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“Want me to fix dinner, or would you rather go to Seraphim?”
“Neither. How about we order pizza? Until it comes, you can sit in the wingback, and I can curl up in your lap. We can tell each other about our days.”
“Sounds perfect. Let me go get more comfortable.”
“No problem. I’ll just get everything saved and tidied up.”
Slade opted to grab a quick shower while Fiona ordered pizza. They had fallen into an easy pattern with one another—one that allowed them to work both independently and in tandem. She made him happier than he’d ever thought he would be.
He heard the pizza arrive just as he pulled on soft denim jeans and a t-shirt. He used to like to change into sweatpants the minute that he could, but now button-fly jeans were his favorite attire, not because they were more comfortable, but because he loved the way Fiona liked to unbutton them as she sank to her knees to give him a blowjob.
The soft smile that played on her lips as she took in his attire made him grin and his cock tighten. She was so fucking beautiful, and she was all his. They’d decided to turn the A-frame into a writer’s retreat and at some point, they might build a bigger, grander house, but at the moment the loft was their little love nest where they could plan their future. For now, Slade was just busy loving Fiona, and he didn’t want it any other way.
They were headed for Paris in a few weeks. The City of Light, and the home of so many artists and priceless paintings. The Louvre only hosted very small exhibitions of contemporary artists. But after all the brouhaha regarding the murders and Daniel’s series of paintings being the key to understanding what had happened, the museum had requested to host an exhibition of those four paintings as well as a smattering of others. One of the curators for the Louvre had flown to New York to choose and personally arrange for and escort them to Europe.
Earlier that day Slade had been shocked to find out that Daniel had left everything to him, including a beautiful penthouse in the West Village. He wanted to talk to Fiona about it first, but he wondered if they might turn it into a getaway for them and their friends. Slade thought Daniel might like to know that while he had painted a murder, he had also painted a happily ever after for Fiona and Slade, and perhaps that was the most priceless painting of all.
* * *
Bleak Ridge, Maine
What the hell am I doing here?
It should have been Jessica or Fiona—both were well-known mystery writers with a number of books to their names. Even Christie would have been better. Sure, she’d only written one book, but it had been a smashing success and was now being made into a limited series on Netflix.
Fear and doubt assailed her every thought as she walked along the harbor way, trying to bolster her self-confidence and believe the encouragement of her friends.
“Kick ass and take names,” had been Christie’s advice.
“Remember they asked you because they knew you had something to say that others needed to hear,” admonished Jessica.
“I get it; I do. But they’re right and you’re wrong. You are the perfect person to talk to this group. Your narrative and writing skills are second to none. You have a lot to offer them. Come on, Lori, you used to teach inner-city middle school kids. A bunch of civilized mystery writers can’t be nearly as scary.” There was truth to what Fiona said.
She believed that her friends were telling her the truth. The problem was thattheirtruth was not necessarilyhertruth, and here alone in the dark, walking along a harbor way complete with spooky piers, a marginally safe walkway, and rolling fog,her truthwas the only one that mattered.
Every teacher she knew had begun to ask themselves if answering their calling to teach was worth risking their lives. No longer did a teacher have to worry about a disgruntled parent or a kid with a pocketknife; now they had to worry about a student with a semiautomatic rifle and a grudge, a death wish, or a desire to be famous.
The death of her aunt and an incident at a nearby school had clarified her desire to explore another passion—writing. She and her aunt had talked extensively about the things her aunt regretted when her aunt was in hospice waiting for the liver and kidney disease to finally claim her. What stuck with Lori as she’d stood by the graveside was that her aunt’s deepest regret was that she had not followed her dream to become an author.
Her aunt Viola had had an offer from a major publisher in her hand when her mother had died and Viola had been called home to care for her younger siblings. Instead of pursuing her dream of becoming an author, she’d done the “right” thing, eventually marrying and abandoning her dreams.
The reading of her aunt’s will had been shocking as it left minimal bequests to her own children. Well—shocking to them, but Lori didn’t blame her Aunt Viola one bit. Lori didn’t much care for her cousins, and when her aunt had required hospice, her children stuck her in the cheapest nursing home they could find and left her there. Lori had found a beautiful facility in the country that had been created and maintained for people at the end of their lives. It was run mostly on bequests left to them. Lori had assumed Viola would do the same.
As her children had squawked and Lori had hidden her smile, the lawyer had raised his hand for silence.
“We need to finish this,” intoned the attorney, “but before I continue, all of you should know that the will is perfectly lawful, and Viola was in full command of her faculties. She left the rest, residue and remainder of her estate to her, and I quote here, ‘beloved niece, Lori Sykes, with the provision that she use it to fund a two-year sabbatical to establish a new career as a successful author.’”
It was hard to tell who was most shocked: Viola’s children, who erupted into threats and accusations, or Lori. She’d thought she was here to pick up a large check to take to the hospice. They’d talked about Lori giving birth to her dreams of becoming an author. They’d even talked about her taking a two-year sabbatical to do just that.
As her cousins stormed out of the attorney’s office, he held her back. “They have no legal grounds on which to challenge your aunt’s will. It’s the only reason they got anything at all. You know she had me liquidate her estate right after you moved her into Return to Eden Hospice in order to ensure she gave you as much money as possible and that there was nothing left for her children to squabble over. I know they’re your cousins…”
“We were never close,” Lori said quietly.
“I can understand why. Viola, who was as much a friend as a client, once referred to them as a ‘detestable lot’ and wondered how they turned out the way they did.”
“You never met my Uncle Raymond, did you?”
The attorney laughed. “I do recall the one time I had to interact with him.”
