Third Time Lucky: Volume 1 (The Coxwells)

by Deborah Cooke

  Jeff shot her a hard look. “Everyone. Period.” He rolled down the window and stuck his head out, his hair blowing wildly around his face.

  “Hey, Boston!” he shouted. “Elaine Pope is having dinner with me!”

  A few drivers commented, a pair of kids on the sidewalk hollered in support. Jeff pulled his head back in and grinned at Elaine, looking disheveled and very, very sexy. “How am I doing?”

  She was unable to stop her answering smile. “I think you might just do, Mr. McAllister.”

  * * *

  I took my time going home, driving via everywhere I could think of. I knew the apartment would be empty when I got there and I just didn’t want to face solitude there.

  Not to mention carrots for dinner.

  In the truck, it wasn’t so bad. I had the windows rolled down and had chucked off my jacket. My hair blew around my face as I drove down the coast, all the way to Cape Ann, then back. I could be going somewhere.

  And I do love to drive.

  I enumerated all the good things in my life. The contract for Mrs. H. was a success, the check had cleared. Lucia was home and happy with the chief of police. My mother had found a condo and raided my father’s various bank accounts, much to his outrage. She’d called to say she was going dancing tonight, as excited as a kid given a bag of candy.

  So, everything should have been right in my world.

  You know that it wasn’t. The only thing I really wanted was gone—not that I would have had it any other way. The manacle plan would have never worked out. Knowing Nick, he would have gnawed his way free. He could be a wily kind of guy.

  And really, who wants a guy compelled to stay?

  The end result would have been the same anyhow. He’d be gone, this time for good.

  The sun was setting when I finally turned back toward the city. My stomach was grumbling by the time I took the exit home. Thinking about that dark kitchen, I nearly drove around the block, or back to the office, but called myself a chicken. Sooner or later, I had to go home.

  Home. The apartment had never felt less like one.

  My porch light with its trusty light sensor was on and that was about it. I’d have to tell Matt about my unauthorized leasehold improvement, since he was about the only one in the family who wasn’t wound up about something.

  But then, maybe he was the lucky one.

  I parked the truck beside the upstairs guy’s Passat, wondered as always why he had a cheap apartment and an expensive car, then rolled up the windows. I didn’t hurry toward the porch, but no one was there to see.

  At least that was what I thought at the time.

  I was about twenty feet away from the porch when I saw him. There was a man sitting on my porch, a very familiar man. I stopped and stared, but he just smiled the slow smile that made my toes curl.

  This time I couldn’t blame anything on champagne. I was stone cold sober—and starving too.

  “Don’t tell me that you haven’t got anything to say.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his eyes gleaming.

  I hitched my purse further up my shoulder. “You didn’t have to hang around to say goodbye.”

  “I know. I didn’t think you’d take so long.”

  “Lots to do.” I jingled my keys and headed for the door, but never made it that far.

  Nick stepped forward to intercept me. He closed one hand over mine, silencing my keys. His hand was warm and he must have felt me tremble at his touch. His expression was surprisingly anxious. “Walk for a minute?”

  A minute, an hour, a week. I’d take all I could get. I nodded and he slipped his arm around my waist. We strolled away from the house, though I had no idea where we were going. He seemed preoccupied, and I knew he was planning where to go next, what to do, what to make of the rest of his life.

  I thought of all the adventures he must have had and the places he had been and I wanted to put my hand in his and go there too. I wanted to unfurl a new map on the kitchen table and pick a destination, any destination, with the drop of a pencil, then go there with Nick.

  But he would do the same thing, alone.

  “You can hardly see the stars here.” His words were whiskey soft.

  “Big city lights,” I agreed, expecting another tale of his travels.

  But he halted at the end of the street, his head tipped back. “Which one’s brightest, Phil?”

  “Are you going to tell me to make a wish?”

  His smile was warm if fleeting. “Why not?”

  Why not. I scanned the sky, painfully aware of the echo of this deed in our shared past. I spun around in place, then pointed to the brightest one. “That one.”

  “Sure?”

  “Um hmm.”

  “Then let me get it for you.”

  I turned to him in surprise, but he stretched up onto his toes and reached into the night. When he opened his hand, offering me its contents, something glimmered there. It was a star, a perfectly white star trapped on a white gold band, that band caught between his fingers. It glimmered against his skin.

  I met his gaze, probably with a big question mark in mine.

  “It’s the closest thing I could find to a lucky star, Phil.” His words were gruff and oddly uncertain. “I thought it was time you got rid of that plastic one.”

  I stared at him, knowing I’d never seen him so nervous.

  “I thought maybe you would wear it, and that then you’d be able to make a wish anytime anyplace.”

  I couldn’t quite believe that he was saying what I knew he was saying, so I just stared at him, a dumbstruck dope. His gaze searched mine, as though he was looking for some kind of encouragement.

  “I love you, Phil.” He smiled ever so slightly. “I told you before but you were asleep.”

  I found my voice, though it was husky. “Chicken.”

  His smile flashed and disappeared. “Something like that.” He held the ring between his finger and thumb, turning it so that the diamond sparkled in the light of the city. “Care to make a wish?”

  “You first.”

  He held my gaze, his own intensely green. “I wish that Phil Coxwell would marry me, travel with me, and count stars with me wherever we manage to find ourselves.”

  I smiled at him and held out my left hand. “It must be your lucky night, Sullivan. I think I can arrange for that wish to come true.”

  What happened after that is none of your business.

  Epilogue

  We got married with unholy haste, but there were seeds to harvest and gardens to plant, so we took a belated honeymoon. We ditched the apartment and moved into Lucia’s place, which was big enough that we could completely avoid each other if we wanted to. She was getting more frail—though she denied it vigorously—and Nick slept better knowing that she wasn’t alone out there.

  He and Joel tilled a huge crescent of a flower bed at the back of the lot and I planted heritage seeds out there. The sun was terrific and they grew beyond expectation. Nick donated a computer and database software to the cause and the woman from the historical society had a heyday making that database.

  Mrs. H. did indeed refer us to her friends and we were busy all summer. Nick worked a lot of days for us, which was a great help. An added bonus was that he, unlike so many worker dudes, wasn’t going to disappear.

  So, it was near the end of October when we locked our bikes together on the roof of an auberge near Merzouga. The moon was new, the sunset smeared orange from horizon to horizon.

  I curled up beside Nick in the sleeping bags we’d zipped together and he bunched our packs and fleeces behind us.

  “Show time,” he said with a wink, then uncapped a flask. He poured a measure of something gold into a little metal cup and handed it to me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Brandy. Drink it.”

  I took a sniff and wrinkled my nose. “Moderation is one thing, Nick, but that stuff is like jet fuel.”

  “Drink it.” He pushed the cup into my han
d when I hesitated. “Freddie has friends and family everywhere.”

  Yuck. I drank and practically coughed up my liver, that stuff was so strong.

  He was smiling at me, so I smacked his shoulder.

  “Not funny.”

  “Of course not. Here’s your reward.” He unwrapped the foil on a slightly melted Swiss chocolate bar, broke off a piece and handed it to me.

  I eyed him warily. “You’re leading me down the path of temptation.”

  “After today?” He shook his head. “We biked thirty miles today, Phil. You deserve it.”

  “My butt will get huge.”

  He grinned. “Why do you think I’ve been riding behind you? I’ve been keeping an eye on it, as part of my marital duties. Rotten job, but someone’s got to do it.” I laughed at him and he caught me close against his side. “You get sexier every day, Phil, and don’t imagine otherwise.”

  I took the chocolate, and leaned back beside him as twilight slipped across the sky.

  He was right about the show. Soon the heavens were thick with stars. Star soup. Star carpets, star-studded. It was awesome and even though I was tired from all that pedaling, I stared and stared, filling my mind with the sight of them. I curled up against him and tried my damnedest to find the brightest one.

  It was impossible.

  But then, I already had everything I’d ever wished for.

  “Find your lucky star?” Nick’s voice was a purr in my ear.

  “Oh yes.” I squirmed around to face him, then snuggled closer. “And I’m not going to let him go.”

  * * * * * * * * *

   Ready for more of the Coxwells?

  Keep reading for an excerpt of

  Double Trouble

  Book #2 in the Coxwell series.

  Double Trouble

  Book 2 in the Coxwell series

  Two Sisters. One Disaster.

  First things first: I’m the bad twin. While my sister, Marcia, has the perfect family in the perfect suburb, I’ve been making my living as an Internet advice columnist and designing Web sites in my downtown loft. I always thought I had the right answer—and hair color—for any occasion.

  That is, until Marcia ran up loads of debt and ran out on her husband and kids, and I was left helping to pick up the pieces. Her husband, James, is a lawyer who I hate on principle alone.

  But for a guy who’s just lost his job, his marriage, and his expensive toys, he’s keeping it together—and making me rethink my feelings toward him. It’s not that he’s traded in his conservative suits for sexy jeans. It’s that he’s not giving up what’s important to him, and oh baby, I’m a sucker for a guy who hangs tough.

  That doesn’t mean I’m ready to step into Marcia’s designer shoes now that she’s gone A.W.O.L.

  And it doesn’t mean I’m going to fall for James’s easy charm... not again, anyhow. Besides, I’ve had a lifelong policy of not being mistaken for my twin and I’m not backing down on that one now—no matter how convenient it might be for a certain sexy (and persuasive) man...

  Chapter One

  Subject: what to do dating blues

  Yo Aunt Mary -

  Ancient uncle kicked, Mom says all 2 go 2 funeral FRIDAY NIGHT!

  =8-o

  lame.com -- I could be meeting Mr. Right instead. Wah! :-(

  Yr advice?

  Hot_Chic

  ----

  Subject: re: what to do dating blues

  Dear Hot_Chic

  Go... in something sleek and black.

  The heir might need solace -- and yr Fri PM might not be wasted after all.

  ;-)

  Aunt Mary

  ***

  Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

  Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

  http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

  I propped my chin on my hand and stared at the message. Maybe I was getting bored with this gig. Aunt Mary certainly had lost a bit of her sparkle—she was sounding more like a cranky old bitch than an irreverent livewire these days.

  But then, it was only nine at night and I was just waking up.

  I saved the response without posting it to the board—just in case lightning struck in the wee hours of the morning—yawned and stretched. The truth of it was that I shouldn’t even have been out of bed yet, but I hadn’t slept well. Something had kept me awake today. Guilty conscience, maybe. Ha. Hole-digging types in the street below, more likely.

  I was still warm and fuzzy, halfway between sleep and wake. But there were lots of messages for that sage of netiquette, Aunt Mary. Time for some rocket java to fuel the keyboard merengue.

  The phone rang when I was elbowing some space on the cluttered counter for the coffee bean grinder. You’ve got to grind your own, you know, if you want a decent cup of brew.

  “Auntie Maralys? Is that you?”

  It wasn’t such a weird time for my nephew to be calling, but something about his tone made me forget my coffee. I would have bet my last buck that this ten-year-old kid was never uncertain of anything, but he sounded... lost.

  He had my attention but quick. In fact, he was giving me hives. I don’t do kids. Don’t handle dependence and vulnerability real well. The only reason I can deal with my nephews is that they’re getting older—I think of them as very small adults and it’s okay.

  Mostly.

  But now, Jimmy was doing a “make my boo-boo better voice” and I felt my bile rising.

  “Sure, Jimmy, it’s me. How’s it going?” Maybe I sounded a little more cheerful than necessary, but it seemed to reassure him.

  It certainly reassured me.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” he said, slipping into a routine we often used. In this scenario, I was NASA control and he was captain of the intrepid space voyager, Calypso. To say that Jimmy was a space nut would be the understatement of the century.

  It worked out all right—kind of a meeting of the minds in technogook land.

  “Roger, Calypso. I copy.” A problem to which I was the solution. I was already making a good guess as to what the deal might be. My sister, in case I haven’t mentioned it, is a selfish hare-brained idiot. “What are your coordinates, Calypso?”

  “Um, at the pool.”

  “You have swimming lessons tonight?”

  “Roger, Houston. Exercise maneuvers have been completed.”

  A long pause followed. Time for those latent psychic abilities to kick in. Sadly, they missed their cue. “Can you describe the nature of your problem, Calypso?”

  “Um. Auntie Maralys...”

  His voice quivered and I shivered right to my toes. Just having clutchy, needy people on my phone—well, one person really, but it was enough—made me want to break and run.

  I closed my eyes and forced myself to guess what was up. Eenie meanie jelly beanie. “Have you made contact with your shuttle, Calypso?” I was thinking that my twin and I were going to have to have a serious talk if she couldn’t even remember to pick up her kids from swimming.

  “Uh, no, Houston. There is no sign of the shuttle. Rendezvous may have been aborted.”

  Now, I was mad. This was typical Marcia, imposing on everyone else and scaring the crap out of her kids, just so she could... what? Get her nails done? Probably something stupid, feminine and frivolous like that.

  “And your back-up shuttle, Calypso?” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice because we all knew that James worked more hours than any human alive. “Do you have its coordinates?”

  Jimmy faltered. “California, I think.”

  I bit back a scream, then took a deep breath. It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault that morons were allowed to breed. “Okay, Calypso, I copy. Let’s review the checklist—are you currently at the scheduled rendezvous point?”

  “Roger, Houston.”

  “How long have you been at the rendezvous point, Calypso?”

  “Since eight-thirty, after class ended.”

  “At my mark, your shuttle is precisely thirty-two minutes la
te. Please confirm, Calypso. Mark.”

  “That is correct, Houston. Thirty-two minutes and counting.”

  “Please confirm, Calypso, whether you are on a solo mission. Your mission orders are inaccessible to me at this juncture.”

  Marcia’s boys are just two years apart, spitting images of their father, and practically joined at the hip. I always thought it was weird for them to be so close—Marcia and I nearly murdered each other when we were kids, after all—but maybe my sister found it more convenient to keep them at the same place at the same time.

  Maybe they secretly did hate each other’s guts in healthy sibling fashion. The prospect always cheered me.

  “No, Houston. Lieutenant John is also aboard this mission. His class is done, too.” Jimmy’s voice dropped with uncertainty and he sounded like a lost little boy again. “Auntie Maralys, everyone has left.”

  I damned my sister silently to hell and back, then wished that there really was something to the psychic bond between twins. At least then I could make a guess as to what Marcia was up to.

  On the other hand, I really didn’t want to know more than I already did about how she thought. My very own twisted sister. I must have beat her to the line when they were handing out common sense.

  Which was why she was married and had two kids, while I wasn’t and didn’t... and never would. These periodic crises were enough to keep my biological clock from ringing its alarm.

  Along with a lot of other things, now neatly buried in my paleolithic past, and destined never to be exhumed.

  “Roger.” I really had only one good choice, even though it was incredibly inconvenient. Almost as if Marcia planned it that way.

  Hmm.

  “Hold your position. Repeat: hold your position, Calypso. We have a technical complication on this end—there is no vehicle available for immediate rendezvous. Do you copy, Calypso?”

  “We copy, Houston.” There was Johnny. I guessed that the boys were sharing the receiver.

  “Mission control suggests you enter low orbit, Calypso, from which you can watch your designated position. In the event that your shuttle does appear, please hold your position until the second vehicle arrives to rendezvous. Repeat your orders, Calypso.”