“I know,” I murmured. She’d be home all day, every day, just thinking of ways to keep Sean at her beck and c—“Wait. Did you say Milton Hospital?”
“Yeah. She’s worked there for years. Why?”
My hands started shaking. I set my mug on his desk.
“Lucy? Are you okay?”
Milton Hospital. The Handmaiden letters. And with that I knew. I knew. Cara had been sending me the letters—probably pinching the paper from the registration desk. This explained why the letters had dropped off in the past week. Her focus was currently on Sean and digging her claws into him.
This was just the ammunition I needed to stay in this fight.
“Lucy?”
“Hmm?”
“Your face is flushed.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
I jumped up. “I have a battle to win.” And I knew just how I was going to do it.
His eyes widened. “Um, good luck?”
“Thanks. Gotta go. I have a meeting.”
I hurried downstairs, Cara weighing heavily on my mind. I tried to let that go for a while because I had other pressing issues. Em had called an hour ago, asking to meet with Marisol and me. I suggested my office because it was central to all of us. Something was up, and I only hoped it was the news Marisol and I were wishing for.
Suz was on the phone and waved as I passed through to my office. My father’s office door was closed, but I could hear the rumble of voices from within. He was booked solid with clients until March. It was a wonder he could even find time for his own love life—yet he managed. Again. And again. And again.
I was surprised to find Marisol already in my office, spinning in my office chair, her black hair flying out like a six-year-old’s on a merry-go-round. “So what’s this about?”
“Em didn’t tell you either?”
“Not a word. Just asked me to meet her here. Do you think …”
“I’m hoping.”
“I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”
“You’re making me dizzy.” I set my things on the coat rack and added, “Do you think he told her about the prenup?”
She stopped spinning. “Something big must have happened, right? It’s not like her to call spontaneous meetings in the middle of the day.”
My intercom buzzed. Suz said, “Em and Joseph are here.”
Marisol’s eyes went wide. “She brought him?”
I pressed the intercom button. “Please send them back, Suz.”
“Why?” Marisol asked.
I didn’t know, but suddenly I had a gaping pit in the hollow of my stomach.
Marisol stood as Joseph marched into the room, Em behind him.
I crept up next to Marisol, linked our arms. We were in this together.
“Em?” I asked.
She looked like hell. Her hair was frizzy, she wore no makeup, there were bags under her eyes.
“Hi,” she said lamely.
Marisol said, “What’s this all about?”
“Just what I wanted to know,” Joseph snapped.
Em winced. “I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
He glared at her. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“What’s what about?”
Joseph pulled a compact disc from his briefcase, tossed it on the table.
I swallowed hard. “What’s that?”
“Just a little home movie,” Joseph said with a sneer.
Preston was right—he did look wormy.
“Thought you might be interested, since you both star in it.”
“We what?” I said.
Em’s eyes drifted closed, then opened. “Our apartment is under video surveillance.”
He said to her, “And you thought I was being paranoid, thinking someone had been in the place, that someone was following me. You were following me, weren’t you?”
Marisol hedged. “A little.”
“And you broke into our loft?” he pressed.
“We had a key,” I said feebly.
“Why?” Em asked.
I cleared my throat. “It’s like this,” I started.
“Well, you see,” Marisol said.
Joseph tapped his foot. He actually tapped his foot. The jackass. “What?” he demanded.
“We don’t like you,” I said.
“Not a bit,” added Marisol.
Em gasped. Joseph’s face hardened. He said, “The feeling is mutual.”
Em gasped again.
“You didn’t find anything, did you?” Joseph snapped up the disc and put it back into his briefcase.
“Condoms,” Marisol said bravely. “Care to explain those?”
Em said, sounding as though she were in pain, “Joseph likes to be extra safe.”
His cheeks flared red. “You do not need to be explaining our lives to them.”
“But—”
“There are no buts, Emerson.”
“We have to tell her,” Marisol said to me.
I nodded. We did.
“Tell me what?” Em asked.
“Well, the other night at Spar,” I began.
“You followed me to Spar?” Joseph sputtered.
“On Friday,” Marisol said.
“And Saturday night,” I added.
“We had this idea, you see.” Marisol’s hands flew as she spoke. “About using bait.”
“A decoy,” I corrected.
“A decoy,” Marisol said, “to, you know, see if Joseph was faithful.”
“Entrapment?” Em asked.
“That sounds so harsh,” I said, realizing Preston might be right about shades of gray.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Joseph asked. “Because I am faithful. I’d never cheat.”
“Is that true?” Em asked us.
Joseph stomped his foot. “Why are you asking them? I’m the one who just told you I don’t cheat.”
Em’s cheeks began glowing a soft pink.
I wanted to reach out and slap Joseph’s forehead.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Marisol grumbled.
“But at Spar, we did learn something,” I started, but was interrupted by Em.
“Friday night? Wasn’t that the night you had dinner with your parents?” she asked him evenly.
The red spread to his ears. “I, ah, just dropped in for drinks. After.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Marisol said, wagging a finger.
“What?” Em asked. “What’s going on?”
“He was clearly uninterested in the decoy,” I said, “but that might have been because he was so focused on the documents he was signing.”
“Documents?” Em asked.
“For a prenup.” Marisol winced.
Em’s eyes widened.
“I can explain,” Joseph said.
“I’m sure you can,” Em murmured.
From the doorway, someone cleared his throat. “Is everything okay in here?” my father asked, his eyebrows drawn together in agitation.
“Depends on who you ask,” Marisol said.
“Explain, Lucy,” he said.
“Well, you see, Marisol and I are convinced that Joseph isn’t the right man for Em, and, well, we had questions about his character, so we kind of, you know, followed him around—”
“It was all my idea,” Marisol piped in.
“I’m not surprised,” Joseph said.
“That’s not true,” I said to Marisol. “You can’t take all the blame.”
“Ahem.” My father never had much patience for this sort of thing.
“We got caught,” I filled in. “And now the worm is trying to wriggle off the hook.”
“The worm?” Joseph looked ready to explode.
Marisol flipped her hair. “If the slime fits.”
“That’s it. That’s just it. The last straw. It’s either them or me, Emerson,” he said in a raised voice.
Her mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
My fa
ther raised an eyebrow and spoke as if he were bored. “I believe that’s an easy choice, seeing as how you two don’t match at all. Em, he’s not your true love.”
“And just how do you know that?” Joseph demanded.
Dad’s eyes darkened. “Do not question me.”
Joseph shrank, then quickly recovered. “I’m leaving.” He headed for the door. “Em.”
She looked at him for a long minute, then stepped next to me, linking to my free arm. And just like that, we were seven years old on a beach with red and blue lips. We’d come a long way from not having a care in the world, but right here, right now, it still felt as though we were never going to let go.
Joseph stormed out.
Dad said, “Good riddance.”
I folded Em into a hug. Marisol joined in. “We’re sorry,” I mumbled.
“I’m not,” Marisol said.
Em sniffled. “I think it’s rather sweet, actually. I always want the two of you to look after me.”
Dad cleared his throat again. “All is well now?”
I nodded.
Em walked up to my father and said, “Not yet. How do you know Joseph’s not my true love? You sounded so sure.”
He chucked her on the chin. “Experience.” He nodded and smiled at me, giving silent permission to tell Em and Marisol the truth.
I let out my breath. I hadn’t liked keeping secrets from them, and couldn’t wait to fill them in on the auras, on Cupid, on everything.
Dad said, a twinkle in his eye much like Santa’s, “Good day, ladies.”
Em flopped into a chair. “What now?”
Marisol crouched next to Em. I sat on the edge of the table. “Anything you want,” I said to her.
“My parents aren’t talking to me. My wedding is off. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a place to live. I can’t even hock my wedding dress because I went and ruined it.”
“You’re such a loser,” Marisol drawled out.
Em’s jaw dropped. Then she started laughing. Next thing I knew the three of us were hugging again.
“You can stay with me as long as you want,” I offered.
“Or me,” Marisol said.
Em sniffed. “First I should probably go pack my things. I only have a suitcase worth, maybe two. The rest of my stuff is in storage. Joseph doesn’t like clutter.”
Talk about a loser.
“All right,” I said, slipping into my coat. Cara could wait. Em came first. And this little detour was just the time I needed to explain everything to them. “But please tell me you’re not taking the painting over the sofa.”
“No way, it’s hideous,” Em said.
Marisol wrapped a scarf around her neck. “Really? I kind of liked it.”
29
Em and Marisol had been stunned by the aura news. They hadn’t asked many questions, but I knew they would come.
As soon as Dovie heard about Em being homeless, she insisted Em come stay with her. She would love the company, she had the room, and she pointed out that the minute Em’s mother heard about it (which Dovie would make sure of) that rift would be well on the road to repair.
I watched Thoreau bounce around outside. The sun was setting, turning the snow a beautiful orange red.
Lights were blazing in Aerie’s downstairs windows, and I’d been invited up for Dovie’s (in)famous stew. After that, I had plans to see Cara Frankin.
“Thoreau,” I called, slapping my thighs. “Come on.”
Thoreau pranced into the house, shaking his fur. Grendel pounced as soon as he had an opening, and the pair tumbled across the living room, bumping against the coffee table.
The paper I’d found lodged under the sofa that morning fluttered down. I grabbed it before Grendel could make confetti, and was about to tuck it in my tote bag when I started reading.
I stared at the paper from Sarah’s file and was trying to figure out what was bothering me.
I read and reread the paragraph about Jake’s injury—the one that sent him into emergency surgery on his first birthday—an intestinal bleed that was almost always caused by blunt force, physical abuse. The injury Scott was supposedly responsible for.
Then it hit me. Jake had been hurt on his first birthday.
What had Scott said to me at the park? That he’d been working double shifts … and had missed Jake’s birthday. Jake was one when Sarah went missing, so there had only been one birthday Scott could have been referring to.
Scott couldn’t possibly be responsible for Jake’s injury … he hadn’t even been home. And he’d also missed Maddie’s first day of preschool—the day she’d broken her arm.
Which left only one person who could have hurt the children.
Sarah.
A half hour later, I’d scarfed down a bowl of stew, endured a guilt trip from Dovie about working so hard, and was on my way to Rockland, driving with one hand, punching numbers into my cell phone with the other. I hoped I wasn’t making a huge mistake.
I was pretty sure the only reason Em agreed to stay with Dovie was because she knew how hard this time of year was for my grandmother. And it gave me warm fuzzies that Em would be trying to help Dovie at a time like this.
And it also reminded me that I’d never followed up on my plan to help Dovie through this season.
The phone rang and rang. I almost chickened out and thought about hanging up, but remembered all the blind dates Dovie had set me up on. There was no way she could get mad at me for doing the same.
Finally the phone was picked up. “John McGill.”
“Hi, Mr. McGill, it’s Lucy Valentine.”
“Well, young lady, I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon. I’m fresh out of jobs.”
I smiled as the snow-covered landscape zipped by. The road had been caked with salt and sand, dirtying the edges at the curbs. “Good thing I don’t need one. It’s last-minute, but I was wondering if you’d be interested in attending a party Saturday night at my grandmother’s home in Cohasset.”
“Your grandmother, you say?”
“She’s quite lovely.”
I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “And single, I take it?”
“Very.”
He laughed. “And what does she say about this?”
“She doesn’t know. You see, Mr. McGill, matchmaking is in my blood.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re any good at it.”
How very true. “Only one way to find out.”
“Did you inherit her smile?”
“As a matter of fact …”
“What time should I arrive?”
I turned on to the Loehmans’ street as I finished giving him directions to Dovie’s and said good-bye.
I didn’t want to see Dovie go through another Christmas crying over an old box of letters. That she had kept them this long was something in itself. Though I had to laugh, because I had most of my old love letters too, from boyfriends past. Those sorts of mementos were hard to throw away, no matter how the relationship ended.
Those sorts of mementos …
I nearly ran off the road. My tire bumped over the curb before I regained control.
Quickly, I pulled over and my GPS woman snottily told me I still had three tenths of a mile to go before reaching my destination. Grabbing my cell phone, I dialed Leo Epperson. His phone rang once, twice, three times. Please answer, please answer … Four, five, six … Come on, Leo! Seven, eight, ni—
“Hello?” Winded, he added, “I’m here. Hello?”
“Leo! It’s Lucy.”
“Darling, hold on.” A second later he was back. “All right. I had to take off my boots. Dripping all over the house. I was out on the back porch and thought I heard the phone ring. Any news for me?”
“I’m hoping you have some for me.”
“How so?”
“Did you ever write Joanne letters? Like a love letter?”
“Of course.”
“Women most always keep love letters, Leo.”
&n
bsp; “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I think I may be able to get a reading. Can I come over? About an hour?”
“Sure thing!”
Hanging up, I continued down the street. My good mood evaporated as I pulled to the curb under a street lamp in front of the Loehmans’ house. I took in the white split-level with black shutters with dismay.
A wintry breeze nipped my ears as I climbed the front steps. Snow covered the lawn, hung from the evergreen shrubs. The red front door bore a cheerful wreath of cranberries and jingle bells.
I knocked.
I heard soft footsteps. The door opened. Sarah Loehman was almost unrecognizable—again. Gone was the platinum hair, replaced now with a pretty auburn brown. Her haggard face had been softened by makeup that artfully hid what was left of her bruise, but couldn’t quite conceal the pain lingering in her eyes.
“Lucy! I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to call you. Come in.” She held open the door.
Inside, the scent of baking cookies filled the air. She led me to the back of the house. To my left in the family room, a tall Christmas tree twinkled in a corner, and a small fire crackled in a marble fireplace. She turned right, into the kitchen.
“I thought I would get some baking done while Scott took the kids Christmas shopping. They’ve been a little uncertain about having me home. Scott thought having them help choose my Christmas presents might help in the transition. They don’t realize that they are my presents.”
Spread out on the kitchen table were dozens of sugar cookies in varying shapes and sizes. Gingerbread men, bells, stars, Christmas trees, reindeer, stockings. All waiting to be frosted and sprinkled with colored sugars.
“That’s a lot of cookies,” I said.
She laughed. “I know I went overboard, but I’ve missed Christmastime with them. Please sit down.”
I sat, my heart heavy. “You look happy.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m trying to come to terms that I deserve a second chance. Scott insists everyone does, but … I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
I nodded to the cookies. “Is this part of making up for them?”
“I guess. In a way.”
“Have you spent much time with your mother?” I asked.
“Only briefly.” Sarah poked at a cookie. “At the hospital.”
I pressed. “She admitted to me she’s made a lot of mistakes too. With you.”
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