Closing the door behind me, I glanced Scott’s way. He wasn’t as tall as I imagined. Around five ten or so and stocky. Wide across the shoulders, thinner through the hips. He wore a green windbreaker over a plain white button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
“Lucy?” he asked as I approached, my boots sinking into the deepening snow.
I nodded.
“Scott Loehman,” he said, holding out his hand.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait on touching your palm.”
His outstretched fingers slowly curled into a fist and he drew his hand away, tucking it back into his pocket. “Would you like to sit?” He motioned to a bench and swiped it clean of snow.
“Sure.”
Across the playground, I noticed a group of mothers had stopped what they were doing to stare at us. And I noticed that none of the other children played with the Loehman kids.
“As if they’re little pariahs,” Scott muttered, following my gaze.
My outrage on the children’s behalf must have shown on my face. “Why?”
“Because their father killed their mother. Maybe their kids are at risk.”
I snapped my head to look at him.
“It’s not a confession, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s simply what everyone believes. I’d be a fool not to know it.”
“Why do you stay here?” I asked, watching Maddie and Jake climb the ladder of the slide. Maddie, at five, carefully watched over her brother, following behind him to make sure he made his way safely.
“What if we move? Will Sarah be able to find us again?”
I held his gaze. It was as though his blue eyes dared me to see his pain, laid out raw and bare, pulsing behind cool, calm irises.
I didn’t know what to say, how to react. Finally, I said, “How did the two of you meet?”
“I pulled her over for speeding. She batted her eyelashes at me, said she’d rather have a dinner date with me than a date in court. I let her go. With my phone number. We were inseparable after that. She found out she was pregnant with Maddie about a year later and we flew to Vegas and got married. Sure, the elopement was driven by the pregnancy, but it was the happiest day of my life. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.”
The Loehman kids seemed used to playing by themselves. The monkey bars cleared of other children as they approached and started swinging bar to bar. “And your marriage? It was a happy one?”
“We had issues, like every other married couple.”
“Such as?”
“Her family. They couldn’t accept that she had wanted to marry me of her own free will. They thought I took advantage of her, then coerced her into marriage. Hardly. Sarah couldn’t wait to get out of her house. Her mother practically kept her under lock and key, she was so controlling. Sarah tasted freedom with me, and liked it.” His gaze veered from his kids, landed on me. “I suspect she got pregnant on purpose just so she had a reason to escape her mother.”
His story was the complete opposite of Faye’s. I felt myself believing him and gave myself a hard mental shake. What else was he going to say? He was an abusive husband who killed his wife? I hardly thought so. “Anything else?”
“Sarah had a lot of responsibility at home. I worked. A lot. I was often gone, pulling double shifts to make ends meet. We fought about it all the time. She wanted more help at home, and I wanted to be able to pay the bills and feed my family. She didn’t understand that I hated every minute I missed of the kids’ lives. That it broke my heart to miss first steps, first words, Jake’s birthday, Halloween, Maddie’s first day of school, Easter. She felt as though she’d lost her freedom all over again.”
“Why won’t you let the kids see Faye?”
“I’ve offered more than once for her to see them. She refused.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’m not surprised. She refused because I wouldn’t let her see them without supervision, the kids’ nanny. I don’t trust Faye not to badmouth me or even to steal them.”
“You think she’d go to that extreme?”
“Absolutely.”
There was no question in my mind that Faye hated Scott. What remained was, did she have good reason?
“Daddy!” Maddie yelled, running across the grass. “Look what Jakey found!”
She reached our bench and launched herself into her father’s arms. He easily scooped her up, holding her close. Jake barreled toward us, holding a feather in front of him as if it were a carrot and he was a rabbit.
Jake leaped at his father, who caught him and swung him onto his free knee. “It’s a feather!” Jake yelled.
With reverence, Scott took the feather from his son’s hand, examined it. “It’s the most beautiful feather I’ve ever seen.”
Jake’s eyes glowed with pride. “You can have it.”
“Thank you!”
Maddie wiggled free. “Let’s go, Jake!”
“ ’Kay!”
They skipped off, heading for the seesaw. Scott’s gaze never wavered from their small forms.
It was as if I weren’t there. The three only had eyes for each other. Hard to believe he’d hurt those kids. And they hadn’t shown any fear of him at all.
Then I remembered what Aiden had said. That Scott was now playing father of the year. The kids were young—could they have simply forgotten that he’d hurt them?
Too many questions. “Did Lieutenant Holliday explain how I work?”
“My hands, right?”
“I’d like to try and get a reading from Sarah’s wedding band. So I need you to think about it, okay?”
“All right.”
I held out my hand. He cradled it gently.
I pressed my palm against his, closed my eyes.
Images zipped by, blurring together. In an instant I crossed the border into New Hampshire, took back roads through Portsmouth, saw a neighborhood of rundown duplexes, cracked sidewalks, towering trees. Inside Jerry White’s small yellow house, through the living room, past a kitchen, into a back bedroom. Inside a dresser drawer, tucked into a pair of old gym socks, sat Sarah Loehman’s wedding band.
I drew my hand away, kept my eyes closed. When I finally opened them again, I was surprised by the tears I saw glistening on Scott Loehman’s lashes.
“Did you see her?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I saw the wedding band. It wasn’t with her.”
“Where was it?”
“I’ll give that information to the state police.”
He nodded, causing a tear to spill over.
“Are you okay?”
“I just couldn’t help but think about our wedding, placing that ring on her finger. Pledging for better or worse. I just can’t believe she’d do this.”
Squeals of laughter pierced the air. “What do you mean? Do what? Wait a minute. You don’t think she met with foul play, do you?”
“No, Ms. Valentine, I don’t. I think she ran away. From me, our kids, her responsibilities. But no one would listen to me when I tried to tell them. Are you listening?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“You really love her.”
“I always have. And I want her back. I thought she would have come home by now. Please find her, Lucy. Bring her back to us.”
21
I couldn’t go to New Hampshire tonight. Not with this weather. As it was, I questioned whether going to Cutter McCutchan’s showing was a good idea. Only pure stubbornness had me driving north.
As for Sarah Loehman … I’d go tomorrow as soon as the snow stopped and the roads cleared.
I took precautions against the weather. I parked my car at my father’s penthouse and would take the train home after meeting with Cutter McCutchan. I could walk home from the train station, something I was already looking forward to. I loved walking in the snow.
The only downside was that I’d have to skip and evade Raphael to avoid another lecture. I left a note for him on the kitchen countertop so he wouldn’t wonder about
my car and caught a cab to the gallery.
It was only a little after five, but I hoped the gallery would let me in. I had a ruse planned and everything in case I needed it. The only catch would be if Cutter wasn’t there early, but I hardly knew an artist who wasn’t prepping his work hours before an event. Hopefully Cutter was the same way.
The cab rolled slowly through the snowy streets. Total accumulation was at four inches at this point, with more to come in the overnight hours. The city was absolutely gorgeous covered in white. Like a scene from an old-fashioned Christmas card. Flakes clung to spindly trees, sat adrift on light posts and mailboxes.
The gallery was located on Newbury Street, sandwiched between two other swanky storefronts. Hoisting my tote bag onto my shoulder, I paid the cabbie and stepped into the snow. On an easel behind the glass of Fallon’s Fine Arts an oil portrait of a Red Sox star shone under spotlights.
It wasn’t until I realized I was shivering from the cold that I made a move for the door. I’d been captivated by the painting. Cutter would do well tonight, I was sure, despite the weather.
A delicate bell chimed when I entered the shop. A woman dressed impeccably in a black pencil skirt and pale blue cashmere sweater hurried toward me. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my father. He’s a big Sox fan.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” she said with a smile. Her heels tapped on the polished stone floor as she showed me around. All Cutter’s paintings were Red Sox players, and looked lifelike on canvas, yet ethereal at the same time. I couldn’t quite figure out the technique, but it captivated me, and almost made me want to shell out the high four figures it would cost to bring a painting home.
I refrained.
“You’re actually quite lucky,” the woman said.
“How so?”
“These paintings will be gone in a few hours. We’re having a showing tonight.” Her face lit. “Would you care to meet the artist? He happens to be here.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I hedged, trying to play it cool.
“Nonsense. You must! Your name?” she asked.
“Lucy Valentine.”
Her eyes widened. “Any relation to Oscar Valentine?”
“My father.”
She practically cooed, probably seeing dollar signs. “I’ll be right back. Look around,” she offered. Heels tapped as she hurried away.
I stared at the painting before me, the face of the ballplayer blurring under my gaze. It was the colors, I realized. The background colors that fascinated me. Each player was surrounded by a glow of varying col—
“Lucy Valentine? I’m Cutter McCutchan.”
I tore my gaze from the artwork and turned around.
My breath caught, and I staggered backward.
He took a step back from me as well, as if surprised.
My jaw went slack, my eyes widened.
His lips tightened, his eyes narrowed in a deep squint.
“I—ah—” I couldn’t find words.
He was tall, with old-fashioned movie-star good looks. Dark brown eyes, dark hair. Strong chin, chiseled cheeks, full lips.
Cutter McCutchan was nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous.
And he was the spitting image of my father.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stuttered. “I have to go.”
It was too much for me to take in. The realization that my father had a son.
Bells chimed as I pushed into the snow. I stared blindly, unable to remember which way to turn.
“Uva! Uva!”
I lifted my head, focused blurry eyes.
Raphael.
I ran toward him, slipping and sliding through the snow.
I threw my arms around him. He wrapped me tightly in warmth and protection and love.
“Come,” he said, opening the car door for me. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
“He has a son, Raphael.”
“I know, Uva. I know.” He guided me into the car.
Before I knew it, we were sliding into traffic.
He patted my hand. “I came as soon as I saw your note.”
“Does he know he has a son?” I asked. “Of course he knows. He has to know.”
“He only found out a week ago.”
“Does Cutter know about him?”
“No, Uva. Sabrina didn’t want either to know.”
I swallowed hard. “Has Dad told Mum?”
Raphael shook his head. The wipers swiped the window in soothing rhythm.
Thoughts raced, questions too.
A brother. I had a brother. Younger, by the look of him, but not by much. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-four.”
Four years younger. I had a brother.
I’d always wanted siblings. For company, but also because of the Valentine legacy …
Gasping, I said, “Does he see auras?”
“I don’t know.”
“He does,” I said adamantly, answering my own question.
“How do you know, Uva?”
“His paintings. I was fascinated by them—because he painted auras around his subjects.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes.
Thoughts jumbled together, some knotting, some unraveling, as I tried to piece together how I’d gotten to this place.
It had all started with my father’s strange behavior lately, then Preston Bailey and that Christmas invitation. Then there was the lie that she didn’t know Cutter when she had the flyer for the opening …
My eyes popped open. “Preston knows Cutter is a Valentine.”
I could see this. It was why she’d acted so strangely when I told Leo I was an only child—not because she might be my sister (I can’t believe I ever entertained that notion) but because she knew I had a brother.
“Yes. She requested your father’s help to get her a job with one of the bigger papers. If not, then Preston would bring Cutter to Dovie’s Christmas party.”
I could see this. She knew Dad had contacts at the Globe … She was desperate to leave the Beacon and move on to bigger opportunities.
“Your father is complying, but he fears she will write a tell-all article. She insists she will not. He doesn’t know whether to believe her.”
Oddly, I did. Though she was desperate enough to use Cutter, I didn’t think her so immoral as to reveal the truth in an exposé. Just a smidge immoral. After all, blackmail was blackmail.
“But how did she know about Cutter in the first place?”
“Something about old photos. Your father will have to explain.”
“If he ever tears himself away from Sabrina.”
“They have been getting together, trying to figure out what to do.”
“What do you mean? Figure what out?”
“How to keep it all quiet. They don’t understand.”
“What?” I asked, not sure I agreed with keeping Cutter a secret. Though I was shocked and ran out, I knew immediately I wanted him in my life, that I already cared for him.
“Objects set in motion tend to stay in motion.”
Surprisingly, traffic was congested, but not nightmarish. “You aren’t about to launch into a physics lesson now, are you?”
“Would I do such a thing?”
“Yes.”
“You’re right. But I won’t. My point is that Preston Bailey set the ball rolling. Your father found out. You. That ball will keep rolling.”
“Unless someone stops it.”
He beamed. “You were paying attention to your laws of motion.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
He patted the top of my hand. “You’re a lousy student.”
“Pasa!”
“It’s the truth.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier to hear.”
“It never is,” he said solemnly. “And now, will you tell your mother?”
I wanted to. And she deserved to know. �
�No, I don’t think so.” I said softly, echoing Raphael’s words to me yesterday, “Dad’s secrets are not mine to tell.”
22
As soon as I came in my front door, I dropped into my favorite chair. Raphael and I had driven around for a while in silence until I realized I just wanted to go home.
I skipped the train idea and braved the ride home. The drive had been slow but not too bad. Plows were working hard, pushing snow, dumping sand. By first light all the streets would be clear. And I would be free to follow my vision right back to Sarah Loehman’s house.
Grendel was lying atop Em’s wedding dress, which was balled in a corner. That she left it here told me more about her state of mind than anything.
Maybe Marisol and I wouldn’t have to become (more) involved at all. And maybe the prenup Joseph was filing would never come to light and break Em’s heart.
Grendel hopped into my lap, stared at me with his big golden eyes. “I have a brother,” I said aloud.
He tipped his head, swished his tail.
“I know. I’m kind of shocked too.”
I wanted to pick up the phone, call my mother, more for comfort than anything. But I knew myself too well. The minute she suspected I was upset, the news would spill from me, and I couldn’t let that happen. Dad needed to be the one to explain about Cutter.
My second thought was to call Sean. I glanced at the clock. He should be here soon enough. I’d just wait him out.
I checked my phone for messages from Aiden. Nothing. I dialed, hoping he had news about the case. He didn’t answer.
Dropping my head on the back of the chair, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was two hours later and my phone was ringing. I jumped up, stubbed my toe on a kitchen stool, and answered it. “Ow, ow, ow!”
“Lucy, are you okay?”
“Stubbed my toe.” I blinked, the pain momentarily forgotten. “Dad?”
“Who else?”
My heart squeezed a little too tight.
Raphael mumbled something in the background.
“That’s enough out of you, Raphael. Such harassment. I should fire him. I should for the beard alone. Hideous.”
“What did Pasa say?” I asked, not worried about Raphael’s job in the least.
“Nothing your tender ears should hear.”
Deeply, Desperately Page 15
