Truly, Madly (3 page)

I decided the truth would only hurt, so I kept mum on the fact that my dad was guilty as charged in the pages of the
Boston Herald
. ''Thank you. He's doing much better now.''

''Will he be back soon?''

''I'm not sure.''

''Let me be frank, Ms. Valentine. What qualifies you to find a man for me? Where did you go to school?''

I thought about being sassy and answering, ''Pequot Elementary,'' but decided that wouldn't make a good first impression. ''I graduated from Bridgewater State.''

She pursed her lips in distaste. Sure, it wasn't Harvard, but it was a great school—one that I'd worked two jobs to put myself through.

''With a degree in?''

''Business. A minor in English.'' I left out my stints as a barista, day-care worker, and dog walker. They probably wouldn't garner any confidence. Though I had to admit if I could handle walking ten dogs at once, then I could handle just about anything.

This reminded me that I hadn't been able to handle ten dogs. My dog-walking career had been short-lived.

Lola Fellows had reason to worry.

Her dark eyebrows dipped and unattractive creases formed at the corners of her mouth. ''How is that going to help me?''

Perhaps if she wasn't so bitchy she'd have found a man by now. I almost felt guilty siccing her on poor Adam.

I straightened in my chair. ''My qualifications for this job are my genes. Plain and simple. I'm a Valentine. Matching lovers is what we do.''

Raphael would have been proud of me. I almost believed myself.

She drew her crimson bottom lip into her mouth, released it. ''All right then. What have you found?''

I spent the next thirty minutes with Lola and the next two hours with various other clients looking for love. The tough ones were the new clients, who didn't have swatches. I tucked their portfolios away to be studied at home.

I wondered if I earned overtime for homework.

By the time Michael Lafferty sat down across from me, I was starting to believe I could be a decent matchmaker.

He had a swatch and everything. A bold orange color highlighted with shades of red. I hadn't been able to find a similar swatch in the quick search of my father's cabinet, which meant I'd need to have him come back. Until then: Stall.

I asked the prerequisite questions about background (Michael and two older sisters were raised by single mom), his age (twenty-nine), his job (a mechanic), where he lived (in the blue-collar community of North Weymouth), and his religion (Catholic). He was tall, nearly six-two, and on the skinny side of healthy. He had bright blue eyes, dark hair, fair skin.

The type of guy girls tripped over themselves for.

Yet here he was.

''Have you been married before?'' I asked.

''Nah. Engaged once.''

''How long ago?''

''Almost six years ago, and I'm going to be up front, Ms. Valentine. I still love her—the girl I was engaged to.''

''Ah. Might make matching you a challenge.''

''I certainly haven't had any luck on my own, getting over her. That's why I'm here.''

Curious, I set his portfolio down. His tone tugged at my sappy heartstrings. To still be in love with someone so many years later. ''What happened?'' My melodramatic mind was already playing ''Love Story'' in my head.

''Long, sad story.''

I could practically see Ryan O'Neal and Ali MacGraw.

Knowing wouldn't help me find him a match—all I needed for that was more time in my father's files. But I couldn't help myself. ''I've got time. It might help in the whole matching process,'' I bluffed.

He shrugged. ''Her name is Jennifer Thompson.''

The way he spoke, full of longing, made me wonder if another woman stood a chance against such strong memories. Would finding him a match be ethical on my part?

''Jennifer and me, well, we fell in love early on. We were high school sweethearts. Dated since tenth grade.''

''Wow. That's really young.''

''Sometimes love is just right. You know?''

Nope. Not a clue. Thanks to Cupid's Curse.

''We'd been together seven years. I proposed to her when we graduated high school—my mom gave me a family ring to give to her. It was an heirloom, passed down in my family for generations. We were planning to get married as soon as she finished college. You know how it goes.''

I nodded.

''Then one night Jennifer was home from school for a weekend and me and her had a fight.'' His eyes took on a faraway look, the blue turning stormy. ''Stupid one, too. About her living in town, closer to BU, and not with me. I walked out. Went to the pub. Had a few too many.''

I cringed, having a feeling where this was going.

''Woke up in bed with an old classmate, girl named Elena Hart.''

Deep anger lines creased his forehead. ''I had to have been really lit. No way would I sleep with Elena otherwise. Not only 'cause of Jennifer, but because Elena . . .'' He shook his head.

''What?''

''Well, she followed me around a lot. Her and Rachel Yurio, a friend of hers. It was creepy. And I know they gave Jennifer grief, too. Lots of hang-ups, slashing her tires. Nothing we could ever prove. But Elena had been trying to break us up for years, holding a delusion that I'd actually want to get with her if Jenny wasn't in the picture.''

Suddenly this felt more like
Fatal Attraction
than
Love Story
. ''Did you tell Jennifer what happened that night with Elena?''

''Elena got to her first, showed her some pictures she'd taken. Jennifer called and broke it off with me, said she put my ring in the mail. It never did show up. You know, my mother still gives me grief over that ring. And it's not like I can get in touch with Jenny to find out where it is. She stopped taking my calls after we broke up. I never saw her again.''

''I'm sorry.''

He clasped his hands together, twiddled his thumbs. ''No one to blame but myself.''

''What happened with Elena?''

''Rachel, Elena's friend? She was a real sweet girl—never sure why she hung with Elena. Anyway, one day she calls out of the blue, said she had something to tell me. Guess she had a guilty conscience. She told me that Elena had staged our whole night together. That we never slept together. I tried to call Jennifer, but at that point I couldn't track her down at all. It's like she completely disappeared. Her parents used to live in Weymouth Landing and wouldn't even answer the door when I knocked. Eventually, I stopped trying and they moved away.''

''Did you ever see Elena again?'' I asked.

''Elena found out that Rach had told me about the pictures and had a huge fight with her. Then Elena, she showed up at my house, just plain out of her mind. I told her to leave me alone for good. That there was never going to be anything between us. I never saw either again. Heard through the grapevine they left town.'' He shivered. ''Look, it's taken a long time to get over all of it, but I'm finally ready to move on. I want a family. A wife. Kids. I'd even take a little house with a picket fence.''

Sounded pretty good to me, too.

''You think you can help me, Ms. Valentine?''

I fingered the swatch in his file. ''I'm sure I can find you a match, Michael, but I don't know if that person can ever replace Jennifer.'' I thought about the files in my father's office, and the sappy romantic in me bypassed them. Could I find Jennifer? See if she was willing to give Michael another chance, especially since he'd never cheated on her? Was it foolish to even think there was a possibility?

Probably. But I couldn't turn my back on how he felt for Jennifer. To still love her after all this time . . . It was worth a shot. But first I needed to find her. See if she was married. Nothing like a wedding band to put a kink in my plans.

''There's no replacing Jenny, Ms. Valentine. But she doesn't want me, and I need to move on.''

I took a leap of faith. ''How would you feel if I contacted Jennifer, maybe explain what really happened all those years ago, see if she had any interest in meeting with you?''

His eyebrows dipped. ''I can't imagine she'd say yes.''

''But?''

Hopeful, he said, ''But it might be the closure I need to move on.''

I agreed. Whether the idea panned out or not, a meeting might heal some old wounds for both of them. I collected some information from Michael to help find Jennifer and told him I'd call him as soon as I learned anything.

He stood, held out his hand. ''Thanks.''

I shook it, froze.

Images flashed through my head, like an old-fashioned movie with its reel spinning out of control. Dizzy, I swayed.

''Ms. Valentine? You okay?''

I tugged my hand from his, held it to my chest. Shakily, I said, ''I'm all right.''

''You went white as a ghost.''

I led him toward the door and hoped I wasn't being rude. I was shaken and knew it must have shown. ''I'm all right. Really. I'll call you.''

As I watched him walk down the hall, I felt sick to my stomach. I'd seen a vision of an engagement ring when my palm touched his. An old-fashioned band of platinum with delicate filigree and a two-carat square-cut diamond. An heirloom type of ring.

It had been on the finger of a skeleton.

THREE

I stumbled back to my office, closed the door, sat in my chair, and put my head between my knees.

There weren't enough math problems in the world to settle my current nerves.

I'd found dozens of things over the years. My dad's cuff links, my mother's wallet, my grandmother's prized WWF pin. I'd even found things for my best friends, Marisol and Em, on occasion, without their knowing how.

Never had I found a dead body.

One that I was fairly sure had been murdered. Why else would it be buried in a shallow grave with no coffin, in a public park?

Slowly, I lifted my head. The room spun. Vertigo at its worst. I tilted my head back, sucked in a deep breath as I focused on the thin apple green and aubergine striping on the white roman shades.

The room slowly stopped spinning.

Rooting through my cavernous satchel, I came up with a bottle of water and twisted off the cap. I poured a few drops onto my fingers, spritzed my face.

To every rule there's an exception.

With my particular psychic ability, gift-giving throws my perceptions out of whack. It's the only time I'm aware of when I can get a reading from two people, where an object has two owners—the person who gave the gift . . . and the person who received it.

Which was why I'd been able to pick up on the ring's energy from Michael, even though the ring technically belonged to Jennifer.

I was at a loss.

The ring I'd seen had been on a corpse buried in a shallow grave in North Weymouth—the town where Michael lived. Coincidence? I hardly thought so.

But what did I do about it?

Call the police? It didn't take any kind of psychic ability to see where that conversation would go.

Try to find the body on my own? It was a thought. But then what?

Another option was to do absolutely nothing.

I ruled that thought out as soon as it popped into my head. I wasn't a do-nothing kind of girl.

I found Suzannah sitting at her desk, her teary eyes focused on the TV and the continuing coverage of the story TV stations had now called ''Little Boy Lost,'' a label that flashed across the screen in bold yellow script.

''You don't look well,'' she said. ''I was about to say the same about you.''

She motioned to the TV with her head as she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, plucked a Puffs. ''My nephew is that age. The story is hitting a little too close to home.''

Scanning the latest headlines, I frowned. ''They took the father in for questioning?''

''Don't you remember the case where that woman drowned her little boys in the lake, then told everyone they'd been carjacked?''

''Unfortunately,'' I mumbled.

''The police are questioning whether the father really had a seizure or not. There weren't any witnesses. Divers are scouring the Aaron River Reservoir.''

''Maybe you shouldn't watch.'' I knew the coverage was making me feel worse. To think a father might have taken his own child's life . . .

''You're right.'' She clicked off the set, jumped up, then sat back down. ''I feel so useless.''

''Why don't you go down and help search the woods? I'm sure they're forming search parties.''

She jumped up again. ''I should. I will!'' Dashing to the closet, she grabbed her Burberry trench coat and her handbag. Dusk had fallen, casting shadows. I walked over, pulled the drapes, and turned on a floor lamp.

Rushing to the door, Suzannah stopped abruptly. ''What about you?''

''I'll be all right. I'm going to see to the fire, lock up and head upstairs to see Sam for a few minutes, then go home.'' I needed a dose of familiarity after the day I'd had.

''How are Em and Marisol these days?''

''I hardly ever see them. Marisol is so wrapped up with her internship at the vet clinic, and Em's slowly going out of her mind between her pediatric internship and the wedding.''

Suz belted her coat and nodded. ''Wedding planning will do that to you.''

''Especially when her mother has completely taken over the planning and is two hundred thousand over a quarter-million-dollar budget, one of her flower girls decided she wanted to be the ring bearer, and Em's gained ten pounds and doesn't fit into her dress anymore.''

Suzannah whistled. ''That's some budget.''

''Always the best for a Baumbach,'' I said, repeating Em's family mantra.

''When's the wedding?''

''Valentine's Day.''

''Aww, how romantic. I'm sure it will all work out,'' she said. ''You should have seen me two months before my wedding.''

I smiled. ''I did.''

''Oh. That's right.'' Color surged into her cheeks.

''Don't worry; I don't hold it against you.''

She ran over, pecked my cheek. ''Get some rest—you really don't look well.''

''I will. Just need to check with Sam on something.''

Heaving open the door, Suzannah stopped short. ''Wait. Sam's on Maui with his family.''

''He is? I saw his door open when I came in.''

''Sean's up there.''

''Sean?''

''Sam's brother. Used to be a firefighter until some sort of injury sidelined him. Sam made him a partner in the company about nine months ago.''

Odd that I hadn't heard about it until now. ''When does Sam get back?''

''Sunday.''

It was only Wednesday. Could I wait that long?

Suzannah must have seen my hesitation. ''Sean's good. You can trust him.''

''You sure?''

''I'm never wrong, Lucy.'' She beamed, her eyes flicking to the stairs.

''What are you smiling about?''

''Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,'' she said as she walked out.

I didn't believe her for a second.

Peeking through the drapes, I watched as she ignored the reporter lurking on the sidewalk and hurried down the street toward the T station. Back in my office, I gathered up the files I wanted to take home and placed Michael Lafferty's on top. I locked the door behind me and hesitantly climbed the stairs to SD Investigations. The door was still open.

I stuck my head in but didn't see anyone. ''Hello? Sean?'' I took a step in. ''Mr. Donahue?'' Another step. ''Sean? Hello?''

This office was the same size and layout as my father's, and it was obvious that they'd used the same interior designer. Gleaming hardwoods, thick area rugs, and oversized comfy furniture welcomed me in.

Overhead pot lights shone on the burnt orange walls, creating a soft glow throughout the room. There was a hint of freshly ground coffee in the air, along with strongly scented cinnamon.

''Hellooo,'' I called out a bit louder as I walked through the archway leading to the back offices.

On a console table in the hallway I found the source of the cinnamon—a Yankee candle flickering in the dim light. I could hear the faint sound of a male voice coming from down the hallway—the office directly above mine.

As I neared, the voice became clearer. Sean Donahue was on the phone.

''Yes, I've got it. . . . No, I don't mind. . . . Yes, I'm sure. Raspberry yogurt, Swiss cheese, turkey breast, and toilet paper.'' There was a stretch of silence before he said, ''I won't forget. I didn't lose my mind, Cara.''

I heard the annoyance in his tone and wondered if I should come back in the morning. Then I flashed to the vision of the diamond ring. My stomach turned and my head swirled. I took a deep breath to keep from passing out. What a first impression that would make.

For a second I thought about heading back to the reception area, waiting for Sean Donahue to finish his call, but a quick check of my watch spurred me to interrupt his conversation. Raphael would be here in fifteen minutes.

I stepped into the doorway and raised my hand to knock on the jamb when Sean said, ''I don't know. Late. I have a stack of files on my desk that needs to be taken care of.''

My knock hit the wood just as his desk chair spun away from the window. His body tensed as his gaze jumped to mine.

Whoa.

I leaned against the door frame so I wouldn't fall over.

''Cara, I've got to go; someone's at the door.'' His lips tensed. ''I'll call you before I leave here. Bye.''

He snapped his cell phone closed, rose to his feet.

I didn't think mine would hold my full weight, so I didn't budge.

He wasn't handsome in the classical sense. His face was too angular, his dark hair too short, his neck too thick, and his nose had been broken once, maybe more, and he had a jaw straight from the pages of a superhero comic book. But there was something about him that sucked the breath from my lungs and made my legs jiggle like pudding. Something . . . dare I say it?

Sensual. Alluring.

Now I knew why Suzannah had been smiling.

I'd never had a reaction like this to a man, and I wasn't sure what to make of it. At this point, I wasn't liking it—I'm sure I looked like a perfect fool.

His gaze held mine—he didn't blink or look away. In all my twenty-eight years I'd never seen eyes so gray. A milky gray that glimmered like pearls. They were mesmerizing, his eyes. And I was mesmerized. It took me a good thirty seconds to get a grip.

Clearing my throat, I said, ''Hi.''

''You
can
talk. I was beginning to have my doubts.''

Heat surged up my throat. Obviously, my appearance hadn't created that same dumbfounded feeling within him.

''I knocked and called out. You didn't hear me.'' I tested my legs. They held. I walked into the room. ''I'm Lucy Valentine. Oscar's daughter.''

His expression changed from guarded to . . . pleased? It took a second before I realized he'd had no clue who I was—I could have been any crazy off the street, suddenly standing here in his office.

''Sorry I didn't hear you.'' He held out his hand to shake mine. ''Sean Donahue.''

I stared at it. Oh no.

''I don't have cooties, Ms. Valentine.''

I tucked the files I'd carried into the crook of my left arm. Bracing myself, I said, ''Of course not, and call me Lucy.'' Reaching across his desk, I shook his hand quickly. The room whirled, spinning. It wasn't that same movie-reel-out-of-control feeling I was used to. It was more of a slow-motion flip-book feeling. Images coming lazily, page after page. However, I couldn't make any sense of what I saw. The pictures were blurred, out of focus . . .

Except for one. I yanked my hand away.

He stared at his own hand long enough to make me wonder if he'd felt something, seen something, too. But no, that was impossible.

I didn't know what to make of the whole slow-motion feeling. It was new. And I certainly didn't know what to make of the one clear image in my vision. There certainly hadn't been any lost objects to be seen.

Deciding I would try to pick it apart later, I sat in the chair across from him. We looked at each other for a good ten seconds. And funny enough, it wasn't awkward. It was kind of like . . . meeting an old friend. Which made no sense, since I'd never met him before. No way would I forget eyes like those.

I tried to shake off the feeling. I hated keeping Raphael waiting, and if I kept making goo-goo eyes at Sean Donahue, then I'd never get out of here.

''I, um, need your help.''

''All right.''

''With a client.''

He leaned back in his chair. ''Go on.''

''I need to find a girl.'' I settled my files in my lap. My desire to find Jennifer Thompson was twofold. First and foremost, I had to figure out if she was the body in the grave. The skeleton, after all, had been wearing Michael's engagement ring. She was the last to have it.

Second, if Jennifer wasn't mysteriously missing I had to implement my plan to reunite the two, skeleton or not. But I hoped she'd be able to shed some light on who might have possession of Michael's family heirloom.

''Her name?''

''Jennifer Thompson.''

Sean jotted a note on a pad of paper he pulled from his desk drawer. ''Social Security?''

I shrugged.

''Why do you want to find her?''

''For a client,'' I evaded. ''You'll be able to find out if she's married . . . or dead, right?''

''Dead?''

''Theoretically.''

''That's some theory.''

I didn't comment. No need to tell him about the skeleton.

''Okay,'' he said. ''A girl named Jennifer Thompson. Piece of cake. There's probably only a couple thousand Jennifer Thompsons around.''

I shifted in my seat. ''You don't need to mock.''

The corner of his mouth rose up in a little grin. ''It's what I do best. Do you have any other info on her?''

''She went to BU, probably graduated six or seven years ago. Her family used to live in Weymouth Landing; her birthday is May eleventh.''

He scribbled on a notepad. ''That helps.''

My cell phone rang, a jazzy rendition of ''Jingle Bells.'' I fished the phone from my satchel, checked the ID, and groaned. Dovie. I silenced the call, dropped the phone back into the depths from which it came.

''Sorry,'' I said.

'' ‘Jingle Bells'? It's barely November.''

''It's never too early for Christmas.''

He smiled, and it sent my heart pounding crazily in my chest. For a second there, I thought maybe I'd be taking the same trip to Mass General my father had.

''I'll do a search, see what turns up. I'll have news for you as soon as possible.''

''I know you're busy,'' I said, recalling what he'd said on the phone about needing to work through the files stacked on his desk.

Only . . . his desk was perfectly clear, except for a pad of paper, a pen, a phone, and a picture of two adorable little girls—Sam's daughters, Sean's nieces.

Obviously Sean hadn't wanted to go home and had lied to his—I checked for a wedding band—his girlfriend?

His look dared me to question him.

Nope. No way.

For some reason, I thought it best to keep my distance from Sean. I stood, grasped my file folders. ''Thanks for your help.''

''Don't thank me yet.''

''I'll just,'' I motioned toward the door, ''see myself out.''

He nodded.

I took the stairs slowly. My heart was still acting funny, feeling as though it had skipped beats, in addition to the palpitations I felt earlier.