Deeply, Desperately (6 page)

I set the mail on the table next to the door, reluctant to go through it. The first letter addressed to the "Devil's Handmaiden" had arrived two weeks ago. It had spewed about my sins, harping on the First Commandment, and how being psychic was akin to being evil. A new letter arrived every couple of days, each one more intense than the last. And more threatening. I'd stopped opening them after the fifth; now I simply passed the envelopes on to Aiden.

I dumped the rest of my things on the floor next to the door, slipped off my boots. Grendel, a Maine coon cat, sauntered out of my bedroom on his three legs, meowing pathetically, pawing the hem of my trousers. He hated being left alone. And he hardly counted Odysseus, my one-eyed hamster, as company. Both had come to me via Marisol and the animal hospital where she volunteered.

My heart tripped. I didn't even know what to do about the whole Em situation. I rather wished my father hadn't told me she and Aiden were a perfect match. It was too big a secret to keep, though I knew I had to. The fact that the two were destined to be together did help lessen my guilt about helping Marisol--somewhat. If only I could get rid of the feeling that someone was going to be very hurt ...

Scooping up a weighty Grendel, I whispered sweet nothings to appease him. The cottage had originally been built as an artist's studio, then later converted by Dovie into a guest house. During the renovation she'd kept all the original custom-made windows. Six of those lined the eastern side of the house, stretching from the living room all the way into my bedroom at the rear of the house, letting in abundant sunlight and offering stunning views of the ocean.

Until recently, the wall of windows had been my favorite part of the cottage. I never had a desire to cover them, even at night when they became black holes. Darkness had never bothered me until the Handmaiden letters started arriving.

I'd had drapes installed around the same time as the alarm system. Thankfully Dovie knew an interior designer who managed to blend the shabby-chic decor of my cottage with simple treatments that offered me privacy without overwhelming me with fabric.

I drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the Charlie Brown tree in the corner. The live balsam fir was the runt of the litter on the lot this year with its four-and-a-half-foot height, sparse branches, tilting stance. After Christmas the sad little tree would have a chance to grow into a strong mature fir, mixed in with those from Christmases past on Dovie's acreage.

It was a lovely little tree. Really. Just ... a bit ... crooked.

From the fridge, I pulled a slice of white American. As soon as Grendel heard the crinkling of the
cellophane wrapper, he hopped down, circled excitedly. I broke the cheese into quarters, dropping one on the floor for him. He pounced and dragged it around the corner into the dining area to feast in privacy under the rickety plastic table. I'd yet to save enough to buy my dream table, so the folding card table had to suffice for now. A tablecloth hid its many flaws.

I tossed another quarter of cheese over the breakfast bar into the dining room. Grendel attacked with a loud thump. As I checked my voice mail I found myself worrying about my father.

I couldn't erase that pinched look on his face from my thoughts. Though he tried to hide it, something was truly bothering him. What was going on? I needed to talk to him, look him in the eye to get some answers. Stress wasn't good for his heart.

For now, I didn't want to think about it anymore. I picked up the phone, dialed Sean.

Cupid's Curse wasn't the only reason I wanted to take things slowly with sexy Sean Donahue. Truthfully, I was scared. Terrified that no matter how much I cared for him, in the end my heart would be broken. But he was so hard to resist with those milky gray eyes, that heavenly body, kisses that melted, and a heart in need of healing. Literally.

A defibrillator had been implanted last year after he almost died from undiagnosed cardiomyopathy. Due to health concerns, he'd had to resign his job as a firefighter and eventually took Sam's offer to join his PI firm as an investigator.

These days we worked almost solely together, investigating not only Lost Love cases but missing person cases for the police as well.

It was getting harder and harder to keep my hands off him.

Our chemistry was pure magic, but I knew the outcome of any potential serious relationship we'd have. Doom. Crushing dark doom.

But not having him in a serious committed relationship with me was almost as painful as not having him at all. Dating him casually was a wonderful torture, one I loved
and
hated.

Sometimes being a Valentine just plain sucked.

After four rings a woman picked up. Stunned, I leaned against the counter. "May I speak to Sean, please?"

"You have the wrong number," she said sharply and hung up on me.

I hit the redial button, watched the numbers fill in on the screen.

It had
not
been the wrong number.

My call went immediately to voice mail. I left a quick message for Sean to call me back.

Absently, I nibbled one of Grendel's remaining cheese squares, trying not to get worked up and jealous.

So what, a woman answered Sean's cell phone, claiming it wasn't his.

Big deal.

No problem.

We weren't in a committed relationship.

I looked down. Grendel's last corner of cheese had
been squished into the tiniest cheese ball known to man.

I dropped it in the garbage disposal and poured a cup of veterinarian-approved kitty kibble into his bowl as he looked on.

His tail shot into the air as he prowled around my feet, staring at me accusingly. I'd veered from our norm. He was missing two cheese squares and wasn't happy about it.

And I had to admit I wasn't happy about a woman answering Sean's damn phone.

"You're supposed to be on a diet anyway," I said to him. "Take it up with Marisol."

He gave me a look that promised revenge.

I ignored it (probably a mistake) and grabbed a grape from the bunch on the granite countertop. I dropped it in Odysseus' cage on the bureau in my bedroom. He was nowhere to be seen, but I heard scratching from beneath his shavings. I made kissy noises, but he didn't surface. I gave up.

In the living room I turned on the gas-burning fireplace, gathered up the mail, and sank into the coziest chair ever made. It was a deep club chair that rocked
and
swiveled. Using the hearth as my footstool, I put my feet up. Crackling orange flames danced, warming my toes.

The stack of mail was larger than usual, with an assortment of Christmas cards mixed into the usual delivery. I pulled the cards aside, leaving me with a pile of mail from strangers, most wanting my help, some wanting me to know what happens to sinners.

Inevitably, I separated my fan mail (as I'd come to
call it for lack of a better term) into four piles: Crackpot, Consider, Can't Help You, and Copy (before I gave the original to the police). I was continuously torn between wanting to help everyone and wanting to protect my sanity. Some of the letters were simply heartbreaking. If I worked every case I'd need antidepressants. The flip side of that was the guilt. What if I could help these families find their loved one, find closure?

It was wrenching.

Grendel pouted near his food dish as I opened the first letter. It went into the "Can't Help" pile, as it was a request for me to connect a woman with her dead husband. Sorry. I didn't do seances.

There were three missing children requests in a row. Desperate parents who'd heard about the little boy I'd found. Unfortunately, most cases of missing children didn't turn out with happy endings, but I knew after working with the police that most people, though hopeful to have their loved ones returned home, were searching for closure. The first case I worked on was to help locate teenager Jamie Gallagher who had been missing for months. When I was able to find her remains, her mother told me that it was the first time she'd slept the whole night through since Jamie had been gone.

I set the letters in the Consider pile.

The next letter had familiar handwriting. My heart froze in fear. Carefully, I put the envelope into a plastic bag. Tomorrow, I'd give it to Aiden.

The handle on my front door rattled, and I nearly jumped clear out of my skin.

"It's me, LucyD!" Dovie called out, using her and my mother's pet nickname for me. The
D
stood for "diamonds." As in "Lucy in the Sky with ..." My mother had been a huge Beatles fan and Dovie simply loved diamonds.

I dumped the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and opened the door for my grandmother.

"I can't get used to you locking that thing," she said, rushing past me waving a binder, a whirl of energy.

I dropped back into my chair.

Seeing Dovie this late at night wasn't the least bit surprising. She tended to spend more time here than at her own home. I put up with her intrusions into my life because I loved my cottage, its view of the ocean, and her--most of the time. More now that she'd let up on trying to matchmake me. She was convinced Sean and I would be walking down the aisle any minute now. A notion we played into for my sake, because before Sean came along, she was intent on matching me with every eligible (and some not so much) bachelor on the South Shore. It was nice not coming home to strange men invited to dinner by Dovie in hopes I'd fall madly in love and promptly produce a dozen babies.

I eyed the Handmaiden letter. The envelope itself looked innocuous enough. It was the message inside that had me locking my doors and windows for the first time in my life. No one other than Aiden knew of the threats I'd been receiving. The only thing that would come out of telling anyone else was a stifling overprotectiveness. It was better they didn't know.
And that included Sean. He'd probably want to move in.

And while that didn't sound like a horrible idea to me, I wanted him to move in for the right reasons, not to be my private bodyguard.

Hmm. I let that idea sit for a minute before I shook myself out of the fantasy. Dovie sat on the sofa, her long legs stretched out. She wore a silk pajama-and-robe set complete with fancy marabou-feathered heels. She'd been a burlesque dancer when she met my grandfather and still had a dancer's physique nearly sixty years later. Her eyes glowed, and I was happy to see it. This was normally the worst time of the year for her. Not only was it when she first met my grandpa Henry, but also the month when their secret divorce was finalized a year later. That was back in the 1940s, before things like secret divorces were splashed across tabloids, worldround.

I eyed the binder. "What brings you down here?"

Her long white hair had been pulled into a beautiful knot at the base of her neck. "Party stuff. Guest list, food. Thought I'd have you take a look, a second pair of eyes. RSVPs are rolling in."

Dovie's famous Five Days before Christmas Bash was next Saturday night, ten days away.

With my toe I nudged the Handmaiden letter under the stack of mail. "Tea?" I asked, heading for the kitchen.

"Lovely!"

Grendel leaped onto the couch, blatantly bathing Dovie with his affection, trying to make me jealous.
Too late--that particular sentiment had already been claimed for the night.

I glanced at my grandmother over the curved granite breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the open living and dining rooms. I set two mugs on the counter, trying not to think about Sean.

"I'm still not sure why your father insisted on inviting that reporter to the party," she said, skimming the guest list with her finger.

Reporter? "Preston?"

"Who else?"

I nearly dropped the kettle I was filling.

I came around the counter. "Dad didn't say why?"

"No."

I peeked at her binder as if it would offer insight. Sure enough, right there in Dovie's green ink, read, "Preston Bailey and Cutter McCutchan."

"Who's Cutter McCutchan? Do you know him?"

"Not personally," she said. "I believe he's the son of ..." She squinted as if it would help her recall her many acquaintances. "Do you remember?" she finally asked me.

I shook my head. The name wasn't the least bit familiar.

"Lovely woman. Tall, striking looks. Fair skin, dark hair, red lips, looked like Snow White. She owned that ceramics gallery in town ... Your parents invested in it. You know how they feel about the arts."

I knew my mother adored the arts. As a private music teacher, she often supported other mediums. My father, on the other hand, simply liked to appear to support the arts. It helped his image.

"It'll come to me."

"They're on the same invite? Are they dating?" I asked, wondering why this man had been linked to Preston's invitation. It wasn't the way invitations were normally sent. It should have read "Preston Bailey and Guest."

Preston hadn't mentioned a new boyfriend, which surprised me. She was the type to brag.

"Your father was specific about the wording. I assumed a relationship," Dovie said. "But of course I don't know for certain."

"And you didn't ask him why?" The kettle whistled. I dropped two teabags into the mugs and filled the cups with steaming water. I brought them into the living room.

"I do not ask many questions of Oscar, Lucy. He asked, I complied."

Strange.

Dovie snapped her fingers. "Sabrina! Sabrina McCutchan. Lovely. Just lovely. Her son is Oliver, he goes by Cutter. He's an artiste," she said in a fancy tone.

"You just now remembered all this?"

"My mind is a mystery."

I laughed. "That it is."

"Hush now." She sipped her tea. "Look over the list. Tell me if I've forgotten anyone. There's still time to send out invitations."

Dovie never partied lightly. My gaze slid over the list of over two hundred names, skidding to a stop on Sean's.

Who is she? Will he bring her to the party?

Would he have kissed me the way he did this afternoon if he was seeing someone else? I doubted it, but with the Curse at work, anything was possible.

She rose. "Keep the list overnight for a look-see. I should be going, it's getting late and maybe you have company coming?"