On Lavender Lane (42 page)

“I’ve been meaning to try his roasted crab,” she said. “Charity said it’s not to be believed.”

Two votes for the buttery crab. Lucas was on a roll.

He’d put the food in a cooler that had both hot and cold insulated sections. A bottle of champagne and two glasses were wrapped in a blanket in his pack. Along with a boom box.

“Are you sure I can’t carry anything?”

“I’m a SEAL,” he reminded her. “Besides, this is your night to celebrate.”

“It was amazing,” she said. “Having the divorce come through the same day the network called.”

“Maybe,” he suggested, as they strolled down the damp sand, side by side, while the tide went out and the moon rose and the lighthouse flashed its bright yellow beam, “we can make it a hat trick.”

“That’s from sports, right?” Except for soccer, which would have been impossible to ignore while living in Europe, Madeline didn’t know much about sports.

“Yeah. It’s when a player scores three times in a single game. Here we are.”

“Our cave,” she said as he stopped in an all-too-familiar place. “I walked past it one morning but couldn’t bear to go in.”

“I’ve felt the same way. Which is why I figured it’s time to make some new memories.”

He took out the blanket and laid it on the sand, along with candles in metal and glass hurricane containers. As soon as he lit them, the walls and ceiling of the cave lit up as if they were made of diamonds. Even knowing that the brilliant chips glittering from the walls were actually quartz, garnet, and fool’s gold didn’t make the effect any less special.

“It still takes my breath away,” she said.

“
You
take my breath away.” He stood up from the candle lighting and kissed her. A slow, sweet mingling of lips.

“I promised you dinner,” he said, as the kiss and their bodies heated up. “But first…”

He got out the boom box. Along with a green box that held a bottle of champagne beautifully embossed with white flowers, and a pair of long-stemmed flutes.

He poured the champagne, handed her a glass, and lifted his in a toast.

“To you. And your freedom.”

His smile warmed the cockles of Maddy’s heart. “To us.”

“Us,” he agreed. “Together.”

They’d no sooner drunk the toast than he hit a button on the CD player and Heath Ledger’s voice began singing. It was the song the actor had sung in
10 Things I Hate about You
to apologize for breaking his girlfriend’s heart. The ultimate redemption song from her favorite movie back when she and Lucas were first dating.

“May I have this dance?”

Maddy floated into his arms.

“You’re too good to be true,” he sang along with the actor, continuing to sing as they swayed while the walls glittered and the sea sighed and a full white moon rose higher in a deep purple night sky.

“I love you, baby.” His voice was deep and husky as he echoed the lyrics about needing her to trust him, to warm the lonely nights, and to please stay.

By the time they got to the last
Let me love you, baby,
ending, there was no way on God’s green earth she was going to say anything but “Yes. Yes. And Yes!”

As good as they’d been together that first summer, as amazing as their lovemaking had been in Portland, this time was even better.

It was truly as if they’d been created for each other. They fit perfectly. And not just their bodies, but their minds and their hearts.

And when they lay together on the blanket, the candles casting warm light on his gorgeous male body, Maddy—because that’s who she’d blissfully become again, having thrown off the workaholic Madeline—thought,
Score!

55

Maddy was still floating on air as she pulled up in front of Haven House the next morning. As much as she’d wanted to stay in bed with Lucas—they’d moved to his cottage when the night had grown too cool for even them to stay warm—a promise was a promise. And the women living at the shelter had been lied to enough times that she wasn’t about to let them down.

She’d brought along her own chef’s knives, which had belonged to her parents. Along with several of Sofia’s. It was going to be an easy, short lesson covering knife skills.

“Why do we need to know knife skills?” she asked the women who’d gathered in the kitchen.

“So we don’t cut off a finger?” one of her students suggested, earning a laugh from a few of the others.

Madeline had known instructors who would have assigned a student to stock duty for such “insubordination,” but she’d always thought people should enjoy cooking. And besides, hearing a formerly abused woman being able to make a joke showed what a difference Zelda and the house were making in their lives.

“Basically, it’s because we want uniform cooking time,” she said. “A large piece of carrot is going to take longer to cook than a smaller one. So if you’re sautéing different sizes, your smaller cuts might end up perfectly cooked, but your larger ones underdone. Or, if your larger ones are perfect,
your smaller ones will be overcooked. Possibly even burned. Which we don’t want.

“And then there’s appearance. Unless you’re in culinary school, no one’s going to take out a ruler and measure your cuts. But uniform pieces just look better on the plate. And whether you’re talking about a Big Mac or poached salmon, people first eat with their eyes.

“And, finally, it’s about pride and respect. Skilled knife work shows that you take pride in your work. That you respect the food you’re preparing. And you respect the people you’re cooking for. Not taking shortcuts is telling them that they’re worth that extra trouble to get things right.”

She could tell from the exchanged glances and nods that pride and respect were important concepts to this group. And no wonder.

She took out some yellow onions she’d asked Ethan Concannon to deliver for her and began with the basic large dice, working her way through the medium, then finally the small. Their concentration was more intense than many of the students she’d worked with at the CIA.

Which had her worrying about why they were working so hard for perfection. It was as if they were seriously afraid of making a mistake.

“Remember,” she said casually as she pulled russet potatoes from another bin, “cooking’s supposed to be fun. While consistency of cuts is good, even more important is the joy you put into your food. Because, believe me, people can taste it.”

She’d felt them beginning to loosen up as they mastered the julienne and allumette, or matchstick cuts. “We’ll be having ourselves some French fries today,” she said as the potato slices piled up on the counter.

“Okay. Now this next one, chiffonade, is fun. It’ll give you really pretty fine strips.” She took out basil leaves Sofia had sent along, had them stack the green leaves, then roll each stack into a short bundle.

“The problem with a lot of leaves like mint and basil is they’ve got this fibrous center stem.” The concentration level was still high, but they’d begun to talk among themselves, and she could tell they were enjoying learning something new. Which, she hoped, would help build their self-confidence.

“Okay. Now, carefully cut across the end of the bundles. First on one side up to the stem. Then the other side.” She demonstrated, knife blade flashing in the sun streaming through the kitchen window. “Move your blade backward as you cut, so you won’t bruise your leaves. Then, voilà.” She unrolled two perfectly cut ribbon strips.

She was just about to suggest they try it themselves when the door suddenly swung open.

And a man, holding an ashen-faced Zelda around the neck, pushed his way into the kitchen.

Eyes as cold as ice swept the room, landing on Phoebe, who went as pale as white rice and grabbed hold of the counter, as to keep herself from crumbling to the tile floor.

“Hello, Stephanie, darling,” he said in a pleasant voice that was a direct contrast to the murder in his eyes. “I’ve come to take you home.”

56

Amazingly, no one screamed. No one fainted. The kitchen, which only a moment ago had been filled with happy chatter, became as silent as a tomb. Apparently, he’d warned Zelda not to say anything, because although her eyes were as wide as the Spode saucers on the open shelf, she remained silent, as well.

“Excuse me, but I must ask you to leave,” Maddy said, using the I’m-the-boss-here tone she might with a careless saucier. “You’re interrupting the class.”

“I’ll leave,” he agreed. “With my wife.”

“I’m sorry.” Maddy’s fingers tightened around the handle of her knife. “But I’m not going to let you take her.”

“She’s my property. And I’m not leaving without her,” he said reasonably.

There was only one of him. And many of them. But the ugly gun he was holding in his free hand gave him the power in this situation.

“I’ll go,” Phoebe said, slowly untying the blue chef’s apron Maddy had bought all the women the first day of lessons. The color represented apprentices in French restaurants, but Thomas Keller had all his chefs wear them during prep work at his French Laundry in Napa Valley, to remind them all that every chef should always be learning.

“No.” Zelda found her voice. “You can’t put yourself back in that situation, dear.”

“Shut up,” he told the elderly woman. “Here’s what we’ll do,” he said again with a calmness that Maddy found more chilling than the loudest shout. “I’ll shoot each one of you. Beginning with this skinny old one.”

He shoved Zelda to the floor and stood over her, pointing the barrel of the gun at her leg. Her still-strong dancer’s leg.

“I’ll continue until my wife leaves with me.”

“What’s to prevent someone from calling the police while you’re shooting me?” Zelda asked.

“Simple.” If a rattlesnake could smile, it would look exactly like this man. “This is a high-capacity Glock magazine. It holds thirty-three shells.” His gaze swept the room. “Which is enough to shoot every one of you bitches more than once.”

“Please, Peter.” Phoebe’s voice trembled. “Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh, I intended to hurt someone,” he said. For the first time, Madeline caught a hint of monster in his voice. Directed at his wife. “And we both know who that’s going to be. You’ve been a very bad girl, Steph. And you know what happens to bad girls.”

“I know. And I also know that I deserve whatever punishment you decide.” Her head low, shoulders slumped, she began to make her way around the kitchen island, looking much more the emotionally traumatized woman she’d been when she’d first arrived at Haven House.

But appearances, as so often happen, proved deceiving. As she reached her husband, she suddenly threw the apron over his head.

“What the hell?” His surprised shout was muffled by the apron Phoebe was still holding on to for dear life.

At the same time, one of the other women picked up a heavy iron skillet and slammed it against the back of his head.

Which was when he dropped the gun.

He and Maddy dove for it at the same time, but he was at a disadvantage because he was still fighting Phoebe, who was trying to keep the apron over his head while the other women began raining pots and pans down on him. When none of them knocked him unconscious, they began kicking him while he was crawling on the floor, still fighting for the gun.

“No knives!” Maddy shouted a warning. She understood why many of the women in the room would want to kill this man who’d destroyed the peace of their shelter. But the last thing she wanted was for any of them to end up in prison.

Just as a small sauté pan ricocheted off her shoulder, she managed to get her hands on the gun. And although she’d never held a weapon in her life and her hands were shaking from fear and adrenaline, she stood up and pointed it down at him.

“Someone call nine-one-one,” she said, her voice as unsteady as her hands. “And you,” she looked down at the man who didn’t seem nearly as threatening now that he was cowering on the floor with his hands over his head. “Don’t move.”

One of the women ran over to Zelda and reached down to help her get back on her feet. Which she did, but not before placing a well-aimed kick between his legs, which caused him to curl up in a fetal position and scream.

No one said a word as they stood there, breathing heavily from their short, intense battle, watching him.

Then one, a young blonde whose accent had given away Southern roots, began to clap. Which was followed by another. And a third.

When Kara, who’d made it to the house in less than three minutes, burst into the kitchen, her own weapon drawn and ready, she found Maddy holding a Glock on a guy who definitely looked worse for wear, and an entire room of women applauding.

“God.” She holstered her gun and took the one Maddy offered. “Sometimes I really, really love my job.”

57

“I still can’t believe I almost lost you.” Amazingly, Lucas was trembling as much as Maddy had been when she’d been holding that gun on Phoebe’s husband.

“Wasn’t going to happen,” she said, nestling against him as they waited on the blue wooden bench outside the police station for her to make her statement. The station was so small and there were so many witnesses to the attempted kidnapping that not all the women could fit inside at the same time. “We had woman power going for us.”

“Yeah.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. “The only problem is, you forgot to wear your Wonder Woman magic bracelets today.”

She laughed at that. Basked in his strength. His love. “You should have seen those women,” she said. “They were tigresses.”

“Fighting to protect one of their own.” He moved on to kissing her fingertips one at a time. “I know the feeling.”

He would, of course. The same way he’d known how easily life could be snuffed out in an instant. Something she’d discovered for herself today. Which is why she’d decided that they’d waited long enough.

“There’s something I need to say—”

“And I want to hear it. But first I want you to hear me out.”

“All right.”

“My heart stopped when you called to tell me what happened,” he said, placing his free hand over his chest, as if to prove his point. “It didn’t skip. It didn’t jump. I swear, it flat-out stopped. And in that drawn-out second before it began beating again, I realized that if anything had happened to you, I would’ve wanted it to stay stopped.…