That was a valid point. My health-nut father rarely chose anything other than the Mediterranean chicken salad. “It’s a wonder you ever go out to eat.”
“Which is why I rarely do. What’s this?” he asked, poking the files on the tabletop.
“Possible matches.”
“For whom?”
“You.”
His eyes widened; then he winced, looking accusingly at the speaker above his head. “The music would also have to go.”
Classical definitely wasn’t Raphael’s style.
A server came and took our orders. Raphael chose a fish-and-chips basket, made with the freshest cod and handmade fries, and I picked a gourmet BLT that had the most delicious roasted red pepper mayonnaise.
I grabbed the top file and flipped it open. “Marcia Bigelow, aged fifty-one. She’s a seventh-grade science teacher. Loves autumn, chocolate-chip cookies, and taking cruises.”
“Not piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, and making love at midnight on the dunes of the Cape?”
My cheeks heated. Lyrics of a song or not, I couldn’t picture Raphael in that light. My father yes (despite the sand), him no.
Tells you a lot about my childhood.
“Don’t mock. On paper she seems like a great candidate.”
“Who are the others?”
We went through the other two files, and he decided to try a date with Marcia.
Maggie bustled around, flitting from one table to another, from the cash register to the kitchen. No wonder she was so trim.
“How long till spring training?” I asked Raphael.
“One hundred and seventeen days.”
I smiled. There wasn’t a man who loved baseball more than him.
“Spring training?” Maggie approached with a pitcher of ice water. “I go down every year to watch a couple of games. Have you been?” she asked Raphael.
Oh no. This could turn out badly.
“Never had the chance,” he said. “I hear Fort Myers is very nice, though.”
“Fort Myers?” Maggie said. “Oh no, I go to Legends Field in Tampa.”
It was like watching a train wreck.
“Legends Field?” Raphael asked. “Spring-training home of the Yankees?”
The tone in his voice had Maggie’s back stiffening. “That’s right. Do you have a problem with that?”
I kicked Raphael under the table. His cursing out the Yankees was nothing new to me—however, I didn’t want Maggie to fillet him.
Sparks flew from his eyes. “No, ma’am.”
Maggie filled our glasses, cocked her chin, and sashayed away.
He huffed and puffed once she was out of earshot. “And you’re friends with her?”
“What happened to all your lectures about fairness and equality?”
“Doesn’t pertain where the Yankees are concerned.”
Even though the Yankees hadn’t been so good in the past few years, the rivalry between them and the Red Sox ran deep. “So stubborn, Pasa.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Despite her bad taste in baseball teams, she makes a delicious fish-and-chips platter.”
“I don’t think now is the time to ask for the recipe.”
I wanted to ask if he suspected Maggie and my father were an item, but Raphael would never tell, even if he knew for certain. It was one of the reasons he’d worked for my father for nearly thirty years.
As Raphael talked about the Sox’s excellent chances next year (I think Maggie’s comment had gotten under his skin), my mind wandered back to Max. If he’d been found yet.
It didn’t take long for my thoughts to twist their way to the skeleton. And to Sean. And the vision I’d seen of the two of us.
“Uva?” Raphael asked. “You’re a million miles away. What’s wrong?”
Where to start? With a fear of failing my father? With the guilt of not being able to find a lost little boy? With my worry about Em? With having a vision of a dead body? With Dovie and her matchmaking and horrible eavesdropping?
I’d need a week to get it all out. Instead, I told him about the one thing I couldn’t comprehend. I leaned in, across the table, and dropped my voice. “I had a vision.”
He waited, as I knew he would.
“Of the future. At least I think it’s the future. That is, if the vision isn’t a figment of my imagination.”
Lines creased his forehead as he frowned. “Of what?”
I was afraid he’d ask that. “Not important.” There were some things he just didn’t need to know.
“Are you sure it was of the future and not a recovered memory?”
“I’m sure.” No way had I gone to bed with Sean and forgotten about it. That’s like forgetting you won the lottery. Just didn’t happen. “This has never happened to me before. Why would a new,” I dropped my voice, “ability appear now, out of nowhere?”
“I wish I could answer you.”
He didn’t know how much I wished he could, too.
I reached for my wallet to pay our bill, but Raphael stopped me.
“But this was my idea,” I protested.
“But my pleasure.”
“You’re such a charmer. I’m surprised some woman hasn’t fallen for you yet.” I gathered up my files. Was that woman at my fingertips?
“A heart has to be willing, Uva.”
True enough.
“I’ll walk you out,” he added, tossing money on the table.
I rose, turned toward the door, and froze.
Preston Bailey sat in the seat directly behind mine. She looked up and smiled.
“Hello,” I said shakily.
“Why, Ms. Valentine, what a surprise. Who’s your lunch companion?” She eyed Raphael.
“Just a friend,” I answered vaguely.
The corner of her mouth quirked as she stared at me, a gleam in her perceptive eyes. “I see.”
I hurried away, Raphael on my heels. As we stepped out into the sunshine, I took a deep breath. It wasn’t what Preston Bailey had seen that bothered me.
It was what she might have heard.
TEN
At four thirty Sean picked me up at the commuter boat dock in Hingham, on his lap a tiny Yorkshire pup, sticking his head out the window.
“He’s cute,” I said, opening the car door. “Is he yours?” I sank into Sean’s leather seats. He drove an older Mustang, two doors, sleek and black, a manly man’s car.
“All three pounds of him.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a lapdog kind of guy.”
“The breed wasn’t my choice,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But the name was. Meet Thoreau.” The dog bounded over to me, prancing on my lap.
“As in Henry David?” I asked, my heart swelling for a man I barely knew.
“Is there any other?”
“Awful literary of you.” I scratched behind the puppy’s ears. His fur was soft and shiny. Dark eyes peered up at me from under spiky brown bangs. A small pink tongue dangled from the corner of his mouth, panting slightly.
Sean maneuvered around the parking lot and headed back toward Route 3A. “I minored in English back in the day.”
“Oh,” I said, falling that much harder.
In two hours I was supposed to meet Butch at the Hingham Bay Club for dinner, which was conveniently located in the same shipyard as the dock. I’d just have Sean drop me here after we were through. Raphael had somehow managed to get my car from the train station in Cohasset to the shipyard—maybe Maggie was right. He did have superpowers. I was glad—if my date with Butch was awful, then I had means of escape.
Inconveniently, I would have to wear my date clothes to Great Esker. It couldn’t be helped. Before I left work, I’d changed into a wraparound dress and heels. It wasn’t the ideal outfit to dig up a body, but then again, what was?
If that wasn’t enough to worry about, Preston Bailey, the nosy reporter, had been outside the building when I left, snapping pictures of me. She wore a knowing look on her face, doubling
my unease that she’d overheard my conversation with Raphael.
I was terrified to see her article.
“Do you have pets?” Sean asked.
“A three-legged cat and a one-eyed hamster.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t ask.”
“Names?”
I hesitated.
“What? Are they something ridiculous like Fluffy and Muffy?”
I’d told Marisol Fluffy was a terrible name. “No. The cat is Grendel. The hamster is Odysseus.”
He turned and looked at me. “You’re serious?”
“Back in the day I minored in English, too.”
Something resembling appreciation flashed in his eyes. “But now you’re a matchmaker?”
“For a couple of weeks, at least. While my father recuperates.”
“What did you do before that?”
Since the time change the previous weekend, night settled early in the evening. The setting sun was obscured by sparse clouds, darkness looming on the horizon. “This and that,” I hedged. I wanted desperately to change the subject. There was no need for him to know I was a jack of all trades, master of nothing. “You were a firefighter?”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Nine years. Started right out of college.”
“Suz said you were hurt?”
“Something like that,” he answered vaguely.
It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it, so I let it drop. I directed him north on 3A, headed toward Great Esker Park. Thoreau turned twice and settled into my lap.
The little fur ball was adorable but not quite the type of dog I’d hoped Sean would bring with him. A big bloodhound would be more likely to “dig” up a long-buried body. But the puppy would have to do.
“Where are we going?” Sean asked.
“Great Esker Park in North Weymouth.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Mostly only locals know of it,” I said. “It’s hard to find.”
“But you’re not local to this area—how do you know of it?”
I looked out the window as we crossed the Hingham Bay Bridge. Boats bobbed in the choppy water. The Weymouthport condos rose up near Webb Park on their narrow peninsula, looking ominous in the murky evening light. “Through the grapevine.” The supernatural grapevine, but I kept that to myself.
“That’s quite an outfit to go to a park.”
“Don’t ask,” I said, not wanting to explain about Dovie’s matchmaking. I should have just canceled the date, but I wanted to act as normal as possible. As if I weren’t about to unearth a murdered woman.
“Lucky guy,” Sean said, eyeing me.
I shifted in my seat, scratching Thoreau behind his ears. “How do you know I’m meeting a man?”
He winked at me. “Don’t ask.”
Touché.
“Turn left at the next set of lights. It’s a wonky turn—you need to get in the right lane.”
“To turn left?”
“It’s Massachusetts,” I said. “The roads around here never make sense.”
“Point taken.”
There was a fierce breeze—the American flag at the Vietnam memorial was flapping so hard I could hear the reverberation from inside the car.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” he asked, stealing a look at me.
For a second I was glad I’d taken time with my hair and my makeup. But then I remembered that I shouldn’t be trying to impress Sean Donahue.
“You trust me, remember?” I didn’t want to scare him away by telling him the truth right off the bat.
“I’m beginning to question my instincts.”
He probably should.
Soon, he said, “I called Melissa Antonelli again today.”
I tried to place the name, then remembered. Jennifer Thompson’s older sister. “And?”
“A no-go. She wouldn’t talk, either. Any idea why?” he asked me.
I shook my head, though I had two very good ideas. Elena and Rachel. “Turn left up here,” I directed. “The park is at the end of the road.”
At the bottom of the street in a residential working-class neighborhood, two metal gates closed off the park’s lot. We parked in front of the gates, and everything darkened once Sean shut off his headlights. There was a small nature center off the parking lot, a picnic shelter, and a basketball court, its silhouetted hoops standing guard over the park. Beyond, a baseball field sat eerily quiet. There were no streetlights.
The wind rustled through the trees edging the wooded park from the lot, howling softly.
“It’s gloomy down here,” Sean said.
I shuddered. I was beyond glad Sean was with me or I knew I wouldn’t be able to drag myself out of this car. “Yeah.”
Sean leashed Thoreau and looked at me. “Should I bring the shovel?”
“Not yet. Just the flashlights. It’s getting dark quick.” My ears stung from the chilly wind. I flipped up the collar on my trench coat. Sean stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You look . . . beautiful.”
Heat flooded me, leaving wonderful tingling in its wake. “Um, thanks.”
We walked through the empty parking lot to a paved pathway leading upward into the woods, Thoreau leading the way, tugging his leash, sniffing and marking to his heart’s content.
I kicked at a stone. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Who’s Cara?”
His steps faltered. “How do you know—” He cut himself off. “The phone call in my office yesterday?”
I nodded. And waited.
“She’s my . . .”
Just stick a knife in me and be done with it already. “What?”
“Ex-fiancée.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, that wasn’t a very ex-like conversation you were having last night. Grocery shopping implies intimacy.”
He glanced at me, his gray eyes and dark lashes mesmerizing. “We’ve been going through a rough patch. On, off. Trying to see if we can make it work, and slowly realizing that whatever we had is gone. It’s hard to admit we’ve both let go. We still share an apartment, but have separate bedrooms.”
“Ah.”
“I like you, Lucy. And meeting you has reinforced what I already knew—I have to cut the ties with Cara. For good. But like I said, it’s hard. There’s a lot of emotional baggage.”
I liked him, too. Too much to tell him so. That could lead us to a place where I might not like myself in the morning. Especially if Cara still believed her relationship with Sean would work out.
My thighs burned as we crested a steep hill. No one was around. Just us, the wind, and my wishes for things that could never be. Because even if Cara weren’t in the picture, I knew better than to get involved with him. “We missed the path.”
“What path?”
“There’s a dirt path with limestone steps.” I’d been caught up in my conversation with Sean and hadn’t been paying attention.
We stood on the paved path, along a ridgeline. Down to our right, the baseball field sat glumly silent, longing for little kids with baseball bats or a pickup game of Wiffle ball. Down on our left, the moon bounced off the Weymouth Back River. A beautiful image, but one I couldn’t linger over.
I about-faced, but instead of heading back down the steep incline, I followed the pathway above where we came in, my flashlight aimed on the brush to my left. Soon, I spotted what I was looking for. A stone staircase leading back to the parking lot.
I led him down the stone steps, my heels catching every so often. About halfway down, I looked to my right. Thin-trunked trees dotted the hillside; a thick blanket of leaves covered the ground. I veered off the staircase and into the woods. About ten feet in, I stopped short.
“What?” Sean asked me.
“I’ll stay here. Can you go get the shovel? You can follow the steps down into the parking lot.”
As he st
ared at me long and hard, I could see the questions raging in his eyes.
“Please?” I added.
He handed me the leash, turned, and jogged carefully down the steps, disappearing into the inky night.
I knelt down, letting Thoreau lick and jump up on me. I wasn’t a hugely religious person—my parents weren’t the church type, but Dovie used to sneak me to services with her from time to time. It took me a good minute to remember one of the prayers. I said it low, quietly, forgetting words here and there. I was spooked to be disturbing the dead.
A minute later Sean was back, carrying a shovel, breathing hard. “What now?” he asked.
“We dig.”
“Lucy, I think I need to know—”
“Trust, remember, Sean?”
He had this way of looking at me that made me feel he saw into my soul. I laid it bare for him.
“Okay,” he finally said.
As I aimed the flashlight at the ground, I sat with Thoreau, quiet. The sound of shovel hitting earth echoed through the trees, mingling with the eerie howl of the wind.
After a foot or so, Sean asked, “How much farther?”
“I don’t know.”
Sean continued, his breathing labored.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” Sweat beaded his brow. “Sometimes I get a little winded.”
That didn’t make sense—a former firefighter should be in great shape. Former. Oh. “From the accident?”
He didn’t answer.
I didn’t press.
Another few inches down, the shovel hit something solid. Sean pulled the shovel out. I flicked on a flashlight and shone it in the hole.
A chill went through me, cutting to the core. I started shivering.
A look of horror swept across his face as he stared at a length of human bone. “What is that?”
Through chattering teeth, I said, “The question should be ‘Who is that?’ And the answer is ‘I don’t know.’ ”
We were on our way back to the car, cutting through the parking lot, when our path crossed with an old man walking a tri-colored beagle. Sean and I tried not to make eye contact.
Sean dropped the shovel into the trunk and spread his arms wide. “What now? Should we rob a bank or something to make our day complete?”
Thoreau happily followed me to the passenger door. I lifted him up. “No need to be so sarcastic.”
Truly, Madly Page 9