Night Mares in the Hamptons (42 page)

At last it was Ty's turn. He'd lost his hat, his hair was singed in places, and his shirt hung in tatters. He'd never looked better. Or happier.

“My brother.”

“My friend.”

“This is not your home range either, you know. Not your hills to roam and fill with sons and daughters of your blood.”

Damn, they both looked at me again.

“I wish. But I know. I'll be leaving soon.”

“Yes, you must. But not without my gift.”

H'ro blinked out of existence before he said what his gift to Ty was. We were all bewildered, and drained, as a matter of fact. We'd have to face digging out bodies, dealing with the mess of Froeler's plots and unraveling Lewis's smuggling operation. The mayor was already helping Letty forget her father's last words, to remember only that he tried to cure her.

Then we heard a noise, a horse's high-pitched squeal. Not of pain, not of fear, but something else.

“That's Paloma Blanca.” Ty started to run toward where he'd left her, but then he stopped and smiled. That slow grin started at his mouth and traveled to his eyes and caught my breath in my throat.

I felt it, too. A wave of desire so strong that I wanted to leap into his arms. I guess everyone else caught the stallion's emotional projection, too. Connor and Susan disappeared behind the rocks. Grandma Eve and Doc climbed into one of the boats and let it drift out of sight. Rick and Bud and a bunch of others decided they needed to get home. Their wives would be worried. Grant held his hand out to Martha from the real estate agency. “We need to talk about the renovations at Rosehill. Your ideas were wonderful.”

So was the smile she gave him back as they hurried down the beach.

I wasn't jealous in the least. I was in the bunker, on a pile of blankets, not caring if the roof collapsed on us or the lingering smoke made my eyes tear. Or was that joy and love and Ty's lovemaking?

We might not have tomorrow, but tonight—that was another gift from the magic horses. Not just the lust of a rutting stallion or a mare in heat, not just the relief of living through a harrowing experience, not just repaying a debt, but love and fellowship and wanting to share one's heart and soul.

We did.

 

The next morning we drove the horse van through town and stopped to pick up breakfast at Joanne's. Susan was there, beaming at everyone. “I'm cured,” she said, hugging me. “Free of cancer. Connor said so.”

I rejoiced with her. Now maybe she could stop living as if she had to cram all her life into the next six months.

Mrs. Ralston was there, too, picking up bagels. “It's a boy.”

I felt the damn blush cover my cheeks. “But it's too soon, I mean, I'm not—”

“Not you, dear.” She pointed to the horse trailer. “The mare. It's a boy.”

Ty grinned. “And here I thought last night was my gift.” He kissed me, right in front of half the town, it seemed. “It would have been enough, but this . . .”

Meant more. I knew and didn't mind. Not really.

He appeared dazed by his good fortune. “I don't know how I'm going to explain it to the Lipizzan registry.”

I laughed. “Or to anyone else when your new stallion takes to disappearing. You'll figure it out. You can do anything.”

He kissed me again. “Almost anything. I can't uproot a willow tree, can I, darlin'?”

I might be pregnant, too, though it was far too soon to tell. The equine-inspired passion hadn't left time to fumble for protection. Or to think about the future or the healthy children H'ro had promised. I knew Ty would offer to do the right thing, but I couldn't marry a traveling horse whisperer on those terms, no matter how exciting and strong and brave and caring he was. He'd be leaving soon, and always.

I knew he'd be back when the ranch was ready to be filled with his rescued horses, just like Grant would be back when the Royce Institute was ready to open its doors in Paumanok Harbor. But I had my own life to lead, my own dreams to follow.

So I decided to go back to the city as soon as things settled down and start my next book. I already had the title:
Fire Works in the Hamptons
.

Damn, were those sirens I heard?

W
HERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS? That's the most common question people ask authors at book signings, writers' conventions and library talks. The stock answers are: the idea fairy, dreams, newspapers, in the shower, or the idea mall, where an author would shop all the time if she had better directions or a GPS.

But what if the writer's ideas, especially those fantastical, off-the-wall ideas, actually come from another universe where magic abounds? Where trolls and elves and night mares and mental telepathy really exist? What if an author's brilliant visions were nothing but presentiments of forbidden visitors from that unknown, alien universe trespassing on Earth?

Then the world as we know it is going to hell in a handcart, and the author is getting walloped by the wagon as it races past.

 

I needed a man.

Last time I had a girl, then a boy and a troll. Now I wanted a man, a strong, heroic type. For my new book, of course. I'd sworn off real men for life, or until I finished my next book, whichever came first. After all, I'd known and loved two of the most wonderful, talented, intelligent, adventurous, gorgeous and sexy men—who weren't right for me. What was left? A dull-as-dirt accountant? Been there, done that. And so what if I was thirty-five? If I ever decided to make my mother ecstatic by giving her a grandkid or two, I could always adopt. That's what she did, with dogs. I petted Mom's crippled Pomeranian, who now appeared to be mine. He sniffed my hand for a biscuit. Dogs were a lot easier than men.

Don't get me wrong; I like having a man in my life. What I didn't like was them taking over my life, or them leaving. Picking up the pieces was too painful, so now my career comes first.

I write books, illustrated graphic novels for the young fantasy reader, under the pen name of Willy Tate instead of my too girly-sounding Willow Tate. Kids love them, reviewers love them, my publisher loves them. How cool is that, getting paid to do what I like best?

I write better in my Manhattan apartment without the distractions of the beach and the relatives and the small-town calamities that seem to occur regularly in Paumanok Harbor at the edge of Long Island's posh Hamptons. I might—just might—be responsible for some of the recent chaos, so the sooner I get back to the big city, the better for all of us. I'll leave the week after Labor Day, when my houseguest goes back to teaching middle-level science at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. I am happy to have my old college roommate here for the week, but I can't write with Ellen in the house. I have to show her around, see that she's entertained and fed, keep her company on beach walks and bar hops. That's what old friends are for, isn't it?

A few more days and we'll both be back at our jobs in the real world. My cousin Susan can look after my mother's other rescued shelter dogs if Mom doesn't get back from saving a pack of greyhounds in the South, if she can't shut down the tracks altogether. Susan is already living at my mother's house, avoiding her own family's disapproval of her wild ways. I don't exactly approve of all the men she drags home either, but I am only ten years older than Susan, not my cousin's keeper.

So nothing is going to keep me in this tiny, ingrown, backwater town past the end of the tourist season. I'll take Ellen to the last big fireworks display in East Hampton on Labor Day weekend, then start packing. I want to see the fireworks, too, for the new story I am working on, or would be working on soon.

The idea for the new book came from all the idiots setting off firecrackers on the beach near my mother's house all summer long. Some were pretty, but most were just loud enough to wake the neighbors and scare the dogs. Inevitably, some kid burned his hand or lost a finger or set the dune grasses on fire. Just as inevitably, the slobs left beer bottles and trash and still-burning coals on the bay-side beaches. Paumanok Harbor's small police force tried to stop them—the bigger, more dangerous ones at least—but the shore was long and dark, and no one wanted to ruin the Hamptons' summer economy by chasing down and arresting tourists. Or their own neighbors' kids.

Illegal firecrackers were easy to come by. I'd seen them sold on street corners in Pennsylvania and Florida. Fools bought them—and recklessly transported them in their own cars!—even though everyone knew only a licensed pyrotechnician, a Grucci-type, could safely set off the really spectacular displays.

That's what I wanted. Not some gunpowder geek, or once a summer sparkler-setter, but a fire wizard, a pyromage, a red-hot superhero. He'd shoot flames from his fingertips, encircle bad guys in blazes, fight evil with fire. He'd start backfires for forest rangers, and warm stranded mountain climbers until help arrived. A regular Lassie with a flare. Literally.

And there he was, right in my living room when Ellen and I got back from breakfast in Amagansett, the next town over. A man I'd never seen before was fast asleep on the sofa. Tall enough that his feet hung over the end, dark and handsome; he had an unshaved shadow on his strong jaw, a thick lock of sable hair fallen on his forehead, another sticking up in a boyish cowlick. He was nicely built from what I could see under Mom's patchwork quilt and the black T-shirt he wore. Yup, my hero, except his mouth hung open, an empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table, and one of Mom's old dogs whined next to the couch. The white-muzzled retriever wanted his quilt back.

Ellen took a seat near the sofa and sighed at the stranger. “Oh, my. That's better than the raspberry muffin I just ate. And not half as fattening.”

The guy might be a good model for me to sketch, but he sure as hell wasn't an invited guest. I stayed standing up, ready to reach for the fireplace poker or the heavy dog-breed book on the coffee table.

“Quiet,” I whispered to Ellen, not ready to defend us from a waking trespasser. “I bet he's one of Susan's strays.” My mother brought home old, injured, or abandoned dogs. My cousin brought home men. With abandon.

“Can I keep him?” Ellen asked. “Please.”

“He belongs to Susan.”

“He's too old for Susan.”

He did look more late thirties than mid-twenties, but age didn't count, according to Susan. If a man was breathing, he was fair game. Everyone figured that my cousin's collision with cancer changed her attitude. I never heard of chemo killing a person's scruples, but I made allowances for her, which was why she lived in my house. Besides, she was a great cook.

“He has dimples!”

“Come on, El, we don't even know if he's housebroken.”

“Any man this gorgeous has to be.”

“Okay. We'll get him a collar and you can take him back to Connecticut with you. Maybe you should buy a six-pack to win his loyalty away from Susan.”

As if the name conjured her up, Susan shuffled into the room from the kitchen, a blue pottery mug—mine from one of the craft shows—in her hand. She was wearing an oversize Snoopy T-shirt—mine, too, dammit!—and her hair, pink this week, was in pigtails. She looked about sixteen instead of twenty-six. No one would guess she was head chef at our uncle's restaurant. She was definitely too young for the Romeo in repose.

At least she hadn't put in all the eyebrow hoops. And the nose stud must have been too uncomfortable because I hadn't seen it this week. Not that I missed it.

“He's not too old, and he's not mine,” she said now, sitting on the edge of the coffee table sipping her tea. “But he does look cute sleeping like that.”

“Yeah, as cuddly as a teddy bear. Get rid of him. You know I draw the line at finding your lovers in my living room.”

“I told you, he's not my lover. He stopped by the Breakaway for a late meal last night on his way back to the city from Montauk, but his car died in the parking lot. No one answered at Kelvin's garage to come tow the car, and all the motels were booked with the Labor Day crowd. When the restaurant closed, I offered a ride and the couch. That's all. We stopped off to admire the sunrise.”

I'm sorry to admit I snorted at the unlikely tale. The sound wasn't ladylike or mature, and showed a big lack of faith in my own cousin. Little Red, the three-legged Pomeranian, started barking at the sudden noise or when he finally realized yet another stranger had invaded his territory. The bark turned to a snarl when I tried to shush him. Red weighed six pounds but had a seven-pound mean streak. He'd been abused before he came to Paumanok Harbor, so we all made allowances for him, too.