there were no other visions after those came true?

I glanced his way. He slept, looking blessedly peaceful for a change. I eyed his bottle of prescription medicine on the night table. He’d taken something to help him relax, to sleep, to keep torturous thoughts away. Lucky guy.

Checking the clock on my side of the bed, I saw it was just after 2:00
A.M.
It had been a long night. An hour after the Cohasset police arrived at my cottage, the FBI showed up (I was beginning to really dislike Agents Thomas and St. John), then Aiden and a couple of state police investigators.

There had been so many questions, I’d lost track of what I answered. Thankfully, everyone had left Sean alone for the most part to rest. One thing they all agreed on was that my cottage wasn’t safe. I’d given in after an hour of trying to explain that I didn’t think Tristan Rourke would hurt me. No one listened.

I nixed all talk of hotel rooms and safe houses and went to the one place that felt as much like home as my place.

Mum’s.

She’d welcomed Sean and me and our menagerie with open arms and big smiles. There was nothing she liked more than houseguests, no matter the reason we were staying.

There was twenty-four-hour surveillance on the house, from land and sea. Tristan Rourke would have to be crazy to try to break in.

I expected he would try.

Moonlight slipped through the crack in the drapes. It was both sweet and disturbing that my mother had left my room as it was the day I moved out. My walls were covered mostly with Broadway show posters, but there were a couple of bands, too—Pearl Jam, Journey, Bruce Springsteen. I had eclectic tastes, even as a teenager.

I looked up. A yellow Aerosmith concert poster had been stapled to the ceiling above my bed, and my gaze traced the font, just for something to do, to keep my mind from wandering.

Sean coughed, rolled, and settled in again. I watched him carefully, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest.

My own chest squeezed so tight it hurt to draw in a breath. I couldn’t keep up this vigil. It wasn’t healthy—mentally or physically.

I tossed off the covers, slipped on my robe and my slippers, and almost tripped over Grendel and Thoreau snuggled together on a dog bed at the foot of the bed. I peeked in on Odysseus, but he was making a nest and was completely covered in pine shavings.

I went in search of something to drink. Water, milk, bourbon. Something.

Downstairs, a light glowed in the kitchen. I followed it and found my father leaning over the counter, a fork poised over a half-eaten New York cheesecake.

Guilt colored his olive skin tone. “Lucy Juliet. What are you doing up?” He glanced at the cheesecake as if just seeing it for the first time, kind of an oh-what’s-that-doing-there look. I was waiting to see how he’d explain it away, but he must have decided he’d incriminated himself enough already.

Never mind that I rarely ever saw him eat sweets. He’d been a health nut his whole life, but he was currently on a strict diet. Low fat, low sodium. All in an effort to strengthen his heart. It hadn’t been very long since his near-fatal heart attack (what was with the men in my life and their hearts?). How long had he been sneaking treats in the middle of the night? This little discovery could explain a few things.

He didn’t try to make excuses. “Fork?”

“Of course.”

He slid one across the counter. I sank the tines into the cheesecake. “Mum’s going to kill us.”

“Only because we ate it first. I found it hiding behind two cartons of soy milk.”

So much for her sticking to her newfound diet plan. “I’ll be sure to replace it tomorrow.”

“Good thinking.” After a minute of silent eating, he said, “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be safe.”

I didn’t bother to argue my safety. My father would be as hardheaded as the police. Maybe more so. I hadn’t mentioned to the police about Dad’s missing paintings. I only told them Tristan wanted Meaghan’s file. I ate another bite. “Tristan won’t be put off by the police presence. He seems the type up for a good challenge.”

“He wouldn’t dare break in here, not after what he pulled at the penthouse.”

Again, I didn’t argue.

Dad’s brown eyes softened. “How’s Sean feeling?”

“Okay.” I set my fork down.

“I like him,” he said.

I heard something more. “But?”

“I worry.”

I wasn’t sure he was worried about Sean’s health or our relationship. Or both. I didn’t ask for clarification. It didn’t matter. “I love him.”

My father’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s half the battle.”

“Only half?” I asked.

“Only half.”

“What’s the other half?”

“It’s for you to figure out.”

“Is this like when I was little and needed a definition for homework and you’d make me look it up?”

He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Just like that.”

“I hated that.”

“I know. But you learned.”

“Not really. Raphael always told me.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “I should have known. That tactic won’t work this time. You have to learn on your own. It won’t be easy, Lucy Juliet. But I have faith. There’s something between the two of you.”

“Love conquers all?” I offered.

“We shall see.”

I watched him as he rinsed his fork, put it in the dishwasher. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Maybe love would conquer all with him and Mum, too, though I knew better than to get my hopes up. Mum was right.
Life is about living, not about constant worrying.
He caught me staring at him and smiled. My smile. Cutter’s smile.

As Dad hid the remainder of the cheesecake, I took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with filtered water from the fridge. The big dinner was coming up, and I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Cutter about Preston. “Have you talked to Cutter lately?”

“His name is Oliver.”

My father refused to acknowledge the nickname. I had a feeling it had something to do with not liking that his son carried another man’s surname.

“Yesterday,” Dad added.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

He lifted an eyebrow. “We speak often.”

“You do?”

“Of course. We have our differences, but so do you and I. The love,” he said softly, “is still there.”

“Conquering all?” I teased.

He walked over and hugged me, resting his chin on the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly glad I was here. I ought to thank Tristan—he’d given me an unexpected gift. I wouldn’t take it for granted. “Things will work out just fine, Lucy.”

“Promise?”

“I am nothing if not a man of my word. I am a man of honor. Of integrity.”

Smiling, I bit back a snide comment about receiving stolen property. “Don’t forget modest.”

“How could I?” He winked. “Now get some sleep. I have a feeling it will be a long day tomorrow.”

An expected visit from Tristan, possibly finding out what happened to Mac, looking for Rufus, warning Cutter, not to mention worrying about Sean.

“Long” didn’t begin to describe it.

28

An hour dragged by. I knew every nuance of that concert poster. Hartford Civic Center. 1986. My mother had taken me—my first concert. I’d been in kindergarten. She thought I should be initiated into the Aerosmith fan club at an early age.

Thoreau snored. Even Odysseus had gone to bed.

I stared at the glowing clock. Three thirty-six. I lay on my side, watching Sean. He had become restless—his medication must have worn off. I almost wanted to wake him up to take another pill, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that too much.

I was slowly driving myself crazy just lying here, so I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I needed something to occupy my thoughts other than Sean’s breathing patterns. Grabbing my laptop, I headed into my walk-in closet and closed the door behind me. I turned on the light and settled in on the floor.

Sitting cross-legged, I started with Facebook and the South Shore fan page. I’d posted on there about Rufus. So far no one had seen him. I checked the notice I put on craigslist, too. Nothing. If Tristan hadn’t taken Rufus, where was he?

I thought about Rufus’s leash and suddenly had the sickening thought that maybe it had been snagged on a tree. He could be in the woods somewhere, just waiting for someone to find him. Pain ripped through my stomach, and I pressed my hand against where it hurt most. It didn’t help, and I had to wonder if I really was getting an ulcer.

Trying my best to ignore the image of a stranded Rufus, I clicked through my e-mail. I sent a note to Cutter about needing to change our dinner plans—and why—and added that I needed to talk to him about Preston and her snooping
before
the dinner.

I checked Facebook again, in case anyone had spotted Rufus in the last couple of minutes. No one had.

I clicked over to Google and plugged Rick Hayes’s name into the search box. No one around here seemed to know much about him, but over a million matches popped up. The first entry was Rick’s personal Web site, which was under construction.

The second was a Wiki entry. It contained the usual bio information—born in 1962 in New Jersey. Started singing in high school. Had little success until a song of his was chosen to use as a popular sitcom’s theme song but never again had another hit.

He’d been married four times—and divorced four times—before Jemima. Once as a teenager to a woman named Francine. That had lasted two years. No children. Then Patricia came along. That relationship lasted two years, no kids. Then Linda—two years, no kids. Then Esmeralda—four years, no kids.

At thirty-one, he’d met eighteen-year-old Jemima Gladstone. It was no wonder Mac and Betty hadn’t liked him—not with his track record with women. Considering he only had one relationship that lasted longer than two years, it was amazing that he’d been married to Jemima for almost twenty. I wondered if Christa had anything to do with that.