Truly, Madly

by Heather Webber

  Yesterday I had met with Aiden, who was now officially my contact for the Massachusetts State Police. I had agreed to work on missing person cases, new and cold.

  Finally. Finally my gift could be used to really help people. It did my heart good and made me feel for once that my life had purpose, meaning. I was done with floundering through different careers.

  Slowly, I made my way to the door and pulled it open.

  To my surprise, Preston Bailey stood on my doorstep, looking eager to see me. She wore a long belted trench coat, jeans, and leather boots. Her hands were empty—no offerings for forgiveness.

  My first inclination was to slam the door.

  So was my second.

  I slammed it.

  Preston stuck her booted foot in between the door and the jamb. I was pleased by her yelp of pain.

  “Lucy, please!”

  Reluctantly, I opened the door. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Serious eyes peered at me under fringed bangs. “I know you’re mad.”

  “Mad? You don’t know mad!”

  “All right. Pissed. I understand. I do.” Crazy blonde hair stuck out every which way.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, okay. But that’s why I’m here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father contacted me about the new division of Valentine, Inc.”

  “He did?” The backstabbing traitor.

  “It’s a great idea. And I’d like to be your first client.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll document it. Prove to every naysayer that you really are psychic. I’ll write an article that documents our journey and sets everything right. One written with your full consent and approval. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What can it hurt? And won’t it be nice to stop all the speculation? Plus, it will drum up clients for you, which must appeal to your business sense.”

  A car appeared at the top of the drive, pausing in front of Dovie’s house.

  I wanted to get rid of Preston Bailey before Jamie’s mom arrived. So, I did the last thing I ever expected.

  I agreed.

  But as Preston walked triumphantly toward her car, I couldn’t help but feel I’d just made a deal with the devil.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Heather Webber’s next book

  Deeply, Desperately

  A Lucy Valentine Novel

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  My brand new GPS unit glowed in the darkness of the car as I carefully navigated the narrow side roads leading to Aerie, Dovie’s cliffside estate in Cohasset, south of the city. I foresaw a lot of traveling with Lost Loves. Or so I hoped once I acquired a few more clients.

  Bare branches hovered over two copper mailboxes standing side by side along a small half-moon dirt turnoff just before Aerie’s drive. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure I hadn’t been followed (all clear), pulled up to the second box, reached in, and scooped out a stack of mail.

  Setting the stack on the passenger seat, I cut the wheel sharply, turning between two stacked stone columns. To my right, a wooden sign that read “Aerie” in elegant script was lit from a hidden up-light. Graceful garden lanterns lined the sides of the drive, guiding me up the sloped, twisting gravel driveway. Around a bend, Dovie’s house suddenly appeared as if by magic, a sprawling, classic, century-old, New England estate, complete with weathered shingles, gorgeous slate roof, juts, jogs, angles, and utter elegance. It was decked out in sedate white Christmas lights, twinkling happily.

  Forgoing her three-car garage, I veered to the right, off the main drive. A crushed-shell lane led down to home sweet home. Dovie generously let me stay in the estate’s cottage-style guest house.

  The one-bedroom cottage, shingle-style in design, was almost all windows, mostly arched. A narrow wraparound front porch with wooden archways curved around the foundation. Throw in the antique front door, stone steps, and attic dormer, and charm oozed from its rafters.

  Colorful Christmas lights dripped from the edges of the eaves, wrapped the columns on the front porch, and adorned the dormers, doorframe, and windows.

  A brisk breeze blew off the ocean, climbing the bluffs and sweeping across the yard. A field-stone path led to the porch, flanked on each side by a short boxwood hedge. In the warmer months, flowering annuals would color the way to my door. I turned up my collar, slipped in the key in the lock, and turned the deadbolt.

  The circles on the alarm keypad blinked a bright red, blending well with the whole Christmas theme. I turned off the alarm. My cautious gaze swept the open layout, bouncing like a racquetball from the small Christmas tree near the fireplace, into the kitchen, over the breakfast bar, into the dining room, and beyond into my bedroom. Other than the fact that I’d forgotten to make my bed that morning, everything seemed just right.

  No intruders. No stalkers. No fanatic looking to snuff out the “devil’s Handmaiden.”

  I set the stack of mail on the table next to the door, reluctant to go through it. The first letter addressed to the “devil’s Handmaiden” had arrived two weeks ago. It had spewed about my sins, harping on the First Commandment, and how being psychic was akin to being evil. A new letter arrived every couple of days, each one more intense than the last. And more threatening. I stopped opening them after the fifth—I simply passed the envelopes on to Aiden.

  I dumped the rest of my things on the floor next to the door, slipped off my boots. Grendel, a Maine Coon cat, sauntered out of my bedroom on his three legs, meowing pathetically, pawing the hem of my trousers. He hated being left alone. And he hardly counted Odysseus, my one-eyed hamster, as company. Both had come to me via Marisol and the animal hospital where she worked. The consequences of having a best friend who was a veterinarian.

  I drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the Charlie Brown tree in the corner. The live Balsam fir was the runt of the litter on the lot this year with its four-and-a-half-foot height, sparse branches, tilting stance. After Christmas, the sad little tree would have a chance to grow into a strong mature fir, mixed in with those from Christmases past on Dovie’s acreage.

  It was a lovely little tree. Really. Just . . . a bit . . . crooked.

  From the fridge, I pulled a slice of white American. As soon as Grendel heard the crinkling of the cellophane wrapper, he hopped down, circled excitedly. I broke the cheese into quarters, dropping one on the floor for him. He pounced, dragging it around the corner into the dining area to feast in privacy under the rickety plastic table. I’d yet to save enough to buy my dream table, so the folding card table had to suffice for now. Thankfully, a tablecloth hid its many flaws.

  I tossed another quarter of cheese over the breakfast bar into the dining room. Grendel attacked with a loud thump.

  Trying my best, I fought to rid my thoughts of my father’s voice and the anxiety I’d heard in his tone. What was going on with him lately? I needed to talk to him, look him in the eye to get some answers. Tomorrow at the office, I’d sit down with him, have a heart to heart, and get to the bottom of his bad mood.

  For now, I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I picked up the phone, dialed Sean.

  Cupid’s Curse was one of the reasons I wanted to take things slowly with sexy Sean Donahue, the former firefighter turned private investigator I worked with. Tall, dark hair, milky gray eyes, superhero chin, hockey player’s nose. Lips to die for, kisses that melted, and a heart in need of healing. Literally.

  A defibrillator had been implanted last year after he almost died from undiagnosed cardiomyopathy. He quit the fire department and took his brother Sam’s offer to join his PI firm. Sean was working under the umbrella of his brother’s license until he accrued enough experience to get his own.

  These days we worked almost solely together, investigating not only Lost Love cases but the missing person cases for the state police as well.

  Our chemistry was pu
re magic, but I knew the outcome of any potential serious relationship we’d have. Doom. Crushing dark doom.

  And that would simply break my heart. Further, I should say. Because I’d already fallen for him. And not having him in a serious committed relationship with me was almost as painful as not having him at all. Dating him casually was a wonderful torture, one I loved and hated.

  Sometimes being a Valentine just plain sucked.

  After four rings a woman picked up. Stunned, I leaned against the counter. “May I speak to Sean, please?”

  “You have the wrong number,” she said sharply and hung up on me.

  I hit the redial button, watched the numbers fill in on the caller ID screen.

  It had not been the wrong number.

  My call went immediately to voice mail. I left a quick message for Sean to call me back.

  Absently, I nibbled one of Grendel’s remaining cheese squares, trying not to get worked up and jealous.

  So what, a woman answered Sean’s cell phone, claiming it wasn’t his.

  Big deal.

  No problem.

  We weren’t in a committed relationship.

  I looked down. Grendel’s last corner of cheese had been squished into the tiniest cheese ball known to man.

  I dropped it in the garbage disposal and poured a cup of veterinarian-approved kitty kibble into his bowl as he looked on.

  His tail shot into the air as he prowled around my feet, staring at me accusingly. I’d veered from our norm. He was missing two cheese squares and wasn’t happy about it.

  And I had to admit I wasn’t happy about a woman answering Sean’s damn phone.

  “You’re supposed to be on a diet anyway,” I said to him. “Take it up with Marisol.”

  He gave me a look that promised revenge.

  I ignored it (probably a mistake) and grabbed a grape from the bunch on the granite countertop. I dropped it in Odysseus’s cage on the bureau in my bedroom. He was nowhere to be seen, but I heard scratching from beneath his shavings. I made kissy noises, but he didn’t surface. I gave up.

  Who was she?

  Stop thinking about it!

  81 − 11 is 70.

  5 + 3 is 8.

  In the living room I turned on the gas-burning fireplace, gathered up the mail, and sank into the coziest chair ever made. It was a deep club chair that rocked and swiveled. Using the hearth as my footstool, I put my feet up. Crackling orange flames danced, warming my toes.

  The stack of mail was larger than usual, with an assortment of Christmas cards mixed into the usual delivery. I put the cards aside, leaving me with a pile of mail from strangers, most wanting my help, some wanting me to know what happens to sinners.

  Inevitably, I separated my fan mail (as I’d come to call it for lack of a better term) into four piles: Crackpot, Consider, Can’t Help You, and Copy. I was continuously torn between wanting to help everyone and wanting to protect my sanity. Some of the letters were simply heartbreaking. If I worked every case, I’d need anti-depressants. The flip side of that was the guilt. What if I could help these families find their loved one, find closure?

  It was wrenching.

  Grendel pouted near his food dish as I opened the first letter. It went into the “Can’t Help” pile, as it was a request for me to connect a woman with her dead husband. Sorry. I didn’t do séances.

  There were three missing children requests in a row. Desperate parents who had heard about the little boy I’d found. Unfortunately most cases of missing children didn’t turn out with happy endings, but I knew after working with the Massachusetts State Police that most people, though hopeful to have their loved ones returned home, were searching for closure. The first case I worked on with the MSP was to help locate teenager Jamie Gallagher. She’d been missing for months. When I was able to find her remains, her mother told me that it was the first time she’d slept the whole night through.

  I set the letters in the Consider pile.

  The next letter had familiar handwriting. My heart froze in fear. Carefully, I put the envelope in a plastic baggie. Tomorrow, I’d give it to Aiden.

  The handle on my front door rattled, and I nearly jumped clear out of my skin.

  “It’s me, LucyD!” Dovie called out.

  I dumped the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and opened the door for my grandmother.

  “I can’t get used to you locking that thing,” she said, rushing past me waving a binder, a whirl of energy.

  I dropped back into my chair.

  Seeing Dovie this late at night wasn’t the least bit surprising. She tended to spend more time here than at her own home. I put up with her intrusions into my life because I loved my cottage, its view of the ocean, and her—most of the time. More now that she’d let up on trying to match-make me. She was convinced Sean and I would be walking down the aisle any minute now. A notion we played into for my sake. It was nice not coming home to strange men invited to dinner by Dovie in hopes I’d fall madly in love and promptly produce a dozen babies.

  I eyed the Handmaiden letter. The envelope itself looked innocuous enough. It was the message inside that had me locking my doors and windows for the first time in my life. No one other than Aiden knew of the threats I’d been receiving. There was no need to worry anyone else. The only thing that would come out of that was a stifling over-protectiveness. No. It was better they didn’t know. And that included Sean. He’d probably want to move in.

  And while that didn’t sound like a horrible idea to me, I wanted him to move in for the right reasons, not to be my private bodyguard.

  Hmm. I let that idea sit for a minute before I shook myself out of the fantasy. Dovie sat on the sofa, her long legs stretched out. She wore a silk pajama-and-robe set complete with a fancy marabou-feathered heel. She’d been a burlesque dancer when she met my grandfather and still had a dancer’s physique over sixty years later. Her eyes glowed.

  I eyed the binder. “What brings you down here?”

  Her long white hair had been pulled into a beautiful knot at the base of her neck. “Party stuff. Guest list, food. Thought I’d have you take a look, a second pair of eyes. RSVPs are rolling in.”

  Dovie’s famous Five Days before Christmas Bash was next Sunday night.

  With my toe I nudged the Handmaiden letter under the stack of mail. “Tea?” I asked, heading for the kitchen.

  “Lovely!”

  Grendel leapt onto the couch, blatantly bathing Dovie with his affection, trying to make me jealous. Too late—that particular sentiment had already been claimed for the night.

  Who was she?

  Stop!

  I glanced at my grandmother over the curved granite breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the open living and dining rooms. “Preston mentioned she was invited to the party.” Maybe Dovie could shed some light as to why.

  “Your father insisted,” she said, pointing to her guest list as if to confirm Preston was indeed was on the list.

  I came around the counter. “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  A few weeks ago, I had reunited Preston with a long-lost boyfriend . . . only to find out it had been an act, a publicity stunt for a newspaper article she was writing on me. There had been no love lost between the two. It had been a waste of my time, but the article had been so popular that Preston had talked my father into more articles, a full series. A year-in-the-life kind of thing. Which was all well and good—phone calls from potential clients were coming faster than we could keep up—but it also meant Preston was around. A lot.

  Dovie never partied lightly. My gaze slid over the list of over two hundred names, skidding to a stop on Sean’s.

  Who was she? A date? Would he bring her to the party?

  She rose. “Keep the list overnight for a look-see. I should be going; it’s getting late and maybe you have company coming?”

  “Sean and I don’t have that kind of relationship.” Much to my dismay.

  “I know. And it’s getting ol
d. I’m getting old. Too old to enjoy my great-grandbabies should you ever have any.”

  “You’re forgetting the Curse . . .”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Dangerous.”

  She shook her finger at me. “Sass! I’m wondering if you’re crying Curse every time you get close to someone out of fear.”

  “Of course I am. I’ve seen what happens to the relationships in this family!”

  “But LucyD, you’ve never been a victim of the curse. Perhaps you wouldn’t even be afflicted. Maybe that lightning strike zapped it out of you? Have you ever thought of that? Hmm? Hmm?”

  I hadn’t.

  “I didn’t think so,” she went on. “It’s time you gave commitment a chance. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  The possibility excited and frightened me at the same time. It was something to think about.