Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (35 page)

I went home that afternoon, and Mr. Twinkles greeted me warmly on the back porch. Emma promised to put him in the paddock after she tucked me into bed. I found I could see him from my bedroom window. As soon as her back was turned, I watched her wild horse jump the fence as easily as a swallow flitting through the sky. He headed straight for my porch, and as I lay in bed I heard him knocking at my kitchen door.

Libby telephoned. “I'll come over later,” she sang. “I'll bring you all my potato soup and chocolate cake to build up your strength. I've given up on diets, and so should you.”

“Thanks, Lib. What's this I hear about a fireman?”

She laughed gloriously. “His name is Sam! Isn't that delicious? And he's very strong. I'll bet he can carry me up a flight of stairs and still have energy to burn!”

On Monday, Lexie came to the farm. She and Emma packed a bag for me, and she drove me to the private airstrip of a family friend. I don't know why I let them bully me into going. Chaz Cooper claimed he had to fly to the Caribbean on business, but when we were in the air in his small jet, I wondered if he was making the trip just for me. The steward brought me lunch, which I devoured over the blue Atlantic, and then I sat back in the leather armchair and napped.

On the ground again, I kissed Chaz good-bye in the blazing Caribbean sun, and then I took a noisy cab alone from the airport to the docks where Lexie had told me her mother's yacht would wait for me.

The driver let me off at a block of storefronts—some souvenir and T-shirt shops, two bars, a bait-and-tackle establishment. There was a small grocery store, too, the kind that catered to people who lived on boats. The shops faced a small harbor crowded with perhaps two dozen vessels. The water was such a clear azure blue that I could see the sandy bottom from shore.

Anchored in the deeper water was a long, sleek, astoundingly expensive yacht with a gleaming white hull and cheerful yellow awnings over the salon deck. I'd spent some wonderful vacations on it with Lexie. She was an old-fashioned yacht—a little outdated now, but built in a day when boat builders knew what elegance and luxury were all about. Lexie's mother had bought the yacht from a Moroccan prince who had lavishly entertained movie stars aboard as he sailed from Monte Carlo to the Greek islands and back. A week aboard her meant seven idyllic days of comfortable cushions, sumptuous meals and plenty of solitude.

I could signal her crew from the harbormaster's booth, but I wasn't ready to do that. Not yet.

In front of the tackle shop, I sat down on a shaded wooden bench where I could watch the boats and decide. I put my suitcase on the ground and let the warmth of the bench radiate into the muscles of my back. Smaller boats bobbed along the quay, and the sun sparkled silver on the water around the yacht and beyond. I could hear tinny music from the radio of a wiry man in faded shorts who was painting a railing nearby. Two seagulls swooped around him, hoping for a handout.

A stocky boy on a Jet Ski revved his engine and zoomed out from the beach toward the open water.

I watched him go and looked out at the ocean, wondering if I'd been foolish to run away. That's what it felt like—as if I were trying to abandon my responsibilities, my family, my losses, and pretend they didn't exist.

But they did, and the dull pain in my heart didn't feel as if it was going to melt in the Caribbean sun. I should have stayed at home and fought, I realized. I should have figured out what I wanted, made a plan. Found a way to make myself happy.

In the tackle shop behind me, I could hear voices and the ringing of a cash register. An elderly couple in bathing suits and flip-flops climbed up a ladder from their small boat and strolled past me, holding hands and heading for a bar a few doors down. The woman laughed at something the man said and bumped her head fondly against his shoulder. Watching them, I was glad I could hide behind my dark sunglasses.

A man came out of the tackle shop and stopped still in the shade. He wore jeans and carried a duffel over one shoulder and in his other hand a bag of something that smelled like bait. I turned my face away to compose my expression and hoped he would walk away.

But he didn't, and I glanced up at last.

It was Michael, gazing at me with the same dumbfounded stare that must have been on my face, too.

“Lexie,” we said together.

He hesitated, then put his duffel on the ground next to mine and sat down on the bench beside me. He said, “She sent you down here to sail around on her mother's boat?”

I took off my sunglasses. “Yes. You, too?”

“Yeah.”

We sat, unable to speak or look at each other. I wondered if he could hear my heart beating in the silence that stretched between us. I wasn't ready. I hadn't decided how I should feel. And he couldn't say anything, either. So we sat.

“I'll go home,” I said at last. “You take the yacht by yourself.”

“No, no, you could use a vacation.”

“You'll enjoy the fishing,” I said.

“No, it's yours.”

“Really, I was just sitting here thinking I'd rather be at home.”

Another silence. Longer than before.

As if we were strangers making polite conversation, he said, “Isn't it snowing up there again?”

“Yes,” I said, and took an unsteady breath.

We were talking about the weather.

The bruise on his cheek was almost gone now, but there was something new carved into his face. Something that made my chest ache.

He continued to look out at the blue, blue water, yet slipped one hand around the back of my neck. His touch felt warm, but sent a shiver of anticipation along my nerve endings. He traced his thumb along my hairline, and I felt every atom of my skin come alive.

I closed my eyes and said without thinking, “I've missed you.”

Another minute ticked by before he said, “Watch this.”

I opened my eyes. The boy on the Jet Ski was back. He cut a rooster tail in the water and skidded up onto the sand before killing the engine. It took him a clumsy minute to dismount and untie a box from the back of the Jet Ski, but then he headed up the sand, barefoot and wearing shorts and an oversized T-shirt with a necklace made of shells. The box, I thought, looked like a lobster trap.

It was Carmine Pescara with a sunburn. He carried the box into the bar and disappeared.

Michael said, “He's going to run his own restaurant. With a Jet Ski rental on the side.”

“Here?”

Michael shrugged. “Why not? It could be a good life for him.”

“The restaurant didn't cost him eight hundred thousand dollars, did it?”

With a truly happy grin, Michael said, “If it did, he got ripped off.”

I slid closer to him on the bench. He had managed to spirit Little Carmine out of a bad life and into a good one. Maybe a perfect one. At the sacrifice of his own happiness, perhaps, but Carmine Pescara was definitely going to live happily ever after.

“Sometimes I get things right.” Michael put his arm around my shoulders and stretched his legs into the sunshine. “I watched that cruise ship come in and thought maybe a trip would be nice. But now I just feel like going home.”

I knew how he felt. Relieved. Almost content. I said, “That's not a cruise ship, Michael.”

“What?”

“That's Lexie's mother's yacht.”

He stared across the water. “That big boat?”

“It's got three decks, see?” I aligned my thigh with his and pointed out the details of the luxury yacht. “The middle deck is completely private from the crew. There are chairs for deep-sea fishing and wonderful spots for sleeping in the sun. A very nice library and gold fixtures in the bathrooms. There's even a little theater with its own popcorn maker, although I don't think I'll ever eat popcorn again.”

He took my hand.

I said, “The chef is from France, and he keeps an enormous wine cabinet on board. The owner's cabin was designed by a prince. It has mirrors on the ceiling over the bed.”

“Oh yeah?”

I said, “Richard is moving back to New York.”

Michael turned to me. “I do love you.”

“I know.” I touched his face and kissed him in the sunshine. “I love you back. And even though we're all wrong for each other, maybe we could take some time to work things out.”

He began to smile against my mouth. “Like a week, you mean?”

“We could try to get to understand each other better.”

Michael smiled. “For starters,” he said, “what's your view on topless sunbathing?”

The fun with Nora, Libby, and Emma continues. . . .

 
Read on for never-before-seen classified information about the Blackbirds, a secret recipe revealed, and an excerpt from the next Blackbird Sisters Mystery

available in hardcover in March 2007 and in paperback in March 2008

 
LARRY: You told me to monitor cell phone calls from Tower Apple-Delta 489. Just so you know, this is the kind of stuff I'm getting. Should I call the local police? Or maybe the nearest asylum? Transcript attached.

 
Tuesday afternoon, 2:12 pm, Pink Shambles Day Spa. Present: Three sisters later identified as Libby Kintswell, Emma Blackbird and Nora Blackbird.

 
LIBBY: Sorry I'm late, everyone!

 
EMMA: You said two o'clock. I was here at two o'clock, dammit. If you want me to show up for a stupid day of prettifying at your stupid beauty parlor, you should be on time yourself. Now we're stuck waiting for another half hour.

 
NORA: Take it easy. We'll sit down and have a nice cup of tea to relax before our manicures. Libby is very generous to share such a nice treat with us. So put a sock in it, Em.

 
EMMA: I'm not getting a (
unintelligible
) manicure. You said I could have a massage with that Scandinavian guy.

 
LIBBY: My delay was unavoidable! I needed to drop the twins off at their therapy session—

EMMA: Talk about lost causes.

 
LIBBY:—and Lucy had a play date with that darling little Pritchard girl. You know, the one whose father owns that sports team?

 
EMMA: Is his home-owner's insurance premium paid?

 
LIBBY: So I'm a teensy bit late, but no harm, no foul, right? Hahahaha!

 
NORA: Let me take your coat, Libby. What's wrong with your cell phone?

 
LIBBY: I don't know. It was working a minute ago. I can't read the buttons properly. Why are phones getting so tiny these days? I can't see anything!

 
EMMA: Ow! For crying out loud, did you just take my picture with that thing? Wear your glasses once in a while. Quit banging on it. Just push the red button to shut the thing off.

 
LIBBY: I don't need glasses. And I did push the silly red button! It's just not responding or something. Besides, I need to leave it on. I'm expecting a call.

 
NORA: I know that tone of voice. Who are you dating now?

 
LIBBY: I'm not dating anyone. Thanks to Emma terrifying that very sweet gentleman who came to my door asking me to contribute to his environmental cause, I have absolutely no men on my horizon.

 
EMMA: The only environment he wanted to protect was the inside of his wallet. Every scam artist east of the Mississippi must have your address, Libby. Especially the ones who can pass for eligible bachelors.

 
NORA: Does anyone have some aspirin?

LIBBY: Have a magazine. It'll soothe you. I'm not looking for a man to fulfill my life. I have more important issues on my mind at the moment.

 
NORA: Issues?

 
EMMA: Oh, no. I should have known you had another reason for bringing us here today. I can kiss my massage good-bye, right?

 
LIBBY: Why are you always so suspicious of my motives?

 
EMMA: What crackpot scheme are you cooking up now?

 
LIBBY: I am not a crackpot! I simply have a great sensitivity to the needs of my fellow man, that's all. And when some deserving person asks me for a favor, who am I to refuse? It's a very worthy endeavor.

 
NORA: Is this going to cost me money? Because you know I'm broke.

 
LIBBY: Not a single cent! That's the beauty of it! Nora, it's that charming Mr. Meadowpond from the Historical Society. He contacted me yesterday, and I promised him that I'd broach the subject with you—

 
EMMA: Meadowpond. Is he the guy with the bow ties?

 
NORA: I don't take his calls anymore. Thank heaven for caller ID.

 
LIBBY: He'd like to interview all of us about growing up at Blackbird Farm. He wants to do a whole feature in the next issue of the magazine! With photos! Naturally, I told him we'd need to take a family vote because—well, I'm sure you'll both agree it's our civic duty to help the Historical Society, but—

 
NORA: What kind of interview?

 
EMMA: What kind of pictures?

NORA: Edgar Meadowpond is the one who's so interested in the garden at Blackbird Farm. He wants to know where all the plants came from—especially the rare and exotic ones that appeared during Nathaniel Blackbird's era. Libby, we can't tell him any of that story. We'd have half the families in Philadelphia coming out to the farm to dig up what they claim is their property. Not to mention the Royal Rose Society!

 
LIBBY: Surely there's a statute of limitations on stealing flowers and trees.