Hideaway

by Roberts, Nora

  Dillon coated the horse, taking his time, being thorough.

  “So I’ll know when.”

  “I’m going to bet you will.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As they had for Lily’s departure, Cate and Hugh stood together outside waiting for her return.

  “Any minute now.” Cate checked her watch, calculated the time since Lily’s text on landing. “Even with the traffic.”

  “She’s bringing perfect weather with her. The air’s bell clear. She’ll want to walk around the gardens after being cooped up in the plane and the car all day.”

  “They’ve never looked better. Then she’ll want a martini on the seaside terrace or up on the bridge.”

  “Most definitely.” He slid an arm around Cate’s waist. “We know our girl.”

  “We do. Oh, that’s the gate. I heard the gate. I wish we’d hired a brass band!”

  “I wish I’d thought of it. She’d love it. There she is.”

  They watched the limo, sleek and black, round a turn below. “Now I’ll have my two best girls home.”

  The limo wound its way up, slid smoothly to a stop. Cate started to rush forward to open the passenger door herself. And her father stepped out.

  “Dad!” Giddy with joy, she ran to him, jumped into his arms. Laughed as he swung her in circles as he had when she was a child. “Oh, what a surprise. What an amazing surprise. I thought you were still in London.”

  “I wrapped a couple days ago. Then Lily and I conspired.” He swung her again. “I missed the hell out of you, Catey.”

  “Best surprise ever.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  Cate looked over to where Lily stood, holding hands with Hugh. “The finest pâté, with truffles.” She turned into Lily’s arms, breathed in her scent. “To quote another Sullivan, I missed the hell out of you.”

  “Mutual. God, it’s good to be home! Oh, look at your hair! There’s so much of it, and all beautiful. And smell California, feel that air. I love New York, but it was already eighty degrees and humid enough to bathe in when we left this morning. Consuela!”

  She swung around, caught the housekeeper in an enthusiastic hug.

  “Welcome home, Miss Lily. Welcome home, Mr. Aidan.”

  “It’s so good to be home. To see you.”

  “I will see all the bags are taken in. Mr. Aidan, your room is ready.”

  “You knew?” Cate demanded.

  Consuela simply zipped a finger over her lips, mimed turning a key.

  “You’re a treasure among treasures, Consuela,” Lily told her, and left her to supervise the unloading.

  “Did you?” Cate pointed at her grandfather.

  “Not a hint. I married a sneaky woman.” He embraced his son. “Stay awhile, will you?”

  “I’m planning on it. You look very fit. I’d say Cate’s been taking good care of you.”

  “If she’s not dragging me into the gym every morning, it’s into the pool. Water aerobics of all things.”

  “That I want to see.” Lily rolled her shoulders. “But right now these legs need to walk off hours in a plane.”

  “We’ll catch up,” Cate said when Hugh lifted Lily’s hand to his lips, when they started to walk away. “Give them a little room,” she murmured to her father. “It’s nice to see people in love after a couple of decades together.”

  “And it gives me a little room with you.” Aidan took her hand in turn. “How’s my girl?”

  “Happy. Even happier right now.”

  “Water aerobics?”

  “They’re tougher than you think, but you’ll find out tomorrow when you report at eight a.m., poolside. Everybody into the pool.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m giving you and Lily a small break while your body clocks adjust. Grandpa’s an early riser. We usually start at seven-thirty. I’m a working girl, you know.”

  They wound around the front garden with its arching Japanese maple, with the formal roses perfuming the air, around the side with a flow of hydrangeas in heartbreaking blue, the Bloomerang lilacs that never gave up.

  “I listened to one of your audiobooks on the flight from London to New York.”

  “That would be the author’s book.”

  As Hugh had with Lily, Aidan kissed her hand. “Not to me. You well deserved the Audie for that performance. You have a wonderful sense of character, of pacing the narrative. It takes serious skills to embody not just one character, but all.”

  “I love the work. And my studio? It’s a great place to work. I love the cottage, and being able to walk up to hang with Grandpa, or prod him into the gym or pool. Both of which he enjoys a lot more than he lets on.”

  “I wasn’t blowing smoke when I said he looks fit. He looked better when I left for London, but not like this. I swear, he’s shed years. You’ve given him a real lift, Catey.”

  “We’ve given one to each other. Can you really stay awhile?”

  “I’m ready for some time off. I may have to fly down to L.A. a few times, but I’m planning on staying for the summer.”

  “The summer? Really?” Delighted, she leaned against him as they passed a small berm rioting with purple foxglove and wild thyme. “My happy quotient just spiked.”

  “I need time with you, with Dad, with Lily.” He turned, looked back to the sea. “And time here.”

  “It fills me. Ireland, it made me feel safe, and it soothed. New York charged me when I needed charging. Helped me feel capable, helped me grow up. And this? Sea, sky, hills, quiet? It fills me.”

  “And do you feel safe?”

  “Yes, and charged and soothed, all of it.”

  Knowing him, knowing his worry, she rubbed his arm.

  “Let’s get this out of the way because nothing is going to spoil this double homecoming. It upset me, her latest, but it didn’t send me into a panic. You already know I had to change my phone number and email because I sent you the new ones. It’s annoying, but so’s a paper cut.”

  “A paper cut’s more than annoying when someone squeezes lemon juice on it. She excels at that.”

  “I’m not going to say it didn’t take a couple of days to ease the sting. But she’s made so much noise about this foundation, and yes, I know she’s having a gala in a few weeks to add more splash, she’s boxed herself into doing some actual good. So there’s your lemonade.”

  “It’s a wonder to me she ever managed to produce someone like you.”

  “Sullivan genes are stronger than Dupont.”

  “Mackintosh.”

  “Sorry?”

  “She changed her name at eighteen, legally, and went by Charlotte Dupont before that, but she was born Barbara Mackintosh.”

  “Like the apple?” For some reason, it made her laugh. “Why didn’t I ever know that?”

  “Didn’t seem relevant.”

  “Well, Barb was downgraded to an occasional annoyance in my life long ago. As for the other, I do feel safe here. The police are investigating, and there are various theories we can talk about later. But I feel safe, and I feel happy, and I’ve got my dad for the summer.

  “Now, I’ll bet Lily and Grandpa made it around to the bridge, and Lily’s sitting down with the view and a martini. We should join them.”

  “I could use a beer.”

  She took his hand again. “Let’s go get you one.”

  After drinks, a light lunch, Cate went in with Lily to give father and son some time.

  “You can keep me company while I unpack. I’ve pined for your company more than I pined for the emerald earring I lost last month.”

  When they walked into the master suite, Lily aimed straight for the dressing room. Stopped, shook her head.

  No suitcases in sight, and her makeup case along with her signature perfume already on the dressing table.

  “I should’ve known. I told Consuela not to bother with this.”

  “Bothering’s her religion.”

  “Well, I’m not going to complai
n.” She shifted directions to the sitting area, took one corner of the couch, pointed Cate to the other. She gestured to the forest of lilies set around the room. “You?”

  Cate sent her an arch look. “Your lover.”

  Her eyes softened. “Knock me cold if I ever so much as think about taking a job that pulls me away for four months again.”

  “I actually think I would. We did fine, and I enjoyed having Grandpa to myself for a while. But you leave a hole, G-Lil. A really big hole.”

  “I’m selfish enough to like hearing that. And now that it’s just us girls.” Leaning forward, Lily rubbed her hands together. “Tell me all.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Girls.” Lily pointed to herself, then Cate. “With your lover, of course. Is he coming to the welcome-home dinner I know Consuela’s planning tonight?”

  “We’ll feast on your favorite honey-baked ham with the brown sugar glaze—but don’t let on I told you.”

  Lily copied Consuela’s locked lips gesture. “And Dillon?”

  “I couldn’t budge him for dinner because he felt Grandpa and I should have that with you. And he added weight saying he should have dinner with his ladies and Red. But he’ll come by about nine. He doesn’t want me alone in the house until . . . well, until.”

  “I know I feel better with him there. It’s just an extra precaution—with benefits.” With a heartfelt sigh, Lily toed off her shoes. “I know he makes you happy because I can see it. And with him staying with you at night, you’re taking him for a nice test drive.”

  “G-Lil.” Cate lowered her head, shook it. “No wonder I’ve missed you.”

  “And how’s the rest of the family? I need to get over there, have a gossip session with Maggie. There’s nothing like sitting around a farmhouse table drinking homemade wine and dishing the dirt.”

  “They’re all great. Really busy. They hire people on, take on students—I guess you know that. Still, there’s so much work, all day, every day. It’s a really full life, and one of them’s always coming up with a way to add to it. Gram’s spinning wool. Yarn. Wool into yarn. On a spinning wheel.”

  “I must’ve known that’s how it was done, but I can’t see it. I’m going to have to get her to show me. And Red’s fully recovered?”

  “Back to surfing, fixing engines, making butter and cheese and whatever else Gram points him at.”

  “No break, then, in the who, what, why, how of it all?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, and I think they’d tell me. Dillon’s half—more than half convinced me Sparks stabbed himself to give his lawyer another angle on early release. If you take that out, consider Red was the police and somebody could’ve had a grudge, and the same could be said about the lawyer, that Denby made enemies in prison, the whole connected thing gets weaker.”

  Lily rubbed Cate’s leg with her foot. “Who are you trying to convince, sweets? Me or yourself?”

  “Both, maybe,” Cate admitted. “I know I have to live my life, be Cate and live it. That’s a lesson I’ve had to learn a few times, but I’ve got it solid now.”

  “It’s a good lesson, but I’m not sorry Dillon’s tucked up with you at night.”

  “I can’t be sorry about that either. You’re tired. You need to stretch out, take a nap.”

  “I could use one. A nice little couch nap, right here.”

  “Then I’ll see you for dinner.” She got up, took the light throw to spread over Lily, kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “Oh, Catey, me, too.”

  Cate went out, back to the bridge. She saw her grandfather showing off his little vineyard to her father.

  Leaving them to it, and to each other, she started back to the cottage. She’d live her life, she thought, and get a little work done before she changed for dinner.

  Jessica Rowe stuck at average and ordinary all of her life. An only child, she grew up in a middle-class suburb outside of Seattle. She did well enough in school, but only by studying her brains out to push herself over that average line.

  She’d never fit in.

  The popular cliques ignored the slightly pudgy girl with her average looks, her awkward social skills, and dismal fashion sense. She wasn’t nerdy enough for the nerds, geeky enough for the geeks. Without any affinity or talent for sports, she never caught the attention of the jocks or coaches.

  No one bullied her, as no one noticed her.

  She was the human equivalent of beige.

  She loved to write, and used her abundance of free time to create fantastic adventures for herself in her journals. And shared them with no one.

  She graduated a virgin, with no savvy, sassy, or sympathetic bestie to boost her standings.

  College didn’t throw open doors for her or change her status, as she simply melted away in the crowd. She aimed toward law only because crime interested her. Often she conjured up stories where she played the courageous heroine who foiled the master criminal. Or starred herself as the master criminal who foiled the authorities time and again.

  She could admit, to herself, she preferred the latter. After all, she lived in the shadows as the best criminals did. The difference, as she saw it, was the courage—she lacked—to take what she wanted.

  She graduated law school dead middle of her class, finally passed the bar on her fourth attempt. Meanwhile she had a brief relationship with another law student, gratefully lost her virginity, only to be dumped via text when he found someone more interesting.

  She wrote a grisly short story about a woman’s revenge on a faithless lover, and celebrated alone when a mystery magazine published it under the name J. A. Blackstone.

  She wrote two more while she slaved at a very average law firm for very average pay without any hope of advancement.

  All of her life she lived by the rules she dreamed of breaking. She arrived at work early, left late. She lived frugally, drank moderately, dressed modestly.

  Some of that changed when her grandfather died and left her, his only grandchild, three-quarters of a million dollars.

  Her parents advised—and fully expected her—to invest it. She fully expected to do so. Then she sold her first book. Not the fiction she used as an escape hatch, but a true crime work she’d spent nearly two years researching on her off time, her vacations.

  She took the somewhat meager advance and her inheritance, quit her job, and moved to San Francisco. Never in her life had she done anything so bold. At the age of forty, she rented a modest apartment and, since she never entertained, set up her work space in the living room.

  And there, thrilled with her solitary life, started on her next book. She found the courage to press for interviews—victims, inmates, witnesses, investigators.

  An hour each day, as a reward, she worked on fiction where she became a female assassin who took lives and lovers as she pleased.

  The modest sales of her first book encouraged her. By the time she’d finished her second, she felt more than ready to tackle the next.

  She had Charlotte Dupont to thank for her inspiration.

  She caught an interview over her usual Wednesday-night dinner of sweet-and-sour shrimp, began to take notes. Her initial thought to have the Hollywood actress, the mother, as the central figure flipped when she began more serious research into the kidnapping.

  Grant Sparks leaped out at her. So handsome, so magnetic.

  And what he had done for love! The price he’d paid for it.

  Many, she knew as she dug in, saw Dupont as the dupe, but she followed a different angle. The rich, the famous, the beautiful woman had used Sparks, and continued to do so. Trying to profit off the bungled kidnapping while he remained in prison.

  By the time she requested an interview, she was primed for Grant Sparks’s smooth manipulations.

  By the third visit she’d agreed to become his attorney of record. By the fourth she was deeply—and just as madly—in love with him.

  He opened the doors for her, showed her the
power and thrill of breaking the rules. She smuggled things in and out for him, passed messages to and from without a qualm.

  She believed in his cause—as much as he allowed her to know of it. Crime—and hadn’t she always believed it—sometimes had justification. And punishment too often fell on the wrong people.

  She would help him correct that.

  When she waited for them to bring him to her on a warm summer day a year and a half after their first meeting, the average, ordinary Jessica Rowe had long since crossed the point of no return.

  He’d mentioned blue as his favorite color. She wore a blue dress. He’d been a personal trainer, and even now generously, selflessly offered his skills and advice to other inmates.

  She couldn’t quite make herself go to a gym, but bought exercise DVDs and worked out fiercely at home. She’d had her hair cut, colored, styled, had studied YouTube to learn how to apply makeup.

  He’d transformed her. Though she knew she’d never rival someone like Charlotte Dupont, she’d found a new confidence in her looks, felt she wouldn’t shame him when they built their life together.

  Her heart pounded when she heard the locks give, the door open. She could barely breathe when he walked into the room, for that moment when their eyes met and she saw the love and approval in his.

  Still, she nodded briskly at the guard, folded her hands over the file she had open. And waited until they were alone.

  “I live for this,” he told her. “For just this moment when I see you again.”

  Her already thundering heart swelled. “I’d come every day if I could. I know you’re right when you said we need to stick to once a week. Maybe twice when it makes sense. But I miss you so much, Grant. Tell me first, if you’ve had any trouble, anything.”

  “No.” His eyes cut away from hers as if he had to compose himself. “I’m careful. As careful as you can be in here. But I’m afraid she might try again. She’ll wait for me to relax a little, for it to blow over, then she’ll pay someone else to kill me. The next may have better luck.”

  “Don’t say that, Grant. Don’t.” As her eyes filled with fear tears, she reached out, gripped his hands. “I’m still fighting for your release. I won’t stop. I know you said no before, but I could hire a more experienced criminal attorney. I could—”