Third Time Lucky: Volume 1 (The Coxwells)

by Deborah Cooke

  “Phil...”

  “Don’t you dare suggest that you wanted to see me. If that was the truth, it wouldn’t have taken you fifteen years to bother.” There was heat in those words but she didn’t give him time to think about that.

  She leaned past him, reaching to open the door of the truck and showing a breathtaking stretch of leg in the act. “Get out.”

  He’d never seen Phil angry and could have done without it. She was completely composed, her voice flat, her eyes cold. In a way, it was much worse than if she had screamed and shouted. The traffic whizzed past them as they stared at each other.

  He didn’t get out. “All I want a chance to explain.”

  “Then tell someone who gives a damn. Your account with me is overdrawn.” She pointed again to the door.

  He knew better than to force the issue. He’d argue from the shoulder of the road. He got out of the truck, but had no chance to lean back in and make a last appeal.

  Because Phil slammed the truck into gear and floored the accelerator, swerving back onto the highway in a daring merge that spewed loose gravel all over him . The open door swung wildly, then slammed of its own accord. He coughed and, when the dust cleared, stared after the hulking silhouette of the truck.

  It didn’t seem that Phil even looked back.

  He blew out his breath and ran a hand through his hair as he reviewed the bidding.

  Lucia wasn’t dead in the greenhouse. There was no way she could be. He knew Phil was telling the truth—and there was no other reason for her to be so angry.

  Which meant someone had cleaned up after he had been there. Come to think of it, he had left the front door wide open. It couldn’t have been the cops, or they would have been all over the house.

  Wouldn’t they have been?

  But then, what did he really know of police procedure? Maybe this last half hour would have progressed very differently if he had gone into the house instead of Phil.

  He would have bet good money his brother knew the answers to most if not all of those questions. He should probably visit Sean, demand an explanation and see this resolved.

  But that might be exactly what his brother would be expecting. There was nothing that could be done for Lucia at the moment and He wasn’t inclined to make things easy for his brother, at least not this time.

  Let Sean wait. Let him worry. Let him wonder.

  He had more important things to do. He found himself straining to make out a hulking green silhouette rollicking down the road ahead. Phil’s truck was already indistinguishable from the line of commuters.

  But the hurt in Phil’s voice was going to haunt him for a long, long time, unless he fixed this. She was wrong—they were friends.

  It stung that she thought him guilty of the kind of cheap trick Sean had once pulled on her. But then, it seemed he hadn’t left things as pristine behind himself as he had always thought.

  If he was going to walk away now without leaving some kind of scar behind him, then he had to straighten this out and make sure Phil knew the truth.

  He could only hope that by the time he caught up with her, she would have calmed down enough to at least listen to him.

  It was a long shot, by any accounting.

  * * *

  Once upon a time, in a pragmatic New England town where skepticism held sway and all things unseen had bad PR, a magical transformation took place. That this went unnoticed by most isn’t surprising, but doesn’t make the event any less important to the participants.

  One participant in particular.

  You see, there was a girl in this town, a girl who had never fit in and never failed to disappoint her family, a girl who by the ripe old age of fourteen had decided that things would pretty much stay that way for the rest of her life and that maybe, just maybe she even deserved the things that happened to her.

  Though it was her nature to be as cheerful as a ray of sunshine, this epiphany made her sparkle a little less. She took consolation in simple sugars and starches, not the wisest choice in hormonally rampant teenage years, and she had both the thighs and the pimples to show for it. The other boys and girls taunted her, because she was so trusting that she made an easy mark for their malice and so plump that they never lacked for ammunition.

  They called her Fat Philippa, which hurt, just as they had known it would. She knew that no worldly means could bring about her acceptance, so she did what she could. She pressed four leaf clovers and followed rainbows, she avoided cracks in the sidewalk and tucked a rabbit’s foot into her pocket.

  And one day, just when she might have given up, her efforts bore fruit. On the cusp of her fifteenth birthday, her body was making a metamorphosis of its own, her ample figure developing some dips and curves that showed some promise for the future.

  She was sure that no one noticed—until Sean Sullivan invited her to senior prom.

  Sean was a dashing rogue of a football player, well deserving of the hero’s role in any fairy tale. He was a boy that all the girls whispered about and one who starred in any number of teenage fantasies. He certainly starred in several of our heroine’s, though she would have died if anyone had guessed.

  Yet, as though some otherworldly force drew them together, he had invited her to the prom. Things were coming up roses, her ship was in, the future looked bright. That the prom was to be held on the night of her fifteenth birthday was the perfect guarantee.

  Her mother was even pleased by this social coup. She insisted that our heroine have a proper dress, borrow her pearls, learn to walk in high heels, twist her hair up into an elegant chignon, wear lipstick. For a brief shining moment, she was Cinderella heading to the ball, albeit looking more like her mother than she might have preferred.

  The first transformation was physical, a change in her appearance that convinced her not only that she was lovely, but that magic could happen to her.

  Magic, though, is sly stuff and never waiting where one expects it. It plays by its own rules and darts through shadows, pouncing on the unsuspecting. That’s certainly what it did on this ill-fated night. Our heroine discovered too late that Sean was using her, just as everyone else had used her, that he had invited her so that she could provide amusement for others when his trick was revealed.

  She was his admission to the closed ranks of the popular set. He hadn’t noticed anything about her—except that she made easy prey. They mocked her and excluded her from the moment she crossed the threshold—when he laughed harder than the others, she knew the truth.

  She fled their laughter in tears. And here it is that magic had its say, for she encountered none other than Sean’s brother, a quiet loner who had always caught her eye. She was at her worst, trapped in the harsh light of an all-night diner and nursing a cold cup of coffee because she didn’t want to go home and admit the truth. He came in, saw more than she wanted, and sat at the next table. She spoke to him because he looked lonely.

  As is so often the way with those who have nothing left to lose, the act of taking that chance changed everything and ensured that she won a great deal.

  To her surprise, Nick was more interested in listening than talking. He drew the humiliating story from her in dribs and drabs, and then he gave her an unexpected pearl of wisdom.

  “Trust,” he said as he stirred his coffee, “is a gift, and one that shouldn’t be wasted on those who don’t deserve it.”

  And our heroine realized then that she had played a role in her own tormenting. By trusting the crowd over and over again when they only proved themselves untrustworthy, by taking the bait of an acceptance which they would never truly give, she offered them a willing target.

  A target she could remove, simply by refusing to trust them any longer. Instead of playing the role of victim, she could choose to step off the stage.

  Magic, as anyone knows, does its work in threes. This then was the second element of her transformation, the awareness that she held alone the key to change her own life.

  And this sense
of empowerment, this talisman so critical to the triumph of any heroic character, restored both her smile and her inherent optimism. She might have declared her birthday night worthwhile at this point, but Nick insisted on repairing what his brother had destroyed.

  He wanted her to have the magical evening she had anticipated.

  So he took her home, to his disreputable and eccentric grandmother, a woman who always knew what to do. If our bedraggled heroine was startled by the sight of the former opera singer in a Chinese red silk robe, her cigarette in an ebony holder, her eyes lined with black reminiscent of Cleopatra, she hid it well.

  For her part, Lucia Sullivan took one look at the hopeful young girl, blew a smoke ring, and saw a great deal more than anyone might have liked.

  A more unlikely fairy godmother could not have been found in the forty-eight contiguous states, but that was the role Lucia played that night. She cranked up the Victrola, lit the fairy lights strung around her overgrown patio, and proceeded to give waltz lessons. She was big on feeling the music, instead of responding to it, and an exacting teacher. She abruptly pronounced herself exhausted and insisted that Nick dance with our veritable princess instead.

  That was the moment when the starlight slid into her veins, blending with the music in an ancient alchemical formula due to all girls in their teenage years.

  For it was there, on the Sullivan patio, on the night of her fifteenth birthday, that a part of this young woman awakened for the first time. She felt strong and beautiful, she was in command of her fate. The view ahead was blue skies and sunshine all the way.

  When she looked into the eyes of Nick Sullivan, her breath caught in tingly new way. She noticed suddenly the strength of his arm around her waist, the resolute grip of fingers on hers, the alluring scent of his skin.

  She realized she had not only mistaken the frog for the prince, but worse, not even noticed the prince at all.

  Until now. A dragon awakened in her belly, contenting himself for the moment with a growl that rolled straight down to her toes, shooting sparks all the way.

  Nick helped her pick the biggest and brightest for her birthday wish, for luck. She wished—quite predictably—that this magical night would never end and maybe for a bit more than that. As long as that night endured, she was Cinderella, caught in the arms of her prince, dancing barefoot beneath the stars, hoping against hope that midnight would never come.

  But even when the clock did strike twelve, Philippa Coxwell would never be the same again.

  Chapter Five

  So, maybe I over-reacted.

  But maybe I didn’t.

  I’d just been jumped by a bogeymen that I’d thought was banished forever. Blindsided by the one person from my past who I trusted—and who I clearly shouldn’t trust. The person who had in fact told me not to trust people who didn’t deserve it. It hurt like hell, and dredged up a lot of painful memories I could have done without.

  Fat Philippa was right there in the Beast with me and I wanted her gone. She must have been the one who was crying because I gave up that crap ages ago. I told you that people from Rosemount had a way of screwing up my rhythm and Nick apparently was no exception.

  Years of having it all together, years of making myself what I wanted to be, and everything shot to heck in less than twenty-four hours.

  Some run of luck.

  I recounted my crimes, just to ensure I didn’t forget them. My first taste of success and I had celebrated by breaking my cardinal No Alcohol rule, blowing my chocolate allotment for a month in ten minutes, and agreeing to be a sap for Nick Sullivan.

  I was clearly the kind of person who did much better facing adversity. If my luck had changed for the good the day before, it had made a course correction for the worst. The consolation prize was that I’d soon be fighting uphill again, playing the role of the underdog that I was born to play.

  All the same, I could have spit sparks. I could just about feel that chocolate bar breakfast rising in lumps on my thighs. It probably would have been faster just to smear it right on my butt, since that was where all those calories were going to end up anyway.

  Things had gotten out of hand.

  Undoubtedly a little dark cloud was tugging along behind me as I marched into the office. There was no sign of Elaine, but that wasn’t too astounding after the night before. And it was still early. I dropped my keys on my desk, started the pot of coffee which Elaine would surely need, then stared at the drawings on my board.

  Even the orderly arrangement of the shrubbery for Mrs. H.’s garden didn’t appease. I tried very hard to imagine the white tuberous begonias against the slate blue-grey of the hosta in the shade against the house, the little white outline around each hosta leaf perfectly accentuating the fleshy white begonia blooms.

  Instead I saw Nick’s surprised expression.

  And my anger eased enough for me to acknowledge a teeny tiny niggle of doubt. Why would he turn up now, just to play such a juvenile trick on me?

  Why would he bother?

  I hadn’t exactly given him a chance to explain.

  But then, did it really matter? Either he was playing a trick on me, or he had shown up on my doorstep because I might be useful to him.

  Like a kitchen appliance.

  I snarled and stuck a pencil in the sharpener, letting the little motor chew it down to a stump.

  Then I sacrificed another one, because the demise of the first felt so good.

  As though to prove that when things go bad, they can always get worse, the phone on my desk rang. I hesitated to answer because no good news comes at work early in the morning.

  Another contractor sucked into the void. Nope, it was too early for Joel to be sure of that. Elaine couldn’t be calling in, because she wouldn’t expect me to be here. In fact, no one would expect me to be at work at this ungodly hour.

  Except one person.

  I allowed myself one sigh and picked up the phone. “Coxwell and Pope. Hi, Mom.”

  “Philippa? Is that you?”

  Okay, I winced. Just a little. Then I sat down and braced for the worst. Some days are meant to go bad and there is nothing a mere mortal can do to stop them. Might as well ride along and check out the view.

  I counted off on my fingers—Nick, trick and Mom. If all things came in threes, I was due for a break. I knocked the wood of my desk for good measure.

  “What’s up, Mom?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, dear. You didn’t call me back last night.”

  “I got in late.”

  “You could have called this morning.”

  “I just got here.”

  “Well, we haven’t talked for a while. How is your little business coming along?”

  That tripped a warning wire. Nothing good could come from family curiosity about my work. Scorn I’m used to, curiosity could only be a harbinger of trouble.

  “Fine.” I was proud of how neutral my voice sounded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I had no idea you were expanding beyond Boston.” My mother’s voice hardened and I had a bare inkling of trouble before it hit. “But Evelyn Donnelly mentioned that she saw you calling on Lucia Sullivan this morning.”

  Mentioned. I refrained from commentary on Mrs. Donnelly. I did, however, doodle “busybody” on my scratchpad and give the word eyes and horns. “Did she? I didn’t know you two were friends.”

  Mom snorted. “She’s hardly of our class, dear, and as you might imagine, I was embarrassed that she felt so familiar that she could call me out of the blue. The woman is common, but then, what would you expect from new money?”

  Mercifully my mother was running full steam ahead and I didn’t have to comment.

  “But I was concerned—as a mother, of course—that she said you looked troubled when you left. Are you worried about things, dear? Your little business not holding its own?”

  Oh wouldn’t she just love that! Another failure on my part would give the Coxwell clan something to cluck about for year
s, a little mortifying tale that could be dragged out for everyone’s entertainment each Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter dinner.

  As though they didn’t have enough of those.

  “Everything’s fine, Mom. In fact, we just signed a project yesterday that might interest you...”

  “What interests me, Philippa, is your future. Are you seeing anyone?”

  Elaine stepped into the office, looking sleek, blond and expensive. She did a double-take when she realized I was there, then looked at the wall clock, clearly incredulous.

  “Holy shit,” she mouthed. Everyone’s a critic.

  I mouthed “mother”. Elaine winced. She pointed her fingers at her temples and crossed her eyes, effectively communicating her state after our celebration.

  I fought against a chuckle and pointed to the brewing coffee. Elaine feigned falling to her knees in gratitude. Then I remembered it was time for me to say something. “No, Mom.”

  “Then that’s obviously why you looked so miserable this morning at Lucia Sullivan’s!” A triumphant and fairly inevitable conclusion, at least from my mother. “What woman wouldn’t be upset to see her life stretched out before her, empty as far as the eye can see?”

  “Well, actually, Mom, anyone would be troubled when their appointment wasn’t kept.”

  It took two heartbeats for me to realized my mistake.

  “An appointment with Lucia Sullivan? To do what?”

  I stuck to my cover story. “I do gardens, Mom. You know that.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised she wasted your time. You can hardly expect better from the likes of the Sullivans. Are you so desperate that you have to take work from her? What will people think if you do business with people like that?”

  I put down my pencil with some impatience. “Lucia’s a bit eccentric, Mom, but that’s hardly a thing to hold against someone.”

  “Eccentric is the least of it, Philippa. I forbid you to take any work from Lucia Sullivan. You just don’t know how it will work out.”

  “I’ll put plants in her garden and a sign on her lawn. She’ll pay me and we’ll both go on our merry ways.”