B008KQO31S EBOK (33 page)

He chuckled and leaned closer, cupping my chin in the warmth of his hand. There was no hiding from that perceptive gaze, though I thought I saw a suspicious shimmer in his own eyes. “Thank you, Phil.” His voice was no more than a rough whisper. “For everything.”

He kissed me, a chaste kiss that was nothing like what I wanted. I tasted salt, though I couldn’t have told you where it came from.

We’d made a deal and all terms were fulfilled, or shortly would be. There was nothing left to do but move on.

He got out of the truck and I sat there as he walked away, just about as low as I’ve ever been. But you can’t compel somebody to stay with you, to take a chance, to reach up and snag a star. When the rubber hit the road, I figured Nick and I were too different.

He didn’t want the same things I did. He didn’t want anything more than he could carry with him.

And I was still fairly substantial.

Frankly, if he didn’t want me, that was his loss. I knew I’d be chanting that theme later, but even then I recognized that you can’t make someone love you. I’d given it my best shot, I’d had my curiosity satisfied, and maybe I’d learned something along the way.

That’s not too bad of a deal. He’d been honest with me, and he’d told me more than I’d ever expected him to. Maybe we’d both learned something.

Maybe he should have grown up knowing Elaine.

It wasn’t much consolation, but it would have to do. One thing was for sure—I wasn’t going to dive headfirst into a vat of chocolate ice cream over Nick Sullivan.

Though I might let myself have two chocolate bars this month.

I dashed away my tears with my fingertips and called myself an idiot before I reached to turn the key. I looked up, and Nick was running back toward me.

“Phil, Lucia’s been hurt.” His knuckles were white where he grabbed the door. “And this time, it’s for real.”

“Did you call...”

“The phone’s dead.” He was clearly torn between going for help and trying to give some.

I was out of the trust in a heartbeat. “I’ll go next door and call 911. See if you can help her.

We both ran.

* * *

The gossip mill had enough grist that night to run for a year. I’m sure Mrs. Donnelly was taking notes as I used her phone. The ambulance came quickly. Chief O’Neill and his crew fast behind. Lucia had lost a lot of blood, and even the paramedics looked pessimistic as they did their best to stabilize her condition.

Nick looked positively funereal.

Lucia had been attacked in the greenhouse, apparently with a kitchen knife that had fallen on the gravel. She wasn’t even on the gurney before the cops were dropping little souvenirs into Zip-loc bags and barking at everyone to not touch anything.

When they said they were going to take her down to Massachusetts General, I knew it was bad. They wouldn’t let Nick ride in the ambulance with her, which made it even worse. O’Neill was decent about it—he took everyone’s telephone numbers and waved us off.

He had a look of resignation as he surveyed all of the potential surfaces for fingerprints. I wouldn’t have wanted that job.

We didn’t talk about it, but I drove Nick back into town. I had to go home anyhow and we seemed to reach a consensus without the bother of discussion. I tried to reassure him before we pulled into the hospital lot.

“Don’t worry, Nick. They’re very good here.”

“That’s not it, Phil.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“I happened almost exactly as she staged it.”

I hadn’t gotten nearly that far. I guess I was thinking that it had been a break-in—or too busy to think much at all—but he was right. The scene was oddly similar to what he had described.

“But the blood was drying. It happened a while ago, while we were gallivanting around in the truck.” I patted his hand. “O’Neill can’t get you this time.”

“No, Phil. It looks like I gave somebody an idea.” His lips tightened. “Which is a whole lot worse.” He got out of the truck before I could argue with him and strode into the ER, his hands balled in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

But if Nick thought I was going to let him keep blaming himself for Sean’s deeds, then he had another thing coming.

* * *

Threes within threes and mystical nines. Magic and myth love a three, or maybe they love in triplicate. Three Fates, three Wyrd Sisters, three Fairy Godmothers attendant at every birth. Three demoiselles beside the fountain. Three goddess: maiden, mother, crone. The Trinity: father, son, and holy spirit. Osiris, Isis, and Horus. Odin, Tyr, and Frey. Sun, moon, and stars.

Just read the box—easy as 1, 2, 3. Three wishes to break a spell. Death comes in threes, the third time is the charm, thrice pays for all. If you break a dish, break two more—since accidents come in threes, the others might as well be your choice.

Third time lucky.

Three-ring circuses and three-cornered hats. Three dimensions in space. Tricolor flags, third-class coach, triple crowns and the Three Musketeers. Three-mile limits and three-legged races, threesomes and hat tricks and the third degree. The magic of threes permeates, perpetuates and percolates.

Once upon a time, a certain maiden underwent a transformation in stages of three. That was “one”, a first time, an awakening, a beginning of a journey. A call to adventure, if you will, a boarding call to growing up.

Then came “two”.

Two is the number of choices, of decisions, of forks in the road. The high way or the low way, the easy way or the hard. It’s the number of partnership, of coupledom, of teams pulling in harness together. Of the sum or the parts making more as a whole.

Sometimes magic knocks hard on your door, showing you something you would rather not see, something you weren’t sure you needed to know. Sometimes magic’s jokes aren’t very funny.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Yurma.

Yurma who?

Yurmather is an adulteress.

Our heroine, however resourceful she could be, was not likely to sleep that night. Her mission complete, her mother snoring, she left the house and walked. The skies hung low, the stars obscured by a heavy blanket of grey. The air was warm, filled with mist, unseasonable for November. The sea seemed to have invaded the town, filling the air with its water and salt. The town was quiet, only one light burning with welcome.

The diner. She was wet and chilled, more cold from her heartache than climatic conditions. The moment she chose to seek shelter there, the Fates had themselves a chuckle.

Alakazam, here comes two.

Because there was only one other person in the diner. She saw him when she shook the mist out of her hair, after he had seen her, when it was too late to turn and run. Their paths hadn’t crossed since he finished high school and disappeared. But he was back and he was here and he was making room for her at his table.

Expectant.

After an initial uncertainty, it was like old times. They talked about everything and nothing, who was doing what and what was happening to who. He was evasive about the travel book he’d been reading, less evasive about his determination to leave. She found herself admitting how she hated school, uttering the sacrilege for the first time that she didn’t want to go to law school.

And for the second time, he gave her a gift.

“Stop living other people’s dreams and live your own.”

So simple, so true, as clear as a crystal.

Then he told her about his plan to travel and it seemed a different man sat opposite her. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, he showed her maps and train schedules and pictures of all the places he intended to visit. The world was his oyster in that moment and she was painfully jealous that he could choose his own course.

Until she realized that nothing was keeping her from choosing her own. Nothing but herself. No on else had erected barriers beyond words, edicts, commandments. It was she who had chosen to follow them, to live up to expectation.

And she knew then that she wasn’t going to do it anymore.

The diner closed and they had to leave, abandoning their coffee cups for the secretive mist of the quiet street. He took her hand in his, tucked his books under his coat and walked her home. He was leaving and she knew he had to go, she wanted to go with him but she knew it was too soon.

She sensed that they stood at a fork in the road. Everything was tenuous, every choice hung in the balance, anything could happen and might well do so.

And then it did.

His grandmother’s car came squealing out of nowhere, his brother driving like a man possessed. The front fender was smashed, his brother was inarticulate.

He was as drunk as her mother had been earlier. He parked crookedly and fell out onto the pavement. He begged for Nick’s help in hiding his crime from Lucia, in evading her wrath for his breaking at least two of her rules.

She knew that Nick would do it, though he couldn’t imagine why. He kissed her knuckles, a parting salute, then got into the car. His brother could barely stand. There was a mickey of rum on the seat. Nick opened it and drank, deliberately spilling the liquor over himself and the seat. Then he drained the rest.

He looked at her and touched one finger to his lips, a request for her pledge that she was only too happy to give. And then he was gone, driving home in the night as the distant wail of a police siren cut the air. His brother fled into the darkness and she walked the rest of the way home alone.

She was certain she had chosen the right fork in the road, and she clung to it even in the revelations of the ensuing days, even when she was furiously angry with Sean’s deception.

But she had made a promise, and she kept it, as all good heroines so. She’d made a choice, and she wasn’t going to forget it.

T
he ER was chaotic, as I suppose such places usually are.

Lucia had already arrived, and was wired up. She was out cold, but the doctor was pleased that she was relatively stable. They checked her in, gave Nick the room number and told him not to worry.

Fat chance.

I tried to talk to him, but might as well have been shouting into the wind. He sat, his gaze fixed on Lucia, and fretted. He was blaming himself and I knew it, just as I knew there wasn’t much I could do about it.

“I should have gone down there last night,” he muttered finally.

“Where?”

“To Sean’s.”

I sat down beside him and took his hand. “Because you think he hit Josie again?”

He nodded once.

“You already called the cops on him once...”

“Twice.”

“Then what else can you do?”

He shot me a dark look. “He’s my responsibility.”

“No, he’s his own responsibility. You can’t save Sean from himself and you can’t save Josie from her own bad choices. You intervened, you showed her that it didn’t have to be that way, and you have to let them make their own choices.”

“But I could have saved Lucia, if Sean had been a guest of the boys in blue.”

“Maybe today.” I squeezed his unresponsive fingers. “There you go, thinking you’re God again. You and my father might get along just fine.”

He didn’t crack a smile. He slipped his hand up my neck though and kissed my temple. “Go home, Phil.”

“What about you?”

“I’m staying here.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.” His gaze bored briefly into mine. “It was part of our deal. I’ll call you in the morning to work out the details.”

“I guess this isn’t a good time to tell you that you’ll need a suit. Father’s birthday is a comparatively formal event.”

A smile touched his lips. “They’re hemming the pants for me. I’ll have to pick it up tomorrow.”

“Maybe I could...”

He touched a fingertip to my lips. “Go home, Phil. We’ll worry about details in the morning.”

We both looked at Lucia, her chest rising and falling as the respirator wheezed. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

His lips tightened. “Leave it, Phil.”

And leave him. The subtext was clear. I picked up my purse, wished him goodnight and went home, dragging my heart behind me.

* * *

It was incredible to him that he was going to be a guest of the Coxwells.

It added to the surreal sense of the day. He had spent the night dozing beside a strangely frail and immobile Lucia. He had talked to O’Neill this morning, answering his questions about where he’d been when the day before, evading any discussion of what he’d done since he got home.

He might not be his brother’s keeper but it was a change he had to get used to.

Now, he sat in the most expensive suit he had ever owned, watching Phil’s legs as she shifted gears and marveled that he was en route to a meal with the Coxwells.

Their home, Grey Gables, had been the hallmark of how things should be for as long as he’d been in Rosemount. They set the standard, and dozens of socially ambitious souls followed their lead. He had always found it amusing to see, for example, how many households waited to see what flowers the Coxwells planted in their gardens before choosing their own.

Beverly Coxwell had always been the maven of good taste, long before there had been television shows and magazines to spread the gospel. He knew that her wardrobe choices each season were scrutinized and discussed by the women in town, everything from the height of her hemlines to the shape of her purse avidly copied.

The Coxwells did not mingle. They were effectively the crown family of Rosemount, by dint of wealth, social position and attitude. They expected homage, and they got it. He imagined that Robert Coxwell’s ascent to the judiciary had been less an election than a coronation. It probably was only a matter of time before the judge more actively entered politics.

They were a family whose lives looked orderly, particularly to a boy who had seen so much disorder. They were polite, they were attractive, they sponsored many a local event. Their children proceeded to Harvard, thence to law school, as though there were no other options. It was a kind of normalcy that he had once yearned for, and certainly that he still found intimidating.