27
I was afraid to sleep.
Afraid that if I closed my eyes, when I opened them again Sean would be gone.
Gone, gone.
The forever kind of gone.
It was illogical—I knew he’d be fine at least for the foreseeable future. During my panic earlier, I’d forgotten about my other visions. The beach, the hammock. The white dress, the black suit. They had yet to be fulfilled. It gave me a small measure of relief. But then what? What if there were no other visions after those came true?
I glanced his way. He slept, looking blessedly peaceful for a change. I eyed his bottle of prescription medicine on the night table. He’d taken something to help him relax, to sleep, to keep torturous thoughts away. Lucky guy.
Checking the clock on my side of the bed, I saw it was just after 2:00 A.M. It had been a long night. An hour after the Cohasset police arrived at my cottage, the FBI showed up (I was beginning to really dislike Agents Thomas and St. John), then Aiden and a couple of state police investigators.
There had been so many questions, I’d lost track of what I answered. Thankfully, everyone had left Sean alone for the most part to rest. One thing they all agreed on was that my cottage wasn’t safe. I’d given in after an hour of trying to explain that I didn’t think Tristan Rourke would hurt me. No one listened.
I nixed all talk of hotel rooms and safe houses and went to the one place that felt as much like home as my place.
Mum’s.
She’d welcomed Sean and me and our menagerie with open arms and big smiles. There was nothing she liked more than houseguests, no matter the reason we were staying.
There was twenty-four-hour surveillance on the house, from land and sea. Tristan Rourke would have to be crazy to try to break in.
I expected he would try.
Moonlight slipped through the crack in the drapes. It was both sweet and disturbing that my mother had left my room as it was the day I moved out. My walls were covered mostly with Broadway show posters, but there were a couple of bands, too—Pearl Jam, Journey, Bruce Springsteen. I had eclectic tastes, even as a teenager.
I looked up. A yellow Aerosmith concert poster had been stapled to the ceiling above my bed, and my gaze traced the font, just for something to do, to keep my mind from wandering.
Sean coughed, rolled, and settled in again. I watched him carefully, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest.
My own chest squeezed so tight it hurt to draw in a breath. I couldn’t keep up this vigil. It wasn’t healthy—mentally or physically.
I tossed off the covers, slipped on my robe and my slippers, and almost tripped over Grendel and Thoreau snuggled together on a dog bed at the foot of the bed. I peeked in on Odysseus, but he was making a nest and was completely covered in pine shavings.
I went in search of something to drink. Water, milk, bourbon. Something.
Downstairs, a light glowed in the kitchen. I followed it and found my father leaning over the counter, a fork poised over a half-eaten New York cheesecake.
Guilt colored his olive skin tone. “Lucy Juliet. What are you doing up?” He glanced at the cheesecake as if just seeing it for the first time, kind of an oh-what’s-that-doing-there look. I was waiting to see how he’d explain it away, but he must have decided he’d incriminated himself enough already.
Never mind that I rarely ever saw him eat sweets. He’d been a health nut his whole life, but he was currently on a strict diet. Low fat, low sodium. All in an effort to strengthen his heart. It hadn’t been very long since his near-fatal heart attack (what was with the men in my life and their hearts?). How long had he been sneaking treats in the middle of the night? This little discovery could explain a few things.
He didn’t try to make excuses. “Fork?”
“Of course.”
He slid one across the counter. I sank the tines into the cheesecake. “Mum’s going to kill us.”
“Only because we ate it first. I found it hiding behind two cartons of soy milk.”
So much for her sticking to her newfound diet plan. “I’ll be sure to replace it tomorrow.”
“Good thinking.” After a minute of silent eating, he said, “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be safe.”
I didn’t bother to argue my safety. My father would be as hardheaded as the police. Maybe more so. I hadn’t mentioned to the police about Dad’s missing paintings. I only told them Tristan wanted Meaghan’s file. I ate another bite. “Tristan won’t be put off by the police presence. He seems the type up for a good challenge.”
“He wouldn’t dare break in here, not after what he pulled at the penthouse.”
Again, I didn’t argue.
Dad’s brown eyes softened. “How’s Sean feeling?”
“Okay.” I set my fork down.
“I like him,” he said.
I heard something more. “But?”
“I worry.”
I wasn’t sure he was worried about Sean’s health or our relationship. Or both. I didn’t ask for clarification. It didn’t matter. “I love him.”
My father’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s half the battle.”
“Only half?” I asked.
“Only half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“It’s for you to figure out.”
“Is this like when I was little and needed a definition for homework and you’d make me look it up?”
He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Just like that.”
“I hated that.”
“I know. But you learned.”
“Not really. Raphael always told me.”
Rolling his eyes, he said, “I should have known. That tactic won’t work this time. You have to learn on your own. It won’t be easy, Lucy Juliet. But I have faith. There’s something between the two of you.”
“Love conquers all?” I offered.
“We shall see.”
I watched him as he rinsed his fork, put it in the dishwasher. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Maybe love would conquer all with him and Mum, too, though I knew better than to get my hopes up. Mum was right. Life is about living, not about constant worrying. He caught me staring at him and smiled. My smile. Cutter’s smile.
As Dad hid the remainder of the cheesecake, I took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with filtered water from the fridge. The big dinner was coming up, and I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Cutter about Preston. “Have you talked to Cutter lately?”
“His name is Oliver.”
My father refused to acknowledge the nickname. I had a feeling it had something to do with not liking that his son carried another man’s surname.
“Yesterday,” Dad added.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
He lifted an eyebrow. “We speak often.”
“You do?”
“Of course. We have our differences, but so do you and I. The love,” he said softly, “is still there.”
“Conquering all?” I teased.
He walked over and hugged me, resting his chin on the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly glad I was here. I ought to thank Tristan—he’d given me an unexpected gift. I wouldn’t take it for granted. “Things will work out just fine, Lucy.”
“Promise?”
“I am nothing if not a man of my word. I am a man of honor. Of integrity.”
Smiling, I bit back a snide comment about receiving stolen property. “Don’t forget modest.”
“How could I?” He winked. “Now get some sleep. I have a feeling it will be a long day tomorrow.”
An expected visit from Tristan, possibly finding out what happened to Mac, looking for Rufus, warning Cutter, not to mention worrying about Sean.
“Long” didn’t begin to describe it.