by Meg Tilly
“Mom. Dad,” Gabe said. He gave his mother a kiss on her soft, powdery cheek, and then they all walked to the dining room together, Gabe deep in thought. What did Zelia mean when she said, “Me, too”? Was she sorry I attempted to kiss her? Or sorry we were interrupted?
Eighteen
“SO, TELL ME,” Alma Conaghan said, covering Zelia’s hand with her own. “How long have you known Gabe?” The comforting texture of Alma’s skin against hers caused a pang of longing for her own mother.
For a second her mind flashed back to that last summer before she headed to Berkeley. The long, lazy days spent on the boat with her parents, reading, fishing, crabbing. The burst of activity when the wind would pick up and fill their sails, sending the small craft soaring across the sparkling water. She had been bored a good portion of the time. Had wanted to spend the summer with her friends before the gang split up and went off to various universities and gap-year adventures. To enjoy their last carefree summer together, hanging out, going to movies and beach parties, sneaking into clubs, and ordering frothy alcoholic beverages while dancing the night away. She’d resented that her dad had insisted she spend the summer with them on his new boat instead of letting her stay home. If only she could have known then how precious that time with her parents was. More than once she had wished for the ability to turn the clock back. She would have told her parents how much she loved them. Not been so snarky.
“Where did you meet?” Alma’s voice pulled Zelia’s thoughts from the past. Her gaze traveled to Gabe’s mother’s face—she was looking at her so hopefully.
Zelia hated to disappoint her, but sometimes the best way to rip a bandage off was to do it fast. “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about my relationship with your son. We’re just friends.” She saw Alma’s face fall, making her feel as if she were stomping on fluffy kittens, but she forged on. “Relatively new friends at that. Gabe kindly agreed to help me look into a difficult situation that has arisen.” Why is Gabe scowling at me like that? He should be pleased I’m not misconstruing his kindness.
“That sounds like Gabe,” Fergus Conaghan said, beaming as he rubbed his hands together. “Of course the boy would step up. Help out. A modern-day knight in shining armor he is. He’s rich, too. Makes a bloody fortune on those damn books. Now, are we talking about a dangerous situation? That would be good.”
“What in the world are you rabbiting on about, Fergus?” Alma admonished him. “We don’t want either one of them in a dangerous situation.”
“Nonsense! Adrenaline is supposed to do wonders for the libido. You want grandchildren, don’t you?”
Grandchildren? Oh, good Lord. Zelia opened her mouth, but Alma beat her to it.
“They are just friends, Fergus. Friends.”
“For now.” Fergus chortled with a delighted gleam in his eyes. “But if we could throw a little danger in the mix, then all bets are off! Would be fight-and-flight,” he said, half rising from his chair and striking a superhero pose. “Man against the elements! Something like that can cause a testosterone surge—”
“Dad,” Gabe said. He shook his head, his eyes rolling skyward as if saying a silent prayer for patience. “Enough. You aren’t helping.” A slight flush appeared along his chiseled cheekbones.
Oh my God. Gabriel Conaghan, the hard-bitten crime fiction writer from New York City, of all places, is blushing. Zelia blinked, wishing she hadn’t noticed, for the sweetness of it, the vulnerability under his tough exterior, made her fall for him even more.
Fergus plopped down into his seat and peered at Zelia over the smudged reading glasses he had donned when the menus arrived. “Are you married?”
“No,” Zelia answered. The way the conversation was swooping from one unrelated topic to another made her feel as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole.
“Boyfriend?” Fergus barked.
“No, but—”
“Do you want children?”
“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
“Fantastic. You’ve got the hips for it. Popping them babies out should be a snap.” Fergus turned to Gabe and wagged a finger at him. “You picked a good one. Don’t let her get away.”
Gabe looked at her, a slight smile curving the outer corners of his lips. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug, and suddenly Zelia found herself having to stuff down an unexpected urge to giggle.
She was not a giggler. Never had been. She picked up her menu and ducked her head behind it.
Dover Sole, pan fried, butter lemon
She forced herself to focus on the words.
Filet of Beef Wellington, mushroom duxelles, foie gras, puff pastry
Coq au vin, farm-raised chicken braised with red wine, lardons, mushrooms
Any words.
Quail Normande, apples, cream, calvados
Breast of Duck, medium rare with sour cherries
Anything to keep the laughter that was rising like champagne bubbles in her throat from escaping.
* * *
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE we can’t tempt you with an after-dinner brandy? Another cup of tea?” Alma asked, peering at Zelia hopefully.
“No, thank you,” Zelia said. “I probably should get going.”
Really? Gabe thought, suppressing a smile. What a surprise. You mean you have a life with places to go and people to see? Poor Zelia. His parents had kept her hostage for what was likely the longest meal in the history of the Mansfield Manor dining room.
“Oh, wait.” Gabe’s mom sat up in her seat, waving for the waiter. “We forgot to order a selection of local cheeses. To polish off the meal and balance the sweetness of the desserts.”
“Mom,” Gabe said, laughter in his voice. “You couldn’t cram another morsel in your mouth if your life depended on it. I’ll have the check please,” he told the waiter, who looked much relieved.
“I could, too.” There was a slightly plaintive quality to his mother’s voice as Gabe signed the check that the waiter whisked out of his apron pocket. A wistfulness on her face that had Gabe rounding the table and dropping a kiss on her head.
“Love you, Mom,” he whispered. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” She was trying to look innocent but was unable to suppress the twinkle in her eyes.
Zelia rose to her feet. “Thank you for dinner. It was such a pleasure meeting both of you.”
Gabe gave his mom a quick hug. “And in this instance,” he murmured softly, “oddly enough, I appreciate it.”
“Gabe will walk you to your car,” Fergus bellowed, pushing to his feet, gnarled hands on the table, as if his hip were giving him trouble again.
“Well, that would be a pretty long trek”—Zelia slipped her arms into her jacket—“seeing as how I left my car at home.”
“So much the better,” his dad replied, looking as if he were about to attempt the Irish fling. “Off you go. We won’t wait up.”
* * *
* * *
“TURN RIGHT UP here,” Zelia said. “I’m the third driveway on the left.”
Gabe swung the SUV onto Nightingale Road. As he turned into her drive, his headlights illuminated a multicolored vintage lady’s bike that was housing a mailbox. “Nice mailbox. It’s like it’s having its own private party.”
“Yeah.” Zelia smiled. “It sort of is. I’m a great believer in second chances.”
“Second chances?”
“If at first you don’t succeed, blah . . . blah . . . blah . . .” Her hand made little circular motions in the air.
“Still not quite clear what you’re talking about.”
“I discovered the bike at a garage sale a couple years ago. Had hoped to restore and refurbish it so I could ride it to work. Finn at the bike shop informed me it was a lost cause. The rust, he said, had compromised the structure. It wouldn’t be safe.”
He shif
ted into park and switched off the engine. Her home was a cozy little shingled cottage with an inviting porch complete with flowerpots and a rocker. They sat in his vehicle in comfortable silence, Zelia deep in thought. “It felt wrong,” she continued, “to toss the old bike out, almost as if I’d be tossing out a piece of myself, a part of a dream. So, I marched to Morgan’s Hardware and purchased a small metal mailbox and paint colors that spoke to me of happiness. I cut a hole in the sides of the bike basket, slipped the mailbox in, and secured it with wire. Then I went to town with the paints.” The moon through the windshield illuminated her face and the soft smile that the memory had called forth, causing his throat to constrict. In all his years, he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.
“The following autumn I filled the remaining space in the bike’s shopping basket with potting soil and a plethora of flower bulbs. I topped it all off with a layer of emerald-green moss and a prayer. I’d never had much success with plants before, but to my surprise, the following spring a profusion of flowers pulled off a glorious debut. And their arrival is something I look forward to year after year.” She turned to him. The soft smile had bloomed like a summer rose, filling the interior of the SUV and all the empty calcified spaces in his heart with joy. “And every spring as I walk past my mailbox, the sight of the flowers tumbling out of the bike basket causes my heart to dance just a little.”
She beamed at him, and he could feel the answering smile on his face as he blinked like a man drunk on moonshine from her beauty.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, the smoky rasp of her voice like liquid fire in his veins, and then she did the damnedest thing. She leaned over and brushed her lips over his, once, twice, lighter than the touch of a dandelion puff, her lips warm, soft. “Night,” she whispered, and then she was gone, out of his SUV and up her front porch steps. She turned, waved once. “See you tomorrow morning,” she called, and then disappeared into her house.
Nineteen
“WHY DID YOU park? This isn’t Alexus’s gallery. We aren’t even in Greenwich.” Zelia glanced around the rather sketchy neighborhood a trifle warily, which perversely cheered Gabe up. Showing a modicum of caution was an improvement from her seeming willingness to plunge into dangerous situations without batting an eye. “Did you put the wrong address in the GPS?”
“Nope.” Gabe switched off the engine. “Need to pick up a few supplies.” He unstrapped and got out of the car.
Zelia followed suit. “Supplies?”
“Figure if we’re going to do this thing, we might as well do it right.” He dropped some quarters in the parking meter, then headed toward a nondescript gray building that was in need of a fresh coat of paint.
Zelia looked at the worn black sign with white lettering. Her eyes widened. “A spy shop?” she said. “Whatever for?”
* * *
* * *
“THERE’S A DIFFERENCE in price, obviously,” the retired cop behind the counter was saying. “I’d say the basic black powder and brush will serve you fine for the majority of jobs. However, for intricate lifts off difficult surfaces, personally, I’d go with the magnetic wand.”
“Oh my goodness, these are fabulous.” Gabe could hear Zelia at the far counter, chatting to the skinny clerk, whose eyes had widened to the size of teacups when Zelia had entered the store. And who could blame him? She was every man’s wet dream come to life. But for a nerdy early twentysomething who was attempting to grow some kind of facial hair with little success? Gabe smothered a smile. The clerk would probably remember this interaction until his dying day. The poor guy seemed stunned speechless by the magnificence of her smile and her body. The woman packed a punch. Hell, Gabe’s lips still tingled from the memory of last night’s barely there kiss. If Zelia ever decided to kiss him in earnest, he’d probably self-combust.
“I appear to be looking at you, but in actuality I’m perusing everything that’s going on in the store behind me,” Gabe heard her exclaim. He glanced over his shoulder to see a beaming Zelia wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. “This is so cool!” The clerk’s cheeks were flushed scarlet as he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his head nodding.
Gabe turned back to the objects resting on the glass counter before him. “I’m going to go the magnetic route,” he said. He slid the magnetic wand and the jar of black magnetic latent powder to the clerk. “Do you have fingerprint cards?”
“Yeah, but index cards at an office store work just as well and are more cost-effective.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind. However, today I don’t have time for the extra stop, so I’ll bite the bullet. I’d like some general lifting tape and polyethylene, nitrile gloves, medium and large.”
“Very well. Will that be all?” his clerk asked.
Gabe glanced over at Zelia, who was turning in various directions, mirrored glasses still on. “Throw in the lady’s sunglasses as well.”
Twenty
“I’M SO SORRY, Zelia,” Tristan said. “You should have spoken with me first. I could have saved you the trip.” He was standing in front of the door that led to the back offices, blocking access. “I can’t unlock the door for you. No one is allowed to go back there.”
“Tristan, I’ve been in Alexus’s office a million times.”
“I know.” He nodded, his eyes troubled. “And if she were still alive it would be a different story, but—” He broke off, squeezed his eyes shut for a second. When he reopened them Zelia could see that he had gathered his inner resources and wasn’t going to budge. “I’m sorry,” he said firmly. “I can’t let you rummage around in her stuff.”
“I’m not going to rummage, Tristan,” Zelia said. She could feel a slight sheen of sweat starting to coat her face. “I just want to look around. I flew all the way down here. I’m trying to help. It’s possible there was foul play.”
“The police ruled that out,” he said, his brow furrowing.
“Tristan, you know Alexus didn’t use drugs.”
“Actually, I don’t.” He shrugged apologetically. “As an employee, I wasn’t privy to her private life.” He paused and then brightened. “Wait a minute. I think there’s a way around this. Are you the executor of her will?” He looked at her hopefully. “Because if so—and I don’t mean to offend—I’d need to see the notarized legal documents. However, if you were, then I’d be able to let you go back there, no problem.”
Zelia sighed. “No,” she said, trying not to let her exasperation show. It wasn’t Tristan’s fault that he needed to do everything strictly by the book. “I’m not.”
“Oh dear.” He shook his head regretfully. “Gosh. I’m so sorry, Zelia. I wish I could help, but the law is the law. I’m not allowed to give anyone access to her private belongings other than law enforcement or her legal representative.”
* * *
* * *
“WELL,” GABE SAID as they exited the gallery. “At least we tried. We have a bit of time before our return flight. Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”
“Oh no, this isn’t the end of it,” Zelia said. “We’ve come all this way. I’m not turning back.” Something about the tone of her voice jolted Gabe into high alert. He probably wasn’t going to like whatever was about to come out of her mouth. “The way I see it, we now have two choices. Both require we rebook our flights for tomorrow.”
“Zelia—”
“Option one: we get disguises.”
Gabe stifled a groan.
“We reenter the gallery when Tristan is occupied with a client. We hop into the broom closet, which is right next to their public washroom. Once he’s locked up and left for the night, voilà! We pop out and look around the gallery with impunity.”
“I hope you are joking—”
“Au contraire,” she said firmly. “Option two . . .”
He prayed option two was more reasonable than option one.
&n
bsp; “We wait nearby until he locks the gallery for the night and then we break in,” she said with obvious relish. The determination that lit her face conjured images in Gabe’s mind of Grace O’Malley, an ancient ancestor who was a sixteenth-century warrior woman and an Irish pirate queen to boot. Gabe was sure she was up there in the afterlife, hooting with laughter at the predicament he was in and applauding Zelia’s gumption. He, however, was not.
“I’m hoping,” he said, “this pregnant pause is you catching your breath before stating option three? Because options one and two”—the nonchalant tone he was going for was failing spectacularly—“are clearly the muttering of a woman who has gone stark raving mad!”
Twenty-one
GABE ENTERED THE coffee shop and strode toward the corner table where she was sitting. “Oh good,” Zelia said. She could feel her face flush. “You’re back.” He hadn’t mentioned her spur-of-the-moment good-night kiss. But then neither had she, although she couldn’t stop thinking about it, the feel of his lips under hers. “Did you find what you needed?”
He nodded, clearly still grumpy about the coming night’s adventure, so it was probably not the best time to start an in-depth conversation about whether he would be interested in kissing her again sometime in the near future.
Gabe tucked a large plastic shopping bag beneath the table. The handles were tied into a knot so the contents weren’t visible.
“What did you buy?”
“Stuff,” he replied, as if that were answer enough.
“Tristan hasn’t left the building,” Zelia said, trying to lighten his mood. “How do I know this, you might be asking, since you can clearly ascertain that my back is facing the stakeout building? Aha!” She tapped her mirrored sunglasses. “With my handy-dandy spy glasses I can see everything going on behind me.”
