Authors: Mariah Stewart
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I picked up…Could you get a couple of plates? I wasn’t kidding when I said I was starving. Forks would be nice, too, though I don’t have a problem using my hands if I have to. Don’t know if you have any thoughts on that one way or the other.” He lifted several plastic containers from the bag. “Anyway, we have one meat loaf with a baked potato and green beans, and one roast chicken with mashed and…I think carrots in that one.” He dipped into the bag again. “Salads…got a selection of dressings here because, like I said, I don’t know what you like. Three different desserts—we have a chocolate cake, a lemon meringue pie, and some sort of fruit tart, because—”
“—because you don’t know what I like,” she finished offhandedly.
“I want to know, Mal.” He put the containers on the table and turned to her, his eyes solemn. “I want to know whether you like your potatoes baked or mashed. And whether you prefer lemon to chocolate. Cake or pie. Ranch, Italian, or vinaigrette. I want to know those things about you. I want to take it day by day, and learn as we go.”
Despite her best efforts not to, she began to cry, the tears rolling down her face in fat drops. He gathered her into his arms and held her as if he understood, even if she wasn’t sure she did, where the tears came from.
When she’d cried it out, she wiped her face with her hands and said, “Wow. Sorry. You come here to bring me dinner and you get flooded out for your efforts. Sorry. It’s just that…”
She struggled with her words.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “We have all night.”
“Don’t you have to get home…?”
“My mother took herself to rehab a day early. Well, her friend took her, they went together. She left me a note.”
“She didn’t get to see you on TV. She’d have been so proud.”
“I’m more proud of her. Hers is the bigger accomplishment. I had help. She didn’t.”
He reached up and pulled something from her hair.
“Straw.” He held it up for her inspection. “I think I see a little more there.”
“I’m not surprised, crawling around barns, falling face-first in the henhouse, who knows what’s in my hair. I haven’t had a shower yet.”
“Hmmmm. Neither have I.” He nuzzled the side of her face. “And the way I see it, you owe me one.”
Mallory laughed and took him by the hand. “You’re right. And it’s the least I can do.”
She led him through the living room and up the steps to the second floor. Later, she would try, but could not remember who took off whose clothes, or how warm the water was, or who soaped who first. He’d murmured something in her ear, but she couldn’t remember the words. All she recalled was that moment when he’d lifted her and leaned her back against the cool tile wall. She’d stared into his eyes, watched them go from dark blue to smoky, and she was lost. His mouth had been hot on hers, on the skin of her neck, her breasts, and an urgency swept through her that had left her weak. She’d wrapped her legs around his hips, seeking completion, aching desperately to take him inside, then reached up and wound her arms around his neck, and held on for the ride.
TWENTY-SIX
A
phone was ringing somewhere, but Mallory couldn’t place the sound.
“That’s mine,” Charlie mumbled from the other side of the bed.
His hand reached out from under the sheet and groped clumsily on the bedside table.
“Hello,” he said. “Yeah. Sure. Be there in twenty minutes.”
Mallory rolled onto her side and raised herself on one elbow. “You can’t get anywhere from here in twenty minutes. Unless you’re planning to go as you are.”
“It’s still my first week on the job,” he told her as he turned to her. “I think I need to behave myself for the first month or so.”
He leaned down and kissed her mouth. “That was Drabyak. He wants to see me before the shift begins.” He glanced at the clock. “Which is in less than thirty minutes.”
“You better get moving, then. Traffic into the city is tough this time of the morning.”
He disappeared into the hall, and several minutes later returned wearing his slacks and buttoning up the front of his shirt. He finished dressing, then leaned over to kiss her again.
“Did Joe give you any idea of what he wanted to talk to you about?”
“None. Just said it was important.”
“I’m sure it is for him to call you in on a Saturday morning.”
He took his watch from the table next to the bed and strapped it on, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye. “I’ll call you later.”
She sat up and listened to his footfalls on the stairs, heard the front door open and close quietly. Then she lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, and remembered that she hadn’t told him about the letter from Callen MacKenzie.
She got out of bed and went downstairs for coffee, picking the letter up as she passed through the living room. She read it again while she measured coffee into a paper filter and poured water into the top of the coffeemaker, and wondered if Callen MacKenzie had grown up feeling as lost as she herself had. There had never been a day in her childhood when she’d felt as if she belonged anywhere, to anyone. Had Callen felt that way, too? Who had their mother passed Callen off to? Or had she kept her?
“Connie Theresa Russo.” Mallory spoke her mother’s name aloud for the first time in a very long time.
The coffeemaker beeped to let her know it had done its job. She poured herself a cup, then poked in the open bags that were left on the kitchen table and found the fruit tart untouched. She got a fork from the drawer and was just about to dig in when the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“When I get back there, I expect that tart to be right where we left it,” Charlie said.
She laughed. “Are you looking through the window?” She walked to the back door and peered out, expecting to see him through the glass.
“No, I just figured you for a dessert-in-the-morning kind of gal.”
“You figured right.” She gazed at it longingly. “I’m standing here with fork in hand.”
“I’ll bring you another one tonight.” He paused. “Pecan or apple?”
“Another apple,” she told him. “It’s my favorite.”
“Apple it is,” he said, then added, “It’s my favorite, too.”
She hung up and polished off the tart, standing with her back against the counter and staring out the window, pushed Connie Russo back into that dark corner where she kept the name, and turned her attention to the now. How she would spend her day? There was the book she was working on, she reminded herself, but working on it wasn’t the same as working a case. She envied Charlie, having someplace to go, a new case to dive into. She hadn’t permitted herself the luxury of missing the job these past few months. Getting back into it, even for a few weeks and on a limited basis, had reminded her of all the reasons why she’d wanted to be a cop in the first place.
She was just about to open the back door for a breath of fresh air when the phone rang again.
“Mallory, it’s Susanna Jones. Congratulations. We saw the news this morning. Well done.”
“Thank you. I’m just glad things turned out the way they did.”
“We’d like to settle up with you. Is there a time that’s convenient for you to drive out to the house to pick up a check?”
“My license finally arrived, so yes, I can drive out today. I’ll need some time to get my hours together. When my house was broken into, my laptop was stolen along with some of my notes.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to re-create a reasonable time line. Is two o’clock all right?”
“I should be able to make it by two.”
“We’ll see you then.”
Mallory took her coffee out back and sat on one of the plastic chairs. It wobbled slightly when she sat, and she thought maybe this year might be the year to buy a few real chairs. Maybe a small table with a glass top where she and Charlie could have dinner sometime.
Assuming Charlie was still around.
She pondered that possibility for a while before admitting to herself that there was a good chance he might stick. The realization that she wanted him to didn’t surprise her as much as she once thought such feelings might. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt that connected to anyone.
“Like the man said, day by day,” she said aloud, and went back into the house to prepare her time sheets.
TWENTY-SEVEN
R
obert Magellan stood in his kitchen and eyed the fresh-from-the-oven scones.
“Strawberries and pecans, I think,” he murmured as he reached for one.
“Don’t even think about it,” Trula warned. “Those are for Father Kevin and Mrs. Corcoran. You can have an English muffin.”
“How does Kevin rate fresh scones and I get a dried-up English muffin?” Robert protested. “It’s the priest thing, isn’t it? You figure, the better you feed him, the harder he’ll be praying for you.”
“I don’t have to bribe Kevin to pray for me,” she sniffed. “And I made scones for you last week.”
“That was then, this is now.” He stared longingly at the baking rack.
“You’ll have one later, when our company arrives.”
“Only one?” He frowned. “And since when is Kevin company?”
“He isn’t. Mary Corcoran is.” She shooed him away from the counter.
“Remind me again why she’s coming.”
“She wants to thank you for saving her grandson’s life.”
“I didn’t save him. I was playing golf when he was saved.”
“You hired the woman who found him. Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing. And she could just as easily thank Kevin for both of us. It was his idea to hire the detective, not mine. And she already thanked me on the phone. Three times, last night.”
“She wants to thank you in person. It’s the polite thing to do.” She turned and scowled. “Honestly, Robert, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’ve turned into a curmudgeony old recluse and I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
“I’m not a recluse. I talk to you, to Kevin, to Suse—”
“You avoid people like the plague.” Her voice softened. “That’s no way to live, son. And you have a lot to live for.”
“Had,” he corrected her. “I had a lot to live for.”
“If Beth could hear you, she’d…well, I don’t know what she’d do, but I know she wouldn’t like it one bit. And tell me this: If you had been the one to have gone missing, would you want Beth to throw away the rest of her life, the way you’re doing? Or would you want her to live, to find some good to do, to find someone else to—?”
Before she could finish, a horn blew outside the kitchen window. They both turned toward the sound. Kevin had pulled up behind the house and was helping Mary Corcoran out of the car.
“Swell,” he grumbled.
“And don’t even think about slipping off to your office,” Trula said as she opened the back door. “Father Kevin, Mrs. Corcoran. Please come in…”
Mary Corcoran’s eyes were rimmed with red, but her smile lit her face.
“Mr. Magellan.” She crossed the room to Robert, both hands out reaching for his.
He’d started to flinch, to pull back, but behind Mary, Trula stood like a sentinel. Mary squeezed his hands before letting go, her eyes welling with tears, and she touched his face.
“There are no words to thank you for what you’ve done,” she whispered, her mouth quivering, her voice charged with quiet emotion. “Because of you—your kindness, your generosity—my grandson is alive. Courtney—her sister—home with their mother, where they belong. There are no words, Mr. Magellan…”
He patted her awkwardly.
“Robert,” he said. “I’d rather you called me Robert.”
“I’d all but given up hope,” Mary went on. “Before you sent Mallory…”
“Actually, it was Kevin and Susanna who…”
“I was so afraid I’d never see him again. I know you know that pain, Mr. Magellan. I know your heartache. The not knowing is the worst, isn’t it?” She dabbed at her face with a tissue. “Fear the last thing you feel at night, the first thing you feel in the morning? There were days these past few weeks when the pain was so great, I felt I couldn’t contain it. How you have been able to hang on for so long…over a year now, I think.”
“Fifteen months,” he told her. “Since February 11, 2007.”
“My heart breaks for you. It’s so hard to carry that pain alone. Sometimes that hole inside feels so big, you know if you fall into it, you’ll never stop. Never reach the bottom.” She nodded in Kevin’s direction. “Through Father Burch, I found a support group. Parents of missing children. They helped me so much. Despite their own terrible losses, they reached out to me. Maybe they could help you, too, with your pain.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a joiner, Mrs. Corcoran, but thank you.”
“They’re a wonderful group. They’re all still waiting for their miracles, you know. I pray for them every day. Just as I pray for you, Mr. Magellan.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” He wasn’t sure prayers would help at this late date, but her sincerity all but broke his heart.
“You know, I was going to take out a second mortgage on my house—a bank loan—whatever it would have taken to have put together enough money to hire someone to find Ryan. I knew the police were not going to find him, Mr. Magellan. Not alive, anyway. Because of you, I still have my grandson. May God show you the same mercy you’ve shown me, Mr. Magellan. May he bless you with a miracle of your own.”
Mary turned and nodded to Kevin, who took her arm and wordlessly led her back to the car. Trula and Robert watched in silence as the car made a circle around the drive and continued on toward the front gate. After it had disappeared from sight, Robert put his mug down on the counter and left the kitchen, seeking the solace of the den at the end of the hall.
He sat by the window and stared out at the garden Trula had designed over the winter and worked on all spring. She’d been out there every day since the end of March, directing the gardeners where to plant what, where to lay the path she had in mind. She hadn’t asked his permission, but neither had she required it. She wanted a garden, she planted one. His house was her house, pretty much. It was a promise he’d made to an old woman he’d loved deeply, one he’d never go back on, and never regretted.
Well, most of the time, anyway.
He heard her footsteps coming down the hall and braced himself for an interrogation, thinking wryly that this might be one of those times.
She knocked once—a quick knuckle rap—before opening the door and coming in. She balanced a tray, which she placed on the table in front of him.
“Can’t let the scones go to waste,” she told him. “Might as well have them with our morning tea.”
“Trula, you’re the only one who regularly has morning tea,” he reminded her.
“Well, everyone should. It’s civilized. Gives you a few minutes to sit back, take stock. It’s a more relaxing drink than coffee. Tea is a dreamer’s drink, I suppose.”
“What’s coffee?”
“A doer’s drink.” She leaned over to pour the tea. “These were your grandmother’s cups. She had a lovely collection. Picked them up wherever she went. Most are antiques, you know.”
“I know. And then there are all those mugs with those pithy sayings.”
“Mine, as you well know.” Trula laughed. “My favorite is that one with the
X-Files
saying on it.”
“About the truth being out there somewhere.”
“It certainly is.” Trula handed him one of the cups. “She’d have been proud of you, of what you did.”
“All I did was write a check.” He hesitated, then added, “And I haven’t even done that yet. All I did was agree to pay the bill.”
“But that’s the point, don’t you see?” She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Most people—everyday people—can’t afford to hire private detectives when something like this happens. Most people just have to sit and wait for the police to find their missing person—or not. How many of those people—the ones Mary spoke of, the ones in her support group—how many of them do you think can afford to hire people to track down their loved ones, especially those who have been gone for a long time? Most people simply do not have the resources.”
“I have the resources, Trula. Fat lot of good it did me. In real life, every story doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Sometimes money isn’t enough, of course it isn’t. But sometimes, it turns out to be the difference between finding and not finding. Between a happy ending, and none.”
“Maybe Mallory just got lucky.”
“Maybe. I certainly don’t discount luck.”
“Was there a point to this conversation?”
Trula smiled at his impatience. “Just that it was a good thing that you did. Your grandmother would have been pleased—proud—that you used your wealth in such a way.”
“I give money to a lot of charities,” he reminded her.
“Ah, but it isn’t the same as doing good for one person, face-to-face, is it?” She smiled in triumph.
He was still trying to think of a response when they heard Kevin calling his name in the hall.
“We’re in here, Father,” Trula called back. “Come join us. I’ll get you some tea.”
Kevin came into the room carrying a bottle of springwater.
“No need, Trula. I brought along my beverage of choice. I’ve been thinking I should drink more water. I hear it’s healthier.”
“Healthier than what?” Robert asked.
“Healthier than drinking other stuff all the time.”
“Sit and have a scone.” She rose and patted him on the shoulder. “I have some things to tend to.”
“Thanks. I think I will.” Kevin slid into the seat she vacated. He inspected the tray of scones. “Are those strawberry?” He picked one up and sniffed. “And pecans, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I think I’ll go see if there are any more of those late tulips blooming that I can cut for the breakfast room. I feel like a little color in there this morning.” Trula took her cup and drifted from the room.
“Mary’s right, you know,” Kevin said as he reached for a napkin. “Those kids would most likely be dead if not for you.”
“I’m getting a little tired of saying this, but all I did was agree to pay the bill.”
“That’s what it took, Rob. Someone who cared enough to pay the bill.”
“Mallory did a good job putting the pieces together. She and that new detective the city hired—I saw him on the news last night and again this morning. No mention of Mallory’s part in it, though.”
“Isn’t that the way you wanted it? No publicity?”
“I guess. Just seems a shame, she isn’t getting any credit.”
“She’ll get paid, that’s what she agreed to. And she has the satisfaction of knowing what she did mattered. I think that would be important to someone like her.” Kevin took a bite of scone. “Chief Drabyak was right about her, though. She has good instincts. Have you thought about hiring her to look for Beth and Ian?”
“What do you think she could do that no one else has done?”
Kevin shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s worth a try, though.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it before someone else decides to hire her. Mary was right about there being a lot of missing persons out there.” He finished the scone and took a long drink of water. “There are a lot of folks, still waiting for their miracles.”
Robert made a face.
“You could make it happen, you know,” Kevin said quietly.
“Make what happen?”
“The miracles.”
“I haven’t done much in the way of miracles for myself. Mallory just got lucky.” He repeated his earlier statement.
“Do you ever think about your purpose in life, Rob?”
“Not recently.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe you should shut up.”
“Show some respect for a man of the cloth, will you? Lightning could come down from the sky and strike you for that.”
“If lightning was going to strike me, it would have a long time ago. Maybe it already has.” Robert studied his cousin’s face. “I know this is all leading up to something. I’m just not sure what it is.”
“After I dropped Mary off at the hospital—Ryan is going to be fine, by the way—I started thinking about what she said.”
“I guess it’s too much to hope for that you’d keep it to yourself.”
Kevin smiled. “I was thinking about all the others, the people who don’t have the connections that Mary had. Who don’t have the resources that you have.”
“And…?” Robert gestured for Kevin to continue.
“And I was thinking that it shouldn’t come down to money. It all too often does, but it shouldn’t. Whether or not you get your miracle shouldn’t depend on whether or not you can afford it.”
“All the money in the world can’t guarantee a miracle, Kevin.”
“No, but sometimes, like I said, it can make the difference.” Kevin drained the water bottle and sat it on the table. “Your money could make a difference for some of those people, Rob. Just like it made a difference for Ryan and Courtney.”
“Are you asking me to keep a PI on call?” Robert mimicked a late-night TV pitch man. “Loved one missing? Call Rob’s Miracles to Go…”
Robert stood, his hands on his hips.
“Is that what you’re asking me to do? Start a missing persons bureau? Because last I heard, the FBI has one of those already.”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of a facilitator,” Kevin replied.
“A facilitator,” Robert repeated flatly. “And what might we be facilitating?”
“Hope. Mercy…”
Robert cut him off.
“Hope is an empty word, Kev, and mercy comes from God.”
“Think about it before you write it off. What else do you have to do with your money? Sit and watch it grow? Isn’t that a nice life.”
“I did have a nice life….”
“And now it’s gone, and you’re going to spend the rest of your life mourning your loss, just staring out that window, your heart growing smaller and smaller and you getting more and more lonely and depressed until you can’t take it anymore.” Kevin grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s been going through your mind, Rob. And don’t think I’m going to stand for it. I will do anything—say anything—to make you understand that there’s still a life worth living. That maybe God has other plans for you. I will not sit by and let you take your life.”
Robert looked away.
“Robert, do something that would make Beth proud.”
“I don’t think she’s coming back,” Robert whispered. “I don’t feel her anymore.”
“If she’s moved on from this world, do something worthy of her memory. Give her something to smile about when she looks back.”
Kevin tucked the empty water bottle under his arm and patted his cousin on the back.