Last Kiss

by Luanne Rice

  “Nothing has changed,” he said as she filled a basin with warm water. She didn’t reply, and suddenly he heard the harshness she must have heard in his words: everything had changed. “Well, what I mean is, success hasn’t spoiled you. Big-time Nashville recording star, and you still don’t live in a mansion.”

  “Not so big-time,” she said.

  “C’mon,” he said. “I hear you on the radio.”

  She tested the temperature. He watched her, wondering what she’d say if he told her he had all her CDs, that he’d gotten an iPod just to listen to her in remote locations. He kept his mouth shut. She crouched down, soaked a cloth in the water.

  “Hey,” he said, “is this going to hurt?”

  “Probably.”

  “Could I have a drink?”

  She stared at him, obviously wanting to find a way to wiggle out of it. But instead she stood up, filled two glasses from the bottle of Wild Turkey on the counter, and handed him one. They clinked and drank it down.

  “You ready?” she asked.

  “Yep,” he said.

  She washed the cut. It was wide and deep, and even though her touch was soft, it seared like hell.

  “You should get stitches,” she said, drying his foot and opening a tube of ointment.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said.

  “Well…” she said, dabbing on the ointment. When she was finished, she wrapped his foot in a piece of gauze and taped it. “I think you should probably get stitches anyway.”

  “Okay, Dr. Rosslare,” he said.

  Now that she had finished with his foot, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. Taking stock, maybe. He knew he looked weathered, older. Some guys got soft as they aged, but Gavin had hardened. Not just from his workouts, but from what he’d been through along the way. He’d found little to love in life; he figured she could see that just by looking at him.

  Sheridan, on the other hand, looked beautiful. Loss and grief had given her a porcelain-type breakability that made him want to pick her up and hold her. Her white hair looked almost silver in the kitchen light; it was shocking next to her fine skin and clear blue eyes, mysterious and sexy. There were a few lines around the corners of her eyes, reminders of when she used to laugh.

  “Sheridan…” he said.

  “Well, I guess you’re all patched up now. Except for your shoe; I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He stared at her, wondering what to say next. He was almost never at a loss for words. She stared back; he could feel her wanting to ask why he’d come, but she held back.

  “You know why I’m here?” he asked, meeting her more than halfway.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve come to find out what happened.”

  She just stared, her blue eyes glinting. “Happened?”

  “To Charlie,” he said.

  “Oh God, I told you. Stop.”

  She jumped up, and in the kitchen light he saw the agony in her eyes and knew that the prohibition had nothing to do with magic or superstition or the hours between sunset and midnight: it was just because she missed her boy so much. Or maybe an old reason: because having Gavin here reminded her of all that had been between them, and all the chances he’d blown.

  “Sheridan, I’m sorry…”

  “I didn’t ask you,” she said, pacing. “I didn’t call you here, and I don’t want anything from you.”

  “I realize that,” he said.

  “Then go, okay? Just stop whatever you think you’re doing to help, and go. That’s what will help.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As you said, you didn’t ask me. You’re not my client.”

  “Jesus, someone hired you?”

  He nodded. He waited for her to ask him who, and he was ready with his standard “I’m sorry I’m not at liberty to divulge” disclaimer. But she didn’t ask. She just stood in the middle of the room, looking as if language, heart, and everything else had just deserted her. Then she picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey.

  “Sheridan,” he said.

  “You didn’t know him, Gavin,” she said. “He was…he was so beautiful. Just a beautiful, wonderful boy.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” he said. “He was your son.”

  “I don’t know why you think finding out ‘what happened’ will make a difference, will make anything better. I already know what happened. My son was killed.”

  “I know,” Gavin said. “I’m so…”

  “So sorry,” she said, nodding. She spoke with a soft voice, and a slight but noticeable—although he hadn’t heard it earlier—Nashville accent.

  “Sheridan, I am.”

  “Thank you. I do appreciate that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to turn in. It’s getting late, and I’m, I’m just so tired. I’ve…it’s been good seeing you again, Gavin. Thank you for coming by.”

  “Coming by?” he asked quietly. Did she think it was a social call, that it was anything less than the most important thing he’d done in years?

  “Yes.”

  “Sheridan…”

  “Gavin,” she said, desperation showing in her eyes. He knew she was about to shatter, that she couldn’t take this anymore.

  “Okay,” he said. He took a step forward, feeling a pull to hug her. But she turned her back, walked out of the room still holding her bottle of Wild Turkey.

  She’d said it was getting late…it was eight-fifty. Did she really go to bed at this hour? He followed her into the living room. She didn’t notice, but just walked up the wooden stairs, as if she were a ghost or a sleepwalker, leaving him to stand alone in the middle of the room.

  Gavin looked around. He knew there was plenty to learn about Charlie Rosslare, right here in this room, information that could help him investigate. But all his attention was on the staircase. Sheridan had been right there, and now she was gone. He heard her footsteps on the floorboards up above. He stared at the stairs’ well-worn treads and polished oak banister, trying to will her to come back down.

  But she didn’t, so he left. He limped out of the house, leaving his ruined deck shoe and a bunch of bloody footprints behind. Sheridan had said he should get stitches, but she hadn’t offered to drive him to the hospital. And he didn’t have a car.

  There was one person he could call—his old friend, partner in crime and crime solving, and quasi-boss—but he wasn’t in the mood. He thought about heading back to the boat, but that seemed too far away.

  The first time he’d seen Sheridan in close to nineteen years, he couldn’t quite bear to leave her. So Gavin limped back to the rock ledge in her yard, sat down, and stared back at the lightless windows of her dark house.

  CHAPTER 4

  HE WORE A PIN-STRIPED ITALIAN SUIT, DROVE A Bentley, and had perfected the finest sneer the shoreline had ever seen. He was as tall as Gavin, with a leonine head and mane of wavy hair. He owned a classic sailing yacht and belonged to the Hawthorne Yacht Club and was one of the few people not in the Navy who could get away with wearing epaulets. His wife, Laney, was a peach, and he didn’t deserve her. He walked with his head held high among people who loathed and feared him. People called him “Jaws” because of the human detritus he left behind. He was Vincent de Havilland, divorce attorney.

  When Gavin called, Vincent came. Picked him up in the Bentley—with a worried glance at the bloody foot, but nary a warning about keeping it off the white leather upholstery…that’s the kind of friend he was. They’d met as kids, right here at Hubbard’s Point.

  They’d grown up together, summer after summer at the Point. Vincent had started life as a nerd—he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Gavin had defended him against those who’d thought they’d have some fun at Vinnie’s expense.

  As time went on, their friendship stayed strong. Gavin had been working with the beach crew; Vincent had been interning in his father’s law office. While the other beach kids had spent their summers
enjoying the sun and fun and innocent pleasures of Hubbard’s Point, Gavin and Vincent had seen the same dark spark in each other’s eyes: a profound mistrust of the world and its people.

  “How was it?” Vincent asked the minute Gavin emerged from the ER and slammed the car door shut.

  “Which part?”

  “Meeting your client.”

  “Bullshit,” Gavin said. “That’s not what you want to know.”

  Silence as Vincent drove. Gavin could almost see the wily wheels turning as he tried to cover his curiosity.

  “Okay. Seeing Sheridan,” Vincent said finally.

  “It was all right.”

  Vincent threw a look at Gavin’s foot. “Your first time seeing her in all these years, and you need an ER?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You say that, but the last time something about Sheridan upset you, you put someone else in the hospital and got yourself kicked out of the Navy. I make my money on divorce work, Gavin—I don’t want to be having to defend you in court again. Now tell me what happened—”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Fine.”

  Gavin stared out the window; he knew Vincent was being protective, was worried about him. Gavin’s temper had gotten him in trouble before, gotten him sent to anger management. Count to ten; picture a beautiful scene; take a deep breath, then another, another, another. Right now, anger was the farthest emotion from his mind. He was just sad; he couldn’t stop thinking about Sheridan.

  And about Charlie.

  “You okay?” Vincent asked a few miles up the road.

  “I’m good,” Gavin said.

  “Well, you’re obviously not. So let’s talk shop, take your mind off her,” Vincent said. “People are blithe.”

  “Yeah?” Gavin said.

  “You know it. Don’t tell me you don’t. It’s what keeps us both in business. Let me tell you my latest case.”

  “Start with the assets,” Gavin said, because that’s what Vinnie loved most.

  “Eighteen mil.”

  “You never take a case under five—you’re doing good with this one.”

  “I upped my minimum to ten,” Vincent said. “But this one’s a bit higher. Family money on his side. We have a trust to break.”

  “Why’d you say ‘blithe’? Which one’s blithe?”

  “They both are,” Vincent said, snorting. “Forty years old, went to college together, three kids, big house in Black Hall, winter place in Vail. She believes the diamond ads, that love is forever, he believes in GQ, that he deserves a hottie on the side.”

  “They’re both living the American Dream,” Gavin said.

  “Like I said: blithe.”

  “Let me guess: she read his e-mail.”

  “Text messages,” Vincent said, laughing. “The greatest gift ever given a divorce lawyer: the electronic age. Why don’t these idiots realize that once you write it and send it, it never goes away? We have him cold. Beautiful, tender messages about what she did to him last night, when can they meet again, how the youngest kid is almost through high school…”

  Gavin laughed. “He’s dead. So, is he going to settle?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Right. That would cut down on legal fees. Also, it would cut down on pain and heartache for your client and the kids….”

  Vincent shrugged. He did have a conscience, but he was a practical man with a big nut to cover. Collecting art, buying real estate, and a penchant for custom-made suits meant he had to keep the money coming in. Gavin had worked with him on many cases—and he based his own international operation, including his answering service, out of the de Havilland Law Practice, LLC, Hawthorne, Connecticut. Gavin himself was based here, although work often took him out of state.

  “She came in saying she loved him, that even though she wanted a divorce, she hoped to wind up as friends,” Vincent said. “For the sake of the kids and all…little Johnny and Morgan and Monique. That was three months and two depositions ago. He’s hiding assets. Turns out his girlfriend’s been around a lot longer than my client thought. Also there’s porn on his computer…Internet porn—the divorce lawyer’s second-best friend.”

  “Who’s his lawyer?” Gavin asked.

  “Tripp Long.”

  Another paper-hanger—a lawyer who filed motion after spurious motion, clogging up opposing counsel’s fax machine and the court calendar with motions.

  “So you’re going to trial?”

  “Or right down to the wire. My client’s a sweetheart, and her husband is trying to screw her over. I can’t let that happen.”

  “You’re a superhero,” Gavin said as they pulled up in front of the converted stable that housed Vincent’s office.

  “You eventually going to talk to me about your case?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said. “But don’t push me.”

  Vincent nodded. Gavin’s foot was bandaged, numb from the novocaine they’d shot into his sole before stitching it up. They’d given him a prescription for Vicodin as well, but he’d ripped it up. He’d been down the painkiller road before. Limping into the office after Vincent, he said hello to Judy, receptionist-secretary and majordomo of both de Havilland LLC and Dawco.

  “How’s it going, Gav?” Judy said, standing for a kiss and handing him a pile of mail.

  “Great, Jude. How about you?”

  “I’m fine, happy to see you. I was all set to send the mail pouch to Maine when I found out you were coming.”

  Gavin gave her the patented Dawson squint—drove women crazy. He and Judy had been flirting toward an assignation for the entire ten years she’d been working here. The whole reason they got along so well was that nothing ever happened. They were the Bond and Moneypenny of southeastern Connecticut.

  Limping into the inner sanctum—the windowless and fortified panic room, installed after one enraged husband had come calling with a shotgun—Gavin sat at the desk. He came to his office only sporadically; he operated better on the boat. The beauty of electronics made that possible—he could receive and transmit from anywhere in the world. Pain traveled, and so did Gavin. He worked for people who had lost everything. It was his job and mission to help them recover it again.

  The lost item could be money, could be real estate, could be intellectual property, could be reputation, could be love: no job was too tough for Dawco. The work—and the desperate—paid well. He’d learned that long ago, when he’d cut his teeth as a private investigator for the most ruthless divorce attorney in the richest state in the union: his best friend, Vincent de Havilland.

  He yawned; he’d stayed up all last night. He’d sat on Sheridan’s rock until he was sure she’d fallen asleep. Then he’d hobbled down the stone steps to the beach, gotten sand in his cut, rowed his dinghy through the calm and starlit bay out to the Squire Toby.

  He’d sat on deck the rest of the night, until the sun came up, watching her house with binoculars just in case she changed her mind and wanted to call him back to be with her. Not that he’d told her where he was staying, but he had the feeling she’d know that he was close by, that he’d be on a boat. He’d always spent as much time on the water as possible, and Sheridan knew him well enough to realize that wouldn’t change.

  So he stretched, trying to get some energy. He walked over to the coffeemaker, poured himself a cup. In spite of how tired he was, right now he had work to do—a two-part assignment, a two-part mystery.

  First, his teenage client, Nell Kilvert, wanted him to learn the truth of what had happened to her boyfriend.

  Second, Gavin himself had lost something and needed to get it back. It didn’t have a name, wasn’t even any one thing. But Sheridan was and had always been the only love of his life, and he knew that by solving the first mystery he’d be at least moderately on the way to solving the second.

  “Fucking cosmic,” he said, logging into his crime-solving network and typing out a coded message to his contact in the NYPD. Then he called Vincent into his offi
ce, to tell him what was going on.

  WHY MEN PULL AWAY…learn the secret to creating an attraction SO POWERFUL he’ll never leave you!

  “Should we click on the link?” Peggy asked.

  “It’s pretty bogus, don’t you think?” Nell asked.

  “Maybe for you,” Peggy said. “You don’t want another boyfriend, but guys won’t leave you alone.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Nell said, pointing at the caption on the screen. “It’s aimed at someone lame and desperate. People are either right for each other or they’re not. When did Talk2Me become a dating site?”

  “I’d like to know how to hold on to Brandon.”

  “Don’t, Peggy—he likes you, it’s obvious.”

  “Come on, I want to read what they say…”

  Nell didn’t reply. She lay on the twin bed beside Peggy, her laptop open as they checked their Talk2Me pages. Some kids liked to collect as many friends as possible, but Nell liked to keep it real.

  It was called a social-networking site. People signed up to stay connected with real-life friends, and to connect with like-minded kids in cyberspace. If you liked music, you could seek out musicians; if you liked sports, there were plenty of athletic types. In a way, it was just like high school—cliques, clubs, and loners.

  Nell had seventy-two Talk2Me friends, and she had rules about who she accepted—she had to actually know them or know someone who knew them, or they had to send her a message that she really connected with.

  Lately she’d been communicating with a guy, Laird. His screen name was Laird Vedder, in honor of the friendship between Laird Hamilton and Eddie Vedder. He was a big-wave tow-surfer from Half Moon Bay, and she’d met him through Charlie.

  Well, she hadn’t actually met him, and neither had Charlie—he was just a cyberfriend. But he had good energy and had written her beautiful words about Charlie and how life never ends, but is just like one wave following another….