Plain Jayne (32 page)

But not ready enough to call him at a number where I can be
sure to reach him.

I go online and type in “Marblehead” on weather.com to see
how inhospitable it is today. Yesterday, it was in the low 20s and windy, with
a chance of flurries. Today, it’s 40 (heat wave!) with overcast skies but no
chance of precipitation. I’m chagrined to realize I think that sounds lovely. The
fireplaces are probably blazing and soup’s simmering on the stove. The smell of
Paulette’s fresh bread in the oven suffuses the entire ground floor. Maybe Luke’s
sitting at his desk, scribbling on a manuscript.

My quest for information about Marblehead not quite
satisfied, I type the name in a Google search to see if anything interesting
has happened there recently or will be happening while I’m in the area. Maybe I
can rent a car and drive out there, for something to do, if nothing else.

When the list of links finishes loading, I focus my dreamy
stare at the top one. It’s from the local paper, the
Marblehead Reporter
,
and the preview headline states,
“Magnate’s Home Burns in Overnight Blaze.”

I click on it to see if I recognize the house from my walks
along the beach, but the photos of the blackened house are too close up for me
to put the place in context. Until… a wider shot of the property from almost
head-on grabs my attention. Two very distinctive features—an unfocused gazebo
in the background and a sporty silver car in the seashell driveway—make my eyes
bug and my heart lurch.

“No…” I whisper aloud, bringing my nose closer to the
computer monitor. I skim the text and the photos’ captions without focusing
enough to actually glean any information until I force myself to calm down and
read. That’s when I find out that the house
“…caught fire around 3 a.m. and
was fully engulfed by the time volunteer fire crews arrived on the scene. Shipping
tycoon Malcolm O’Shea currently owns the home. However, the property was in the
process of ownership transfer in a divorce settlement between O’Shea’s
daughter, Caroline, and her ex-husband, Lucas Edwards. Three occupants,
including Edwards and Caroline O’Shea, made it out with minor to moderate
injuries. Edwards was taken to a Boston-area hospital, where he’s being treated
for moderate injuries related to the fire. Ms. O’Shea suffered minor smoke
inhalation. She was treated and released. The other victim, Paulette McGovern, a
family employee, was treated at the scene. The cause of the fire is currently
under investigation. Investigators say arson has not yet been ruled out. The
house is considered a total loss.”

“Oh, shit,” I say behind my hand when I get to the end of
the article.

Feeling sick and shaky, I stand and pace the room.

A fire. A fucking fire. She tried to kill him in a fucking
fire. Murder him. With flames and smoke. Choking, burning, crackling fire.
Tried to melt his flesh and singe his hair and remove him from this earth. With
fire, of all things.

The article doesn’t say that, of course, but I know it’s
true. Running him over didn’t work. Stabbing him was a failure. Guilting him
proved impossible. So she targeted something he truly cared about—that house—in
a desperate attempt to get her revenge.

If I ever see her again, I’m going to fucking kill her.

But first, I have to see him.

A Boston hospital? What does that mean? There must be a
dozen hospitals in this area. How do I know which one he was taken to? I don’t.
There’s no way for me to find out, either. Damn privacy laws! He may not even
be at the hospital anymore. Depends on how bad his injuries were. What does
“moderate” mean, anyway? Smoke inhalation? Burns?

I guess I could call Thornfield and talk to Sally. Surely,
she’d know something. After the scene Gus and I caused at my party, I’m
hesitant to talk to just anyone there, but Sally’s an ally. She’d tell me,
right? I’d even talk to Blanche, if I had to. It’s worth it. I have to find out
if he’s okay. Really okay. Not newspaper-speak for “okay.”

But I can’t get through to anyone at Thornfield. The phone
lines are jammed. How do you get a busy signal on a multi-line phone system at
a company as large as Thornfield? I try his cell phone next, but it goes
straight to voicemail. I knew it was a long shot, but I’m desperate.

I call my publicist, Jules, to see if she’s heard anything.
She tells me she’ll get back to me in a few, but not before she reminds me to
get ready for my reading and signing this afternoon at a place called Vine
Street Reads in an affluent neighborhood. Oh, shit! Life has to keep moving? For
real?

“Can’t we cancel?” I whine.

“Because your editor was in a house fire?” she asks
skeptically. “Why would you even want to?”

After a deep breath, I reveal, “He’s not just my editor.”

“Oh.” After a befuddled pause, she croons, “Ohhhhh! Really?!
Lucas Edwards? And you?”

And this is why I don’t tell people things. But I got a huge
lecture from Tullah about trusting my “team” and confiding in them so nobody’s
blindsided again like they were when my personal history was revealed.

So, I sigh and confirm, “Sort of. Yes.”

“Wow.” Typical publicist, she barely misses a beat. “Well…
we still can’t cancel this afternoon. Sorry. I’ll find out what I can about
Lucas, though.”

After we hang up, I go back to my computer, but there’s
nothing else to learn about the fire from the Internet. I’ve barely missed the
local midday news, so the TV won’t be any help, either. I sit on the bed and
chew at my chapped lips while I wait for Jules to call me back.

When my phone finally rings after what feels like hours, I’m
devastated to hear her say, “I can’t get anything. I called Thornfield’s PR
department directly and got nowhere. They said what you already know:  he was
treated at a Boston-area hospital. They did tell me what the injuries were,
though. Broken leg. Smoke inhalation. They’re not releasing any further
information at this time.”

To my dismay, my frustration makes me start crying. “But I
need to know!”

Jules snaps, “Well, I’ll keep trying to find stuff out, but
for now, you need to focus. He’s fine. And you have to be at a signing in two
hours. Your car will be at the hotel in an hour. Are you ready?”

“No. I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad!” She’s using her scary publicist voice, the one
that makes my butthole tighten.

“Fine,” I back down in a sulk.

“Good. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“You better have news for me,” I assert semi-bravely.

“Don’t get all high-maintenance on me, Jayne.”

“Sorry,” I grumble. “I’m worried, that’s all.” And that’s
all I’m willing to admit.

“Yes, I’m getting that impression. But you have obligations.
And we’re going to fulfill them. And tomorrow, you can drive all over the
greater New England area looking for him, if you want, but today, we have
things to do.”

I’m beginning to despise this published author gig.

*****

I don’t know anything new the next morning. I still don’t
know anything new after waking up Jules to ask her what she’s heard. I still
don’t know anything new after checking the television and online. I still don’t
know anything new after running downstairs and buying a newspaper.

Then I call Sally as soon as 8:00 finally rolls around.

“Sorry, Jayne. They’re not telling us anything.”

“Well, didn’t you send flowers to him at the hospital… or
something?” I ask, trying to jog her memory.

“Oh, he’s not in the hospital anymore. I do know that,” she
says, sounding proud that she can help in some way.

“He’s not? Well, that’s good, right?” I say, grasping at the
tiny morsel of good news. “So, he wasn’t hurt that bad.”

There’s a shrug in her voice. “I guess not. He hasn’t called
once to check in, though, so he may have a traumatic brain injury. He’s never
been out of touch this long.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have his address in the city, would
you?” I inquire ultra-casually.

“Oh… I can’t tell you that.”

“Sally… Please. I, uh, want to send him a card,” I lie.

She brightens. “How nice! You can send it here. I’ll make
sure he gets it.”

I smack my forehead with my palm. “Never mind. Hey!” Again,
I pretend we’re talking about nothing more sensitive than the weather. “Blanche
wouldn’t happen to be around, would she?”

“No,” she informs me regretfully. “She’s taking some
personal days. It’s so quiet around here!”

“Damn,” I can’t help but say out loud.

“If you need Luke for something, I can give him a message or
have him give you a call when he checks in,” she offers generously. “I’m sure
it won’t be too much longer.”

I hate how desperate I sound when I say, “Yes! Please do.
Ummm… tell him I’m glad he’s okay, and I’m sure he’s busy, but, uh…” Shit. Now
what? What professional reason would I have for him to call me? “Uh… uh… I’ve
started my new book!”

“Oh, good for you, Jayne!” she enthuses.

“Yes. And I have a question about… grammar… and stuff. I’ve
tried to look up the answer, but I’m still not sure, so…”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Sure, Jayne. I’ll pass along the message
and have him call you back.”

“Don’t forget to tell him I’m glad he’s okay. Because that’s
the most important thing. But… I need him to call me, too.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry. He’s not gonna think you’re a jerk
for asking for his help.”

I pretend to be relieved. “Whew. Thanks, Sally.”

“No problem.”

I have no appearances until this evening, at another small
store tucked in a tiny town in the ’burbs. Am I supposed to sit here in my
hotel room, waiting for my phone to ring? I won’t be able to do it. It’s a
weekday, so Gus can’t keep me entertained. Jules is about to wring my neck. So…

I call down to the front desk. “Hey. I was wondering… could
you recommend a car rental place that would bring the car to me here at the hotel?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Self-Awareness Lesson #1:  I am not an attentive passenger.
Therefore, I have no idea how to get to Marblehead. Thank goodness for
technological intervention (a.k.a., GPS).

Self-Awareness Lesson #2:  Being in love sucks. It makes me
feel and act like an idiot.

Self-Awareness Lesson #3:  I’m an impulsive idiot. What am I
going to do when I get to the house? And how is this going to make me feel
better? Am I even going to be able to handle seeing another house that I’ve
inhabited—however briefly—burned into mounds of ash, blackened boards, and
warped furnishings?

Self-Awareness Lesson #4:  Despite all these doubts and
reasons that I shouldn’t go anywhere near the beach house, nothing could stop
me. Therefore, I must be an unreasonable idiot, as well.

Summary of Self-Awareness:  I’m an idiot with a poor sense
of direction.

When I get to the house, I’m faced with more proof of this.
There’s yellow tape everywhere. And a police officer guarding the property
line.
Pretend like it’s completely logical and natural for you to be here,
I instruct myself as I park my car across the street and walk confidently to
the police car.

He rolls down his window. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks
in a heavy Boston accent that makes me want to curl up on his lap and ask him
to tell me a story (okay, add “random idiot” to the list).

I pour on the charm. “Good morning, Officer. Hey, I, uh…
lived in this house fairly recently… last summer, as a matter of fact, and I
forgot a few things when I left, and I was wondering if… I mean,
when
you’d be releasing the scene, so I could go through and look for my stuff.”

Considering I came up with it off-the-cuff, I’m pretty
impressed with my story. He’s not. “I don’t have an answer for you, ma’am.”

I remember it was about a week before I was allowed to try
to salvage anything from our house in Indiana. Not that I tried.

I smile self-consciously. “Oh. I’m only in town for a couple
of days, so… I don’t know… Maybe I can poke around a little bit now?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. For one thing, it’s not
safe. And second of all, it’s a crime scene.”

“What?!” I play dumb. “A crime scene?” I laugh, as if I
think it sounds melodramatic. “Good grief! What do you mean? Like, insurance
fraud or something?”

Patronizingly, he answers, “As in, attempted murder, Miss.
Now, I’m going to have to ask you to move along. The people in this
neighborhood don’t want a lot of gawkers. And I know the owner of the property
wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“I know. He’s one of my very best friends,” I stretch the
truth. “You know, that’s why I was staying here?”

He looks nonplussed.

“Hmm. Well… I see some of the property isn’t cordoned off.
So… I take it that it’s okay for me to walk around and look at the house from
outside the yellow tape?” I fold my hands under my chin. “Please?”

“Still private property. No.”

He’s a bigger idiot than I am if he thinks I’m going to
accept that answer, but I sigh and say resignedly, “Okay. Well, thanks anyway.
I’ll ask Luke to keep a lookout for the really important stuff I’m missing.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he says dismissively. “Have a nice day
now.”

I trot across the street and get back into the rental car.
As I drive past him, I wave as if he’s been most helpful and friendly instead
of a big douche-and-a-half. Then I drive where Mr. GPS tells me there’s a
public access beach not too far (a mile or so) from Luke’s house, park my
rental car, grab my coat, sunglasses, and keys, lock my purse in the car, and
take off on foot up the beach.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sneaking over the dunes like a
not-so-graceful Navy Seal and running, hunched over, to the gazebo, which looks
incongruously pristine and white against the blackness of the nearby house.
Once inside the gazebo, I can’t see the police car, so I know he can’t see me,
either. If he does foot patrols, I may be in trouble, but I’ll deal with that
if the time comes.