their table—an older woman they didn’t know—and said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but you two are blessed, we can see that, sitting near you and watching you this evening.” And the woman moved on, as if she had bestowed a blessing upon them.
After dinner they found a cab and headed home, and Luke couldn’t stop touching Emily, her hair, her face, her bare arms, her narrow waist. “I am blessed,” he told her, and she giggled, thinking he was teasing her when he was more serious than he had ever been in his life.
The door opened. Across the street. Luke held his breath. He thought of taking off quickly, before glancing toward the door even once. He thought of ducking, like a child, hiding on the seat until whoever was there would go away.
But he sat, frozen, and Gray appeared, dressed in a different suit, newly showered, hair slicked back, face smiling. He leaned back inside—to kiss her good-bye? To grab his briefcase? And then he closed the door and headed down the path.
Luke had never thought to see if Gray’s car was still there.
I’m one helluva private eye,
he thought.
Gray Healy. Blessed? Certainly buoyant this morning, walking with a little lift between steps as if he had spent the night in the arms of a tall, blond and drop-dead gorgeous woman.
Luke was out of the car and heading toward the house before he made any decision. He reached the door in a second, without being conscious of having crossed the street or walked up the path. And his hand was knocking on the door, as if it were an independent thing, not his arm at all.
No one answered. He sensed someone inside, felt her presence rather than catching any glimpse of her or anyone else; he held his breath, hoping he would hear some movement, the drop of a curtain upstairs, the intake of breath as she saw him standing there.
There was no one at the window, no curtain falling back into place.
He turned and left, climbed into his truck, drove away.
He was shaking; he saw that now. In a rush he suddenly felt too much at once—fury, fear, anguish. He was confused, driving too fast through unfamiliar streets.
He thought of Sweetpea, of Blair, of the cottage in the back of the purple Victorian, and he turned toward the Haight, sped toward Blair, thinking:
Somehow, Blair will make me stop feeling like this.
By the time he reached the Haight, his eyes were fogging, so he could barely see his way to a parking space. He knew Emily had been there, in that house, and that she knew he was there at the door. She had run away from him, and she didn’t want him to find her. It took his breath away, as if for three months he had not quite believed it, not quite felt the heavy weight of it, and now it knocked him out, a wild punch in the gut, followed by a blast of pain.
He walked up toward Blair’s cottage, thankful that her hippie landlord wasn’t lurking.
He knocked lightly on her door, glancing at his watch. It was nine o’clock, an hour too early for her breakfast in bed.
“Come in,” he heard her call out.
He walked in, walked down the tiny hallway to her open bedroom, stood in her doorway.
She was lying in bed. She looked at him and lifted her covers to invite him in.
He climbed into her bed and she held him, let him cry softly, without asking a question.
Chapter Five
S he liked the size of him, the broad back in front of her own small torso on the bed, the way her arm wrapped around his flannel shirt and pulled him toward her, pressing him into her. She curved her legs into the back of his, somehow matching them—she was not tall, but her legs were long, and she could tell he carried his height in his upper body. She liked the heat of him, the smell of him as she pressed her face into the back of his neck.
She knew he was crying. That didn’t bother her—there was something different about this man, something that allowed him this. And she liked forgetting about herself for a moment.
She didn’t want to know why—she was sure
After dinner they found a cab and headed home, and Luke couldn’t stop touching Emily, her hair, her face, her bare arms, her narrow waist. “I am blessed,” he told her, and she giggled, thinking he was teasing her when he was more serious than he had ever been in his life.
The door opened. Across the street. Luke held his breath. He thought of taking off quickly, before glancing toward the door even once. He thought of ducking, like a child, hiding on the seat until whoever was there would go away.
But he sat, frozen, and Gray appeared, dressed in a different suit, newly showered, hair slicked back, face smiling. He leaned back inside—to kiss her good-bye? To grab his briefcase? And then he closed the door and headed down the path.
Luke had never thought to see if Gray’s car was still there.
I’m one helluva private eye,
he thought.
Gray Healy. Blessed? Certainly buoyant this morning, walking with a little lift between steps as if he had spent the night in the arms of a tall, blond and drop-dead gorgeous woman.
Luke was out of the car and heading toward the house before he made any decision. He reached the door in a second, without being conscious of having crossed the street or walked up the path. And his hand was knocking on the door, as if it were an independent thing, not his arm at all.
No one answered. He sensed someone inside, felt her presence rather than catching any glimpse of her or anyone else; he held his breath, hoping he would hear some movement, the drop of a curtain upstairs, the intake of breath as she saw him standing there.
There was no one at the window, no curtain falling back into place.
He turned and left, climbed into his truck, drove away.
He was shaking; he saw that now. In a rush he suddenly felt too much at once—fury, fear, anguish. He was confused, driving too fast through unfamiliar streets.
He thought of Sweetpea, of Blair, of the cottage in the back of the purple Victorian, and he turned toward the Haight, sped toward Blair, thinking:
Somehow, Blair will make me stop feeling like this.
By the time he reached the Haight, his eyes were fogging, so he could barely see his way to a parking space. He knew Emily had been there, in that house, and that she knew he was there at the door. She had run away from him, and she didn’t want him to find her. It took his breath away, as if for three months he had not quite believed it, not quite felt the heavy weight of it, and now it knocked him out, a wild punch in the gut, followed by a blast of pain.
He walked up toward Blair’s cottage, thankful that her hippie landlord wasn’t lurking.
He knocked lightly on her door, glancing at his watch. It was nine o’clock, an hour too early for her breakfast in bed.
“Come in,” he heard her call out.
He walked in, walked down the tiny hallway to her open bedroom, stood in her doorway.
She was lying in bed. She looked at him and lifted her covers to invite him in.
He climbed into her bed and she held him, let him cry softly, without asking a question.
Chapter Five
S he liked the size of him, the broad back in front of her own small torso on the bed, the way her arm wrapped around his flannel shirt and pulled him toward her, pressing him into her. She curved her legs into the back of his, somehow matching them—she was not tall, but her legs were long, and she could tell he carried his height in his upper body. She liked the heat of him, the smell of him as she pressed her face into the back of his neck.
She knew he was crying. That didn’t bother her—there was something different about this man, something that allowed him this. And she liked forgetting about herself for a moment.
She didn’t want to know why—she was sure
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