Truly, Madly (6 page)

Separating it from the rest, I looked it over, analyzing it this time. All his answers seemed so normal. Just your average everyday good old boy from next door.

Unfortunately, I knew looks could be deceiving.

SEVEN

The Greenbush Line was a light-rail MBTA commuter train that ran to and from the South Shore and Boston. I preferred the commuter boat, though it took a bit longer—longer only because I had to drive into Hingham. When I was in a hurry, I took the train.

Like today.

I overslept and was dangerously close to being late for my first appointment of the day, a follow-up with a woman named Mary Keegan. I needed to get in town fast. So, I phoned Raphael and had him meet me at South Station instead of the dock.

Suzannah was highly capable of holding Valentine, Inc., steady when no one was there; she'd been doing it for years, ever since she walked in looking for love and left with a job. Two years later, she was entrusted with our family secret after questioning my father about why he had been coloring on people's files. She'd been working for my father for nearly five years and was practically part of my family. What's one more person to add to the dysfunction? However, as far as I could see, Suz was the sanest of us all.

And she certainly wouldn't rat me out to my dad if I was late. Even still . . .

My father trusted me, me of the barista, dog-walking, day-care fame—to run his beloved company. Leading me to believe that he saw potential I didn't see in myself.

I didn't want to fail. The company needed to thrive under my leadership, even if it was for two weeks only. I didn't want to let my father down. Again. I'd let him down enough when I lost my ability to read auras.

Dropping my head against the seat, I wished the train would hurry up already. I was too agitated to attempt math problems, even easy ones. Instead I started a mental to-do list. Number one was getting to work on time (it would be a miracle). If my first client hadn't yet arrived, I'd call Marisol to make sure she didn't have any more injured critters for me to care for.

The hamster she dropped off last night had been asleep when I woke up, curled tightly into the little plastic box in the corner of his cage. I'd decided to name him Odysseus.

And by naming him, I was fairly certain that I'd be keeping him. I hoped he wouldn't be as needy as Grendel, and I also hoped Grendel would get over the indignation of having to share my affection with a rodent.

In my rush to eat breakfast, I also noticed three empty bottles of wine in my recycling bin. It must have been some dinner party.

Before I left home, I'd checked the news while downing my coffee, blowing dry my hair, and dabbing some mascara on my eyelashes (and also on my eyelids, but that was Grendel's fault).

Max hadn't been found, the search continued, and Katherine O'Brien's face haunted me, even now as the train finally (mercifully) slowed to a stop at the station.

I didn't know if I could return to the park to help search. The guilt at not being able to use my psychic abilities to find Max weighed heavily on my conscience.

Raphael waited for me outside the station, the car idling. White stubble scratched my mouth as I gave him a quick peck—he never shaved when my father was out of town.

Once we were seated inside the car, Raphael said, ''Why in such a hurry to get to work?'' He pulled his seat belt across his chest.

I buckled in, set my bag at my feet. In it were the files I'd brought home last night and a change of clothes for my date later that night. ''I don't want to be late for my first appointment.''

''Mmm-hmm.''

I tucked my bag under my feet. Bright sun burned off morning clouds. Temps slowly rose, and the warmer weather could only be a good thing for little Max—if he was in fact lost in the vast park. ''All right, out with it,'' I said.

''Out with what?''

''You only ‘mmm-hmm' when you have a point you're trying to get across to me and I'm too dense to see it.''

He smiled, bringing light into his dark eyes. '' ‘Dense' is not a term I'd use to describe you.''

''You're avoiding.''

''Did you have a chance to look for a match for me?'' he asked.

''Now you're really avoiding.''

''Just lonely, Uva.''

I had a feeling he was manipulating me, but there was a ring of truth in his tone. One I couldn't bring myself to tease about. ''I'll start today.''

Traffic lurched along. The sun rode low on the horizon, slowly inching its way higher and higher, above the skyscrapers, up into the deep blue sky. I lowered my visor to protect my eyes from the UV rays. The car still held its appealing ''new'' smell, blended with the scent of luxurious leather. My father required a new vehicle every nine months.

''What's your type?'' I dreaded the task of finding Raphael a mate, yet oddly looked forward to it as well.

''You tell me.'' He adjusted the radio and the heater at the same time. His long fingers then curved around the steering wheel and thumped along to the music—an ancient tune from Men at Work.

I'd known Raphael nearly all my life, yet had never seen him on a date. Hadn't so much as seen him ogle a woman walking down the street. If he had enjoyed a certain type—tall, short, thin, curvy, blonde, brunette, redhead—he never let on to me.

And I told him so.

''Mmm-hmm.'' ''Not again!''

He laughed, a rich sound that vibrated his chest. ''You know me better than anyone, Uva. You have all the information you need.''

I was coming to realize matchmaking was harder than it looked.

As I gazed out the window at the crowded city sidewalks, I thought about Raphael, about his quirks, his traits, his likes, his dislikes.

We pulled to a stop at a red light, and Raphael tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting patiently for
me
to tell
him
what his type was.

This was so like him.

''Okay.'' I ticked off fingers. ''She has to have a good sense of humor; be loyal, faithful, and hardworking; be independent enough not to resent your hours . . . yet,'' I looked at him, ''be willing to let you take care of her on occasion. She has to love food as much as you, good books, eighties music, the ocean. A passion for the Red Sox is a must. She has to be willing to travel and not mind you smoking a cigar on occasion. I'd choose someone who likes to talk, because you're too quiet. A relationship needs noise.''

He smiled at that.

''Above all, she has to be your friend.'' I shifted in my seat as he pulled up to Valentine, Inc. ''How'd I do?''

He nodded. ''It's a start.''

I laughed. ''Now I've just got to find her.''

''I have complete faith.''

''At least one of us does,'' I murmured, though I was going to do my best to make him happy. He deserved it. I suspected the problem would lie in finding someone worthy of him.

I slid out of the car, held the door. His comment about being lonely kept playing in my head. ''How about lunch today?'' I'd have offered dinner, but I had a blind date with Butch the butcher.

''Sounds perfect,'' Raphael said with a crooked, endearing smile. ''Come to the penthouse; I'll whip something up.''

''Oh no! You deserve someone to cook for you once in a while.''

His face blanched. ''Not you. . . .''

''I won't take that personally, Pasa.'' A breeze loosened the knot my hair had been swept into. ''We'll go out. Where to? The Oyster House?''

''Nothing fancy. You know I don't like fancy.''

I looked around. The perfect choice was right in front of me. ''The Porcupine? At noon?''

''I'll be here.''

I closed the door and waved good-bye. As soon as I turned around, I came face-to-face with the persistent reporter.

''You're Lucy Valentine, correct?''

Somebody had been doing her homework.

''And you are?'' I asked.

''Preston Bailey, reporter for the
South Shore Beacon
.''

It was a small newspaper, local to where I lived. One that usually stuck to regional news and not gossipy articles about famous matchmakers who cheated on their wives. I had two options. I could blow her off and hope she'd go away, or I could act like a human and hope she'd go away.

''Nice to meet you.''

She looked stunned that I'd used manners. Shaggy shoulder-length blonde hair had been pushed back behind her ears. Serious blue eyes peered at me beneath fringe bangs.

Walking with me toward the door, she said, ''I'm going to be honest. I want a job with one of the bigger papers. The
Globe
, the
Herald
. If I can get a scoop from you, it may just be the stepping-stone I need to be looked at seriously. Can I ask you a few questions?''

''I'm sorry. I don't really have anything to say.'' I hurried to the entrance of Valentine, Inc. At five-foot-eight, I had four, maybe five, inches on Preston Bailey, roving reporter, and therefore my strides were longer. She had to jog to keep up.

''I find that hard to believe.'' She didn't wait for a response from me. Instead she launched into her next question. ''Is it true that your father has left town, leaving the running of the company to you?''

She was good. I wasn't sure where she had gotten her information, but she had pretty much nailed it.

''My father has taken a medical leave of absence.''

''In St. Lucia?''

I smiled as I swiped the card key. ''Where better?''

She answered with another question. ''With your mother, correct? Does this mean she's forgiven him for his little dalliance?''

''Cute shoes,'' I said, eyeing her boots.

She looked down at her feet. ''Thanks.''

While her attention had been diverted, I'd pulled open the door and stepped in before she could follow me.

''Hey! Wait!'' she cried. ''I've got more questions!''

''I'm sorry. I have clients waiting.''

I quickly pulled the door closed, but I swore I could have heard her say, ''You'd think he'd avoid the beach.''

I couldn't help but smile. I'd thought the same thing.

As I stopped on the second-floor landing, I looked up the next flight of steps. On the third floor, the door to SD Investigations stood open wide. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to run up right now and chat with Sean.

And see if he truly affected me the way I thought he did.

I shoved open the door to Valentine, Inc., and stopped dead in my tracks.

''You're late,'' Dovie said, eyeing the antique mahogany longcase clock standing regally in the corner of the room.

''What are you doing here?''

I couldn't believe Dovie was even functioning this morning, as someone who'd probably drunk her fair share of three bottles of wine.

''Suzannah called me. She took the day off to keep searching for the little boy.''

''And she didn't call me?''

''She tried. Your home line was busy, and your cell is off.''

Busy? I hadn't been on the phone that morning. Then it hit me—Grendel. One of his favorite games was knocking my phone off the hook. I checked my cell. Sure enough, it was off. In addition to Suzannah's call, I'd also missed one from my mother. She'd left a quick message about changing hotels but didn't mention why.

''Suz called me after that.'' Dovie shuffled a pile of papers. ''I'm glad she did. This is an opportunity I'm not going to waste.''

There was no doubt in my mind that Dovie
would
rat me out to my father for being late. She wanted my job, after all. For a second I pondered why she hadn't woken me up to come with her into the city. But I knew the answer—I would have put up a fuss about her taking over Suz's job. This way, Dovie got her way.

Grinning at me, she picked a piece of lint off navy blue pleated trousers that had been tailored to fit her thin frame. A crisp striped oxford, sleeves cuffed, had been left untucked, the top four buttons undone, revealing a white lace camisole beneath. Her usual assortment of bangles slid up and down her arm. Two chopsticks held her hair back in a twist. Green eyes shone with excitement, and the last thing I wanted to do was burst her bubble.

''Did you run your temp job by Dad?''

She cringed at the words ''temp job,'' but my concerns were swatted away with a wave of her hand. ''Hooey. I gave birth to your father. I hold majority in this family.''

I smiled. I loved when Dovie made a stand. Even though once my father found out about her involvement in the office he might have himself another heart attack. Dovie tended to . . . complicate things.

''And you need the help. Admit it. Without Suz here, you're lost.''

I had a feeling I'd be more lost with Dovie running things.

I didn't mention so. Some things were better left unsaid. Especially when the person hurt by those words was your landlady.

''You don't have to look so worried,'' she said. ''I'm just going to sit here behind the desk, answer the phone, talk to clients, look divine—don't you love the shirt?—and mind my own business.''

I was in serious trouble when my father found out about this.

''The shirt is nice. Chanel?''

''Dior.''

My budget for designer clothes was practically nonexistent, though I always bought classic pieces. They were pricey but didn't need to be replaced every year. Today I'd thrown on a pair of cream dress pants, a brown cashmere sweater, and brown kitten-heeled boots I'd found on sale at Macy's. Not bad, but certainly not on the level of Chanel or Dior. But that was the choice I'd made when I'd given up my trust fund.

I closed the door and noticed Dovie had already started the fire in the fireplace. Flames licked the ceramic logs. The pillows on the couches had been fluffed, awaiting the first clients of the day.

A flash of panic swept over me. Could I really do this? Look how my first day had gone, after all. Sure, a few of my meetings had been cut-and-dried. But then there had been Michael Lafferty and the skeleton I'd seen.

Sooner or later, I was going to have to deal with that body, and I could imagine how that would affect business and the family reputation. I needed the police to ''find'' the body without them knowing I was involved. And I had to come up with a plan to protect the company and myself.

I was lost in the notion of Valentine, Inc., failing under my watch when my grandmother's sharp voice snapped me out of my miserable reverie.