Third Time Lucky: Volume 1 (The Coxwells)

by Deborah Cooke

  It would be the perfect peace offering.

  But it had become something else. And he knew all too well that there were no coincidences. Someone had chosen this weapon with care, someone who didn’t want him reconciled with Lucia.

  It was all too obvious who that was. The past rose to choke him. He backed away.

  A police siren began to wail. It grew louder with alarming speed. He felt the trap closing around him.

  It was happening again.

  But not by his choice.

  He bolted, as graceless as the gangly kid he once had been. He grabbed his bag from the foyer and lunged into the thin sunlight, leaving the door swinging behind him.

  He ran, putting as much distance between himself and trouble as he could. It was only a matter of time but he would claim every minute he could. Sweat ran down his back and he shivered in the cold of the wind, but he ran until he couldn’t hear the siren.

  And then he ran further.

  When he finally stopped, he stood by the sea, miles from the house. His chest hurt, his feet were sore, his face was wet with tears he hadn’t known he’d shed. He dropped to a crouch and pressed his shaking fingers to his temples, listening to the thunder of his heart. He closed his eyes and saw Lucia again.

  He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling more alone than he had even since he left this place.

  He was sure he’d been seen, sure he couldn’t just catch a plane back to the coast and escape as he had the last time. Oddly enough, he didn’t want to flee.

  He took a deep breath of the wind and savored the icy stab of it. Lucia deserved better than another lie. He’d come too late to tell her the truth or, more accurately, that opportunity had been stolen from him.

  He owed her better than another lie. The unfortunate fact was that the past would ensure that no one believed him now. Someone was counting on that.

  There was one other person who knew the truth. One other person might believe him.

  He wondered what had become of her. He stood and watched the windows of the skyscrapers light up against the dusk like stars in the twilight. He wondered whether she would believe him—she would only have his word this time.

  He wondered whether she would help him. She had had her own reasons for helping before, and he wondered what had ever come of those. He hadn’t asked, maybe he hadn’t wanted to know.

  Maybe he didn’t have a choice any more.

  He hefted his bag and began walking toward the city.

  * * *

  Lucia Sullivan waited a full twenty minutes, twenty minutes that seemed to stretch clear to eternity, before she moved. Nicholas was long gone, his footsteps faded to silence, but she didn’t trust him to not return and check.

  The boy had always been too conscientious.

  Meanwhile, she congratulated herself not only on a job well done, but the splendid good timing of that police siren. It warbled into the distance now, a happy coincidence that had served her purposes well. Nicholas could have looked too closely, found her pulse, some hint of her breathing, or the line where the stage makeup ended below her chin.

  That would have ruined everything. She was good, but a perceptive eye could see through the very best effect. The sun had come out from behind the clouds at the worst possible moment and, as much as she hated to admit it, her skills weren’t quite what they used to be.

  Which was the point.

  Her lips thinned as she considered Nicholas’ response to the police siren. Fear didn’t suit him, particularly a fear of the law.

  But despite a twinge of compassion, Lucia wasn’t going to change her plan. The boy had to learn from his mistake.

  For Nicholas—her favored grandson, a child so honest it had pained Lucia to watch his dawning realization that the world would not play on his terms—had deceived her. She wasn’t inclined to let that slip, not now that she had the opportunity to twist the knife in the wound.

  No pun intended. The use of his gift had been an inspired choice, she thought, though stagecraft demanded that the blade be sawed off. It would never be the same again, but it was a comparatively small price to pay.

  Lucia intended to teach him to never make such a mistake again. Tit for tat, as that fool woman Donnelly liked to say. He wouldn’t miss this lesson of what could have been lost by his choices—and if it was harshly granted, well, that was small restitution for the heartache she had endured.

  Fifteen years was a long time. She wasn’t getting any younger.

  Lucia sat up and grimaced at her body’s reminder of that. She had a splendid set of aches for her troubles and she sat for a moment to catch her breath before getting to her feet. Her heart was running a bit too fast.

  She’d never given in to anything without a fight and Death wasn’t going to have an easier time of it.

  She wiped some of the raccoon’s blood from her face. There was no substitute for the real thing, all stage concoctions aside. And the smell had been the coup de grace.

  Lucia had no qualms about killing a wild creature for the greater good. One less raccoon wouldn’t be noticed, and even if it was, the garbage-rummaging beast wouldn’t be missed.

  She snorted, retrieved her garden clog and pushed to her feet. A restorative cigarette was called for, then a hot bath. Maybe she’d even treat herself to a brandy after she put the greenhouse to rights. It would have to be a quick one though.

  There wasn’t a moment to waste. Sooner or later, Nicholas would be back.

  And the stage for Act Two had yet to be set.

  Chapter One

  I was drunk on the night it began.

  But then, that’s not really true. It wasn’t so much beginning as continuing, though I didn’t immediately get that part.

  As far as whether this whole mess should have ended already, or whether it should even have begun in the first place, well, that’s an entirely different issue. I’m sure my mother has an opinion about it, and I’m equally sure it’s not one that I want to hear. You’re welcome to ask her, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Beginning or continuing, though, there was no doubt that I was pickle-dee-dee. I had the world on a leash—one of those pink rhinestone-studded specials that even poodles find embarrassing—but I had felt that way before Veuve Clicquot and I made our acquaintance. A critical distinction, even if it was a bit blurred in that moment.

  You see, getting drunk was a first for me.

  Now, don’t be too incredulous. You have to respect your genetic weaknesses, in my opinion, otherwise they’ll ambush when you aren’t looking. I had resolved long ago that I would never join the family galley of lushes.

  But this had been a special, special day and my partner Elaine does have her persuasive moments.

  It was about eleven on a Tuesday night, not a respectable time to be dancing on air and champagne bubbles, but there it was, and there I was. Fa la la. All the proper brownstones scowled down at me as though they would rat on me in the morning, when all their proper occupants—who were now properly tucked in and properly sober—had risen to properly face another day.

  There’s something irresistibly frivolous about pink champagne. It looks like a party in a glass—Barbie’s victory drink of choice—and it does the fandango on your tongue in starlight slippers.

  Make that sequin-studded fuchsia sling backs.

  Which was why Elaine insisted we had to have it. No mere sparkling wine or even those pedestrian golden bubbles would have done for us. No, sir. Only the rosé champagne was good enough to celebrate such a coup—though it was humbling to learn just what a cheap date I was. All those years of guzzling herbal tea had taken their toll—one tall skinny glass of froth and I was completely toasted.

  Fortunately Elaine is made of sterner stuff and had no quibbles with polishing off the rest of the bottle. No chance of our treat going flat. She even looked sober after it was gone, which might have been sobering with any other companion. But I’ve known Elaine long enough to understand that she’s not one
to waste any of life’s goodies—she even laughs when I call her a regular little martyr to the pleasures of the flesh.

  But that’s another story.

  We had succeeded where others have failed and lo, it was very good. Lady Luck was smiling down on us and nothing could ever go wrong again. Life was full of opportunity and possibility, success was ours for the taking. All those years were finally paying off.

  Have you ever flailed away at a dream? You begin because it seems such a terrific idea that success is inevitable—not to mention all the fame and fortune that will fall into your lap as a bonus-pak—but you learn the error of that thinking in a hurry. It gets tough, the dream loses its luster and eventually, you run on the refusal to admit you’re wrong.

  Which doesn’t pay well, in case you aren’t sure. I’ve eaten more mac-and-cheese over the past few years than I’d like to think about and I’m not talking homemade cheese and noodle comfort food like Mom used to make. I mean the kind out of the box.

  You can make it with water, you know, and it’s not all bad.

  Sometimes it’s startling how far we’ll go to conquer dreams, even further than we might have guessed ourselves. But then, the alternative is even less pretty than mac-and-cheese fusing overnight with the unrinsed pot.

  The urge to avoid failure is powerful stuff indeed. Even as you smile that big confident grin and slog onward, in some hidden corner of your heart you wonder how long it will take you to fail, how long it will take your dream to fall so far into the scrap heap that there’s no hope of salvaging it at all.

  And if you have a family like mine, well, there’s the added bonus of a line of helpful souls constantly calculating the odds against you, just in case you get the math wrong.

  I always get the math wrong, much to the amusement of my three brothers who snarfed up all the math genes before I was even a glimmer in anyone’s eye. For example, on this particular night, after being ambushed by success and bamboozled by the champagne, I over-tipped the cab driver and made a friend for life.

  Maybe not quite that long. The moment I steadied myself enough to stand without clinging to the roof of the cab, he was gone, leaving the Last Generous Tipper in Massachusetts wobbling on her heels in the middle of the street. Good thing all the neighbors were safely tucked into bed, because I must have looked like a dope trying to reach the curb before I caught it with my chin.

  I decided, right there on Mr. McGurvey’s chemically enhanced golf course green boulevard, to avail myself of the one mythic perk of being self-employed. Everyone otherwise employed assumes that working for yourself is an excuse to lay around, sleep in, catch up on the soaps, scoot out of the office early and take many many lunches-of-no-return.

  Ha. Truth is, my boss is the worst slave driver ever—and she’s me. I’ve put in more hours, night and weekends working for myself than the any legitimate employer could have demanded. I’ve bedded annuals and double-dug roses and moved trees and laid interlock.

  I’ve built decks, for God’s sake, when workers disappeared into that great void where contractors seem to go without warning or return. I’ve tiled porches and walls, caffeinated myself for another night of drafting plans without the decadent luxury of sleep, then marched out the door to do it all again.

  I’ve talked a blue streak that I didn’t know I could, I’ve weaseled better terms from skeptics, I’ve supplied impromptu therapy for divorcees removing “all signs of him”, I’ve endured the caprices of women who can never make up their minds.

  And it was finally paying off.

  The pink bubbles tingling through my veins couldn’t touch that giddy feeling of triumph, though they did give it a hefty boost. I did a little soft-shoe on the sidewalk and tripped over my own feet. Fortunately, those champagne bubbles broke my fall—the drunk, as any cop will tell you, have no bones at all.

  I felt pretty cocky once I had scaled my neighbor’s drive to the sidewalk and even imagined that I approached the house with a measure of my usual insouciance.

  As if. Somewhere someone is snorting their beer at the idea of me even having insouciance.

  The thing is, if I had had any, it wasn’t destined to last long.

  I was about twenty feet from the porch, admiring the little crocuses poking their yellow heads through the soil and congratulating myself on doing a decent job of installing a porch light with a sensor. The light was on, so I hadn’t completely screwed up the wiring, though Number Two Son—my brother Matt—would have issues with my uncompensated, unauthorized improvement of a leasehold facility.

  And then I saw him.

  There was a man sitting on my porch.

  Watching me.

  Even stinko, I was pretty sure I lived alone. And I knew I hadn’t invited any guests to join me for an intimate yet casual night-cap. It wasn’t my style.

  Those bubbles abandoned me, though that didn’t leave me any better equipped to run or to fight or whatever it is you’re supposed to do when some guy waits for you in the dark and you have to get past him to sanctuary.

  He seemed prepared to wait for as long as it took me to make up my mind what to do.

  There was an outside chance that he was a champagne-induced illusion, but if so, he was a pretty substantial one. And he showed no signs of fading into oblivion. In fact, he stared steadily back at me as though I shouldn’t be surprised to find him there at all.

  The stillness of him reminded me of someone, someone I wanted desperately to see again, someone I knew I should never want to see again. I took a couple of steps closer and, yes, it’s true, my heart really was in my mouth.

  Because it couldn’t be him. He’d been gone too long and I’d gone cold turkey on waiting for that apology years ago.

  But Nick Sullivan was sitting on my porch.

  Waiting for me. And I suddenly felt all the smooth assurance of sixteen again.

  I gaped at him, like the lovesick idiot I once had been, and my heart started to pound hard. A bubble of hope invited the champagne bubbles to cha-cha, and the happy couple took to the dance floor.

  Which left my fogged brain trying to wrap itself around the concept of Nick coming to look for me.

  Me.

  I had been warned for years and years that the Sullivan boys were trouble with a capital T, that they were no good, that they were not the sort of people my sort of people should know. And I had bucked popular opinion all those years ago, believing that I knew better, that I knew Nick, that he wasn’t as bad as everyone believed. I even thought that we were friends.

  Then he proved popular opinion dead on the money.

  He wasn’t supposed to be here—he was supposed to be in Seattle, running a wildly successful adventure travel company. Okay, so I had been curious enough to find out about that, and maybe I had checked out his web site and maybe I had even looked for him once or twice in airports.

  But I was supposed to know better. I was supposed to remember how he let me down.

  How he disappeared without a word.

  Funny how just finding him here made me forget all of it. I was ready to concede that there could be an explanation, that I had misunderstood him, that he had a really good reason for walking away.

  Even if fifteen years is a long, long time.

  The artfully installed porch light threw a golden glow onto one side of Nick’s face, leaving the other side in shadow. He looked mysterious, but then, he looked mysterious and unpredictable in full sunlight. He was still long and lean and devastatingly handsome, those Black Irish looks still hadn’t failed him. And he still had the most steady gaze of anyone I’ve ever known.

  But there were changes, albeit subtle ones. He was bigger, his features were harder, he had perfected the art of mimicking sculpture. Nick wasn’t a lanky kid anymore, he’d become a man, one even more difficult to read than the teenager had been. He looked older, of course, but then so did I.

  That realization put my feet in motion once more. Nick hadn’t wanted me fifteen years ago—he sure as hell
wasn’t going to want me now. The only good thing about that was that I was pretty sure I didn’t care.

  It would have been nice to be positive, but head and heart were definitely at odds here. The champagne wasn’t helping—nor was the sense that everything was finally coming up roses for me.

  Fortunately, I’m a mind-over-matter kind of girl and I knew I could frost Nick right out of my life again. I flipped through my keys and strolled to the steps.

  “Hello, Nick.” I kept my voice even, as though I came home to find men on my porch all the time, even men who had been missing in action as long as he had been.

  I even managed a cool smile—the one I saved for those women who could never make up their minds—and had exactly two seconds to congratulate myself on my composure before I looked up and saw that he wasn’t fooled.

  The trouble with Nick was that he was never fooled. I wanted to stick my tongue out at him, but that was the bubbles making me think pink.

  “Hey, Phil.” He was probably the only man alive who could make my hideous name sound like a benediction. He still had a voice like rough velvet and it still made parts of me tingle.

  Even if I might have preferred otherwise.

  I gritted my teeth and marched up the porch steps, grateful that I didn’t stumble. He was the only one who ever called me Phil, and probably the only one who could have done so and lived to tell about it.

  But then, there had been a time when I would have forgiven Nick Sullivan just about anything. I snuck another look. There were tiny laugh lines around his eyes and he had too much of a tan for this time of the year. He had probably been off somewhere exotic, I realized, then felt immediately very homebound.

  Worse, an unadventurous workaholic who didn’t have time to take vacations and couldn’t have afforded them if she did. There’s a reminder that I didn’t need.

  “Hey, yourself.” Oh, nice business crisp voice. Well done. He actually flinched. I fit the key into the lock, though not as neatly as I might have liked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to see you.”

  Once upon a time, I would have thrown myself at Nick’s feet for a bone-melting claim like that. I tried to resist temptation, but couldn’t help taking another look. I had to see whether he was serious or not.