Most of the time, she could barely focus on the words, her mind filling with memories of how she’d spent her time at Gavin’s house. She wondered what he was doing and where he was almost constantly. Every time her grandfather brushed past her with newspaper in hand, she stared hard at the front page, convinced that she’d catch a glimpse of Gavin carrying someone out of a burning building or laying waste to some crime ring.
He was never there, and somehow it made her feel even more alone every time she bothered to look.
Around noon, the doorbell rang, and the maid rang the intercom in Sarabeth’s quarters, telling her she had visitors. She’d been lying in her bed, not bothering to dress before delving back into her book.
Her heart thrummed, and she rushed to her bedroom door, opening it a crack and yelling down the stairs that she’d be with them in a minute.
She ignored the light-pink dress her grandmother’s maid had laid out for her in favor of a pair of jeans and a sweater, then ran her fingers through her hair, taking calming, deep breaths as she examined herself in the mirror. She was a damned mess. After three weeks, her blond roots were finally starting to show, and she hadn’t bothered to cover them with dye again, still not sure what to do with her new style. She flipped open the container of eye shadow Gavin had given to her and brushed it over her lids, blending until the color made her eyes pop.
She lifted her chin and turned to each side. Respectable. Better.
If Gavin was at the door, and there was no reason to think after a week he’d show up, but if he was…if he was, she’d tell him what she’d come to realize for certain over the past seven days. In every moment, she wanted him by her side. She wanted to listen to him laugh or make fun of her. She wanted to be a part of his crazy-ass life, with brazen waitresses who may—or probably weren’t—trying to poison them, and his wild-haired friend Maddy and his giant castle of a house.
She loved him.
Heart in her throat, she opened her bedroom door and glided down the stairs, finding only Martina in the foyer. “Miss Lucinda invited them into the parlor.” She nodded and trotted off to the kitchen, calling behind her that lunch would be prepared shortly.
Miss Lucinda invited them in? Weird…
When she crossed the entryway and stepped through the arch of the living room, her heart dropped. Owen and Lindy were sitting opposite her grandmother, nodding politely as Lucinda yammered on about how the caterers at her last event had had the nerve to put pigs in a blanket on their menu or something of the kind.
At the sound of her footsteps, Lindy turned and greeted her with a bright smile. “Hey, stranger. How are you?”
“Great, it’s so nice to see you.” And it was. Seeing her friends was a wonderful reminder that her life was more than the nightmare she’d been trapped in for the past week, but the gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t let her forget what she’d been expecting. And rather than the surly Scottish brute she wanted to see, Lindy’s tall Irish millionaire was on her couch.
“And you.” Owen smiled. “Glad you made it out. Even if you had to put up with Gavin.” Owen barked a laugh, but Lindy looked thoughtful as she studied Sarabeth’s face. Sarabeth hoped against hope the practiced smile hadn’t faltered.
“Yes, well, he did a great job,” she said. Desperate to change the subject before Lindy saw too much, she added, “Would you like to stay for lunch? I’m sure we have more than enough.”
Lucinda sniffed disapprovingly, but the two people on the couch ignored her.
“That would be great,” Lindy said.
“Excellent.” Sarabeth slid next to her grandmother on the couch and Rochester, resting as ever beneath the elder woman’s feet, let out a low growl of disapproval.
They chatted for a while before Martina called them in for lunch, leaving Lucinda behind in the parlor. As they tucked in to their meal, the couple filled Sarabeth in on what their life had been like while she was away. They skated carefully around details of The Healing Place cases, but they did tell her that Vito DeSalvo had been brought up on charges of racketeering the day before.
“You didn’t see it? It’s been all over the news.” Lindy chewed on the crust of her caprese sandwich.
“I guess not. Is it a big trial?”
“It’s enormous. CNN, ABC, NBC, the whole alphabet was practically covering it.”
“Wow.” Sarabeth felt a real smile tugging at her lips for the first time in over a week. More than anything, she’d been afraid that Vito would get off scot-free for this whole mess, but it seemed like he might pay after all.
“You’d think Gavin would be happier about the whole thing,” Owen said before crunching into his sandwich.
“Owen,” Lindy said softly, eyeing him. He wasn’t the sort to heed her warning, though, so he continued.
“What? He’s the star witness in the case. Apparently, when Vito was released on bail for the whole shootout at the warehouse, there were rumblings that the DA didn’t have enough evidence to win a trial. Gavin worked with police to set up a sting operation. There was another firefight and everything, but he doesn’t seem to care about any of it. Solemn and miserable as a bear.” He shook his head.
“Wait. There was a what?” Sarabeth nearly choked on her tomato, and the acidic taste merged with the rancid bile biting at the back of her throat.
“It was very minor. I guess there was some sort of something…well, I couldn’t understand most of the technical stuff the two of them say.” She nodded toward her husband. “But he was only grazed by the bullet. It was a very slight wound on his arm. Nothing to be upset over.” She nibbled on a piece of lettuce.
“Except he’s been moping about for days. Will barely take any calls. He sits in his house and works alone, sends Maddy on all the active-duty stuff. It’s not like him,” Owen said.
No, that was true. If the scars covering him from head to toe were any indication, he’d lost any tendency toward being gun-shy a long time ago. It hardly seemed possible that he would be so sullen over a negligible firefight, especially if it was integral in taking down one of the city’s biggest crime conglomerates. So…that only left one major difference as far as she could tell.
Maybe it was self-absorbed to think it. Maybe it was only wishful thinking. But she had to hope that deep down he was missing her as much as she was missing him.
And she was going to do her damnedest to put it right.
She tried to prod more information out of the pair, but every time Gavin’s name was mentioned, Lindy leveled a glare at her husband, and the topic of conversation would switch, sometimes without any kind of logical transition. By the end of the meal, it was absolutely clear to her that they knew something she didn’t, something Gavin didn’t want her to know, and she’d be darned if she wasn’t going to figure it out.
She ushered her friends out the door with speedy hugs and good-byes, making a mental note to spend more time with them when she could actually focus. As soon as the locks snapped themselves closed, the clicking of her grandmother’s heels sounded like a warning bell. The chime before the start of a boxing match.
“How was the Irishman?” She was holding her martini glass aloft like it was a trophy. And considering the fact that it was two in the afternoon, it was a bit of an achievement that the crystal was already half-empty.
“Owen was fine.” Sarabeth started up the stairs, but her grandmother called her back with a loud clearing of her throat.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time now.”
“Oh?” She tried her hardest to mask her growing contempt, but it became more of a struggle every day. She knew whatever was about to come next was not going to be a congratulations on making it through the most enormous failure of her life or the greatest heartbreak she’d ever felt. No, if anything, the woman was about to throw another giant log onto the crackling bonfire of Sarabeth’s regrets.
“Yes. Please, come join me in the sitting room.” The silver heels clicked off and Sarabeth followed, taking long, deep breaths as she went. It was always such a production, these come-to-Jesus meetings that usually turned into something more like a come-to-bridge-club.
“Your twenty-ninth birthday is in three months.” Her grandmother sipped from her martini glass as if to wash down the bitter taste of her own words. “I’ve been speaking with Trinket Abbot, you know Trinket? Darling woman.”
“Darling woman” was typically code for “single son” in the dictionary of Lucinda Lucking. She leaned back in the cushions. So far she’d been hopping around, trying to exhaust Sarabeth’s mind before she delivered the kidney punch.
Hit me with your best shot.
“Well, her boys have lovely prospects. Neville is even starting his own accounting firm.” She smiled. A white, pearly omen of doom.
“Good for him.” Sarabeth bit the inside of her cheek.
“Yes, it really is. So, I’ve arranged for you to meet him on Saturday for dinner. Martina will lay out your outfit, and you’ll go to my hairdresser on Friday to handle”—she waved a hand lazily at Sarabeth’s locks—“that. The following Saturday you’ve a date scheduled with Bethany’s son. I’m hoping that maybe by your birthday, I’ll find you someone suitable to bring to the party.”
“Party?”
“Well, of course. The DAR fund-raiser has to take place somewhere. What better time than your birthday? Maybe if you had a man with you, then everyone would be willing to ignore your latest…incident. And the one before that. And the one before that.” She tilted her head back to take in the rest of her drink.
So she hadn’t meant to throw a log onto Sarabeth’s regret fire. Her grandmother had intended to toss an entire tree in there and start a bonfire. How else would she get what she wanted?
But it was enough. The tree hadn’t built the fire, it had smothered it, crushing it until she realized exactly what it had been before—carefully stoked so that other people could feed from it. A way to keep her down. But no more.
She took a deep breath, getting to her feet. “Let me get this straight. By my latest incident, you mean the Mafia attempt on my life? And the one before, you mean the opportunity to work in the field of my choice and provide for myself instead of having every moment of my life micromanaged by you and your do-nothing friends? And I’m assuming that the incident before that would be my birth. I’m so sorry, I know that one was definitely my fault. You’re so right.”
“Who do you think you’re—?”
She straightened her spine and jabbed a finger in the older woman’s direction. “No, who do you think you’re talking to? I’m a grown woman. I started my own practice. I’ve made mistakes, but I don’t glom on to other people to support myself. You’re right, I’m almost thirty. I know!” She threw her hands in the air wildly. “Grab another gin martini because the very thought of having a thirty-year-old unmarried granddaughter is too much to handle sober, but those are the facts. I’m going home, and I don’t care how many reporters are waiting for me when I get there. I know you don’t either, so let’s drop the charade.”
The thoughts that had been trapped inside her head came pouring out like hot, fresh tears. Soothing and necessary. She ignored her grandmother’s exaggerated gasps of horror, grabbed her purse, and barreled out of the house to her waiting rental car. It was time to start fresh and to take action.
She swiped at the tears of anger filling her eyes and jammed the keys into the ignition. Now that she’d made her mind up, even the fury she felt toward her grandmother took a backseat. She was going to see Gavin again, and as scary as that was, it also marked the first moment she felt truly alive since he’d driven away.