Last Kiss

by Luanne Rice

  “We have to get out,” Nell gasped in the smoke.

  “Sheridan!” Jeff said, grabbing her. His arms were around her, pulling her hard, away from the center of the fire. And whether it was out of hatred of him or sheer panic, he didn’t know, but she cracked him on the head with her elbow, and they went down together, and the house was on fire around them, and the night went dark.

  CHAPTER 22

  GAVIN TOOK A RIGHT OFF THE MAIN ROAD, UNDER the train bridge into Hubbard’s Point, hardly slowing down for the stop sign. Vincent sat in the back seat while Judy rode up front, holding tight after a breakneck ride down from Hartford.

  Having tracked the flight, Judy had driven from Hawthorne to meet the plane at Brainard Field in Hartford, and Gavin had commandeered her blue Subaru wagon, not even stopping to drop Vincent off at home. There was still no answer when he tried Sheridan again and again on his cell phone. He’d sped down the highway, making record time, nearly hitting a deer on Route 9.

  “So, this is Hubbard’s Point,” Judy said, looking around with interest. Her tone was strangely conversational, considering how fast Gavin was flying down the winding road. “The legendary boyhood meeting place of Gavin Dawson and Vincent de Havilland.”

  “Jesus, Gav,” Vincent said. “Slow down.”

  Gavin didn’t reply. He concentrated on the curving beach roads, trying to see through the fog. Two rabbits scampered out of his way.

  The fog thickened as they neared the Point. This close to the water, Gavin wasn’t surprised. But the air smelled acrid, not salty; of smoke, not fog. When they got to Sheridan’s house, he pulled the Subaru behind her car and got out. The smell of smoke was stronger here; it drew his attention up to the house. He noticed an orange glow in the downstairs windows and started running up the hill, ignoring his foot. Smoke was seeping out from the windows and seams of the cottage. A few neighbors had come out of their houses to investigate.

  “Call 911!” Vincent shouted to anyone as he ran right behind Gavin.

  “I’m on it,” Judy yelled.

  Gavin tried the kitchen door, but it was locked. He gave the window one quick pop with his bare elbow, cutting himself as he reached inside and fumbled for the lock. He turned the knob, let himself inside. Vincent was on his heels. Gavin heard coughing and wheeled around.

  Nell came stumbling out of the smoke, eyes streaming, grabbed his arm and shook it violently.

  “Sheridan!” she cried.

  “Where is she?”

  “In the living room,” Nell said through a coughing fit, eyes red and burning. “I couldn’t get them up.”

  “Where in the living room?”

  “By the fireplace.”

  “‘Them’?” Vincent asked as Gavin tore away.

  “Sheridan and Jeff,” Nell said.

  Gavin headed through the kitchen, relying completely on memory as he made his way through the smoke. He heard flames crackling and someone choking and whimpering. Running with his head down, he stepped into the narrow, smoke-filled hallway and saw that the living room was engulfed in flames.

  Holding his arm over his mouth, he barreled into the thickening smoke. It seared his eyes and lungs, made him blind. He felt his way along one wall, already hot to the touch. Smoke obliterated everything. He started feeling his way toward the two sofas under the eaves by the hearth, straight into the fire.

  The entire room was scorching hot, the old wooden beach cottage going up like a stack of dry tinder. Gavin felt as if he were gulping smoke; it burned his skin and eyes, throat and lungs, made him feel as if he were melting both inside and out. He blinked back fumes the best he could, trying to gauge how far Sheridan was from where he stood: twenty feet? He took his last semi-good breath, and put his head down, and ran straight into the fire.

  Flames had encircled one of the small couches, were licking up the walls and ceiling. Everything was burning, red-orange light everywhere. He couldn’t see, so he got down on his hands and knees and felt. The floor was so hot it blistered his hands as he scuttled along, feeling for Sheridan. His lungs were searing, bursting. He felt dizzy and sick, and he knew if he took a breath now, he’d die. That bothered him, but not as much as the fact that Sheridan would die, too, so he kept going.

  And he found her.

  She lay in a heap, unconscious. With his lungs bursting, Gavin picked her up, held her to his chest, carrying her into the hall. Smoke poured out from behind him, making it impossible to see. His feet burned. He was completely disoriented, and his chest was exploding, and he needed to breathe. He didn’t know which way to go, took a step right and banged into a wall.

  “Gavin,” he heard. He looked wildly from side to side, seeing nothing.

  “Help him.” A figure emerged from the smoke, a young man. He thrust out his hand, pointing, and Gavin saw that he’d missed Jeff lying on the floor. He crouched to half lift, half carry the dazed young man toward the door, his other arm supporting Sheridan. Gavin knew he was losing it, but he swore the stranger was Charlie. He felt sure of it. With all the trust he could muster, Gavin held on to Sheridan and Jeff, letting the shape guide him through impenetrable smoke.

  Gavin held Sheridan tighter, pressing her face into his shoulder, not wanting her to breathe the burning air. They took one step along the hall, then another. The flames had eaten away at some of the floorboards; Gavin felt them singe his legs.

  They cleared the fire; closer to the kitchen, the house hadn’t yet caught. Smoke billowed, and it was still impossible to see; Gavin felt himself being pulled and guided. His thoughts were crazy; he was hallucinating. He heard someone whispering in his ear, Irish words he couldn’t understand. But he’d heard the voice of that old magic woman before, and he knew she was telling him to stay strong, get Sheridan out. He thought he heard the voice of a young man saying “Mom, I love you.”

  He stood in the kitchen where the smoke was less thick, and he finally took a breath. He got some oxygen into his lungs, and looked around expecting to see Aphrodite and Charlie. Instead he had Vincent in his face, supporting Jeff, tugging on his hand, pulling them all toward the kitchen door.

  And behind Vincent was Patrick Murphy, and behind Patrick was Lily, and behind her were the Healeys, and the Butlers, and the Devlins, and the Halls, and Miss Davis, and the Fitches, and the Glenneys, and the Johnsons, and the Wheatons, and Helen and Julian and Arnold, and Teddy, and the Potholms…

  The residents of Hubbard’s Point had formed a human chain to save Sheridan and Gavin. When he stepped out the kitchen door, he saw them all. They gathered around, pulling him and Sheridan into the yard, away from the house. Gavin heard a siren, looked through the fog, down the hill, in time to see the fire truck and a police car arriving.

  “Here, Gav,” Vincent said, putting his arm around him.

  Gavin lay Sheridan on the cool, damp grass. The fog swirled around them, soothing their burns. He touched her face. Under the soot, she looked so pale and still. He wanted to tell her he’d seen Charlie. He knew the neighbors had been there at the end, but he wanted to tell Sheridan that they’d been saved by her grandmother and Charlie.

  “She’s not breathing,” someone murmured from behind.

  Gavin bent close to Sheridan’s face. He pressed his mouth to hers to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, realized he didn’t have any breath of his own to give, and passed out cold on top of her body.

  NELL’S FRIENDS HAD ALL run to the Point when word of the fire got out. They’d come armed with buckets and garden hoses; some were soaking the neighbors’ houses on either side of Sheridan’s—the wooden cottages were so close together, they were in danger of catching on fire, too.

  The neighbors and all the other residents of Hubbard’s Point had worked hard, joining in to save whatever they could. The police and fire departments came, along with an ambulance. At one point Peggy gasped and pointed, and Nell turned to look at Jeff Quill, bent double and coughing madly. He’d revived, standing at the very edge of Sheridan’s yard.
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  “Oh my God,” Peggy said. “Charlie…”

  Nell stared, mesmerized and horrified, at Jeff. She left Peggy standing there and walked over, stood right in front of him.

  He still looked so much like Charlie, but he was covered with soot and ash. His face was streaked, and his shirt was torn. Standing in the dark, with emergency lights flashing, Nell took stock of his features. She still saw the similarity to Charlie, but what she saw mainly, now, was how haunted he looked, how ruined he was by what he had done to Charlie.

  “Did they get Sheridan out?” he asked, his voice croaking.

  “She’s over there,” Nell said, gesturing at the spot where she’d seen Gavin and Sheridan. “They’re working on her.”

  “Oh God,” he said. “If she dies, too…”

  “You told her what happened,” she said. “I heard everything.”

  He stared into her eyes, and nodded. “I know,” he said. “You said that, just before…”

  “The fire,” Nell said, cringing. She stared at Sheridan’s beloved house.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine,” he said, as if he could read her mind.

  “Jeff,” she said, feeling prickles race across her lips. She tasted the smoky air and felt as if she might pass out. “If you’d just walked away from Charlie…”

  He didn’t answer out loud at first. But he stared at her in such a long, deep, wordless way, she felt as if he was feeling anguish beyond comprehension.

  “I’m ready to pay for it,” he said.

  Nell stared at him. Tall, blond, his face streaked with sweat and black ash, Jeff started coughing uncontrollably. Nell wanted to feel compassion for him, but her ears were still ringing with what she’d heard him say inside the house. She looked up, wondering how someone so normal-looking, so much like Charlie, could have taken away something so extraordinary as Charlie’s life.

  “I want you to pay for it,” Nell cried, gripping the front of Jeff’s shirt, tangling her hands in the fabric. She wanted to tear it, wanted to do damage, and she began to weep—pent-up wrath and grief pouring out as she hit him again and again. Nell felt hands grabbing her shoulders, trying to pull her off Jeff, heard Peggy crying, “No, Nell—stop!”

  Struggling against the person trying to pull her away, Nell thought of Charlie. She knew that this was his brother, that Charlie must have trusted him, that he’d walked with him to the edge of the water, and that he’d gotten killed. Nell scratched Jeff’s face, tried to claw his eyes out. She heard herself weeping, calling Charlie’s name.

  Suddenly Stevie was there, her arms around Nell—not pulling, but soothing, gentling her. “It’s okay, Nell…you can stop now. I have you, sweetheart…Stop, Nell. Stop this…”

  And Nell stopped. She could barely breathe, but the words exploded out. “Why?” she wailed. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill him?”

  “It was an accident,” he cried. “I hit him, yes, but I didn’t mean for him to die. I know how that must sound to you, Nell. I’m not trying to get out of anything. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I did it, Nell. I killed Charlie. I’ll pay for it forever.”

  Nell stared at him. He spoke in a low, calm voice that cracked with every word—the smoke must have seared his throat. She almost wished he’d try to make excuses, squirm out of the part he’d played, try to deny what had happened. She’d like to attack him again, accuse him of being a coward on top of everything else. She watched his gaze lift above her head, fix on the police car.

  Nell turned to see Sheridan, supported by Gavin, walking over. Sheridan reached out one burned hand, took Nell’s. They gazed into each other’s eyes, and Nell’s filled with tears.

  “Now we know,” Nell said. “Now we know what happened.”

  Sheridan tried to smile. She couldn’t, but she hugged Nell.

  “Jeff Quill. I hate him so much,” Nell whispered. “He took Charlie’s life.”

  “I know,” Sheridan said. “Don’t give up yours.”

  “Mine?” Nell asked, pulling back, surprised. “My life?”

  “Don’t hate him, Nell,” Sheridan said. “It will eat you up. Charlie wouldn’t want that.”

  Did that mean that Sheridan wanted Nell to forgive Jeff? Gazing into Charlie’s mother’s eyes, she saw sorrow and kindness. Nell looked past her at her burning house, and grabbed Sheridan’s hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Shh,” Sheridan said. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

  Nell wanted to say more, but Sheridan was looking over her head. Turning, Nell saw Jeff walking straight toward the police car. Nell, Sheridan, and Gavin watched as he approached one of the Black Hall cops, started talking to him.

  Sheridan kissed Nell and gently stepped away. Gavin nodded at Nell.

  “I saw him in there,” Gavin said softly.

  “Saw who?”

  “Charlie,” Gavin said. “I know it sounds crazy, but he was there. And he saved Jeff.”

  Nell couldn’t speak. She watched Gavin following Sheridan across the yard, straight toward Jeff. Cops were gathering around him, and Nell suddenly knew he was confessing.

  The firefighters had surrounded Sheridan’s house, were spraying their hoses in great arcs of silver water, but it was futile: the flames broke through the roof, leaping up to the sky. Hubbard’s Pointers were in shock; some were crying. Nell clutched Stevie, watching Sheridan and Gavin standing with Jeff as what remained of Charlie’s home burned.

  And then Nell kissed Stevie, told her she’d meet her back at their cottage, and ran as fast as she could toward the cemetery. Gavin had seen Charlie. And now she had to.

  CHAPTER 23

  WHILE EVERYONE ELSE WATCHED HER HOUSE BURN, Sheridan turned her back on it. She held Gavin’s hand and watched as Jeff spoke with the police. People tried to get her to go to the hospital, but she just shook her head.

  Jeff told one officer what he had done. At first the cop reacted with skepticism, calling others over to hear. Sheridan held back, watching. She saw the Black Hall police, used to dealing with speeders, accidents, and the occasional breakin, listen to this young man confess to killing someone in New York. Sheridan watched their faces, their expressions turning from doubt to suspicion. She’d had little to do with the police, and didn’t know any of them well.

  “Say that again?” one of the officers asked.

  “I killed someone,” Jeff said.

  “When was this?”

  “Last August thirty-first.”

  “In New York City, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So why don’t you tell me what happened?” the officer asked, his eyes hard as he started taking him seriously.

  “I—” Jeff began.

  Sheridan stepped forward. “Jeff,” she interrupted.

  He looked over at her, his eyes wide open. At the sight of her, his gaze flickered and his voice faltered.

  “Sheridan, you’re okay…”

  She nodded. “Jeff, you need a lawyer,” she said.

  “No I don’t,” he said. “I did it…that’s not in question. Let me get this over with.”

  Gavin was already halfway across the yard, looking for Vincent. The cops watched Sheridan and one of them stepped between her and Jeff.

  “This is police business,” he said. “And it sounds as if he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe so,” Sheridan said calmly. “But he still needs to talk to a lawyer.”

  “He just confessed,” the officer said. “So he’s taking a ride. The lawyer can find him at the station, okay?”

  Sheridan nodded, locking eyes with Jeff. Her emotions were too big to handle; the sound of her house burning filled her ears, and as she stared into the face of this young man who looked so much like Charlie, the young man who had taken him away, she felt the world tilt beneath her feet.

  “What’s the victim’s name?” the cop asked Jeff, but Sheridan answered.

  “My son,” she said. “Charle
s Rosslare.”

  Gavin came running over with Vincent, and as the police put handcuffs on Jeff, Vincent was already asking questions and making arrangements to follow the car to the small police station on Route 156. Sheridan told Vincent that Jeff had tried to save her in the fire—that he should know that. Vincent hugged her gingerly and thanked her, and then he hurried down the hill to go to the station.

  With Jeff and the others gone, Sheridan turned back to the fire. Gavin took her hand and started leading her in the opposite direction—through the Devlins’ yard, toward the rocks. Sheridan’s cottage faced the beach, but this side of the Point was rocky and wild, a craggy strip of glacial moraine sloping down to Long Island Sound.

  “I think you should go to the hospital and get checked out,” Gavin said.

  “I think you should, too,” Sheridan said.

  But they just held hands tightly, limping through the Devlins’ yard in the fog, onto the granite ledge. Sheridan’s feet were burned, and they hurt. Her lungs felt as if they’d been squeezed by a giant. Every breath felt as if she’d swallowed a knife. Her head felt bruised, from where she’d hit it when she’d passed out.

  “You did the right thing, getting him a lawyer,” Gavin said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I don’t know how you’re doing it,” he said. “Putting your feelings aside about what he did.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not that good. I just thought of what Charlie would want.”

  “Charlie would have wanted Jeff to have a lawyer?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  When they got near the water’s edge, Gavin eased her down one step, then another. Her muscles felt stiff, as if she’d been sleeping for a hundred years. He supported her as they inched their way down the rocks.

  The tide was out. Gavin had said he loved the sound from Sheridan’s house: of the waves washing gently over the sand. Here, on the other side of the Point, the waves sounded different: more turbulent and powerful, rolling straight in from the open ocean, through the rough waters of the Race—where Long Island Sound met the Atlantic—fetching up here on the eastern edge of Hubbard’s Point. The waves splashed noisily, sucking stones and seaweed as they washed back to sea.