Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(37)

“I told them no red,” she noted, her black eyes dangerously displeased behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “See how the red clashes with the pink and purple? Do you see that, Garvey?”

Garvey nodded, more interested in the gate mounted to huge pillars alongside the long, winding driveway. The massive iron gate had been made in France, fancy grillwork etched with the word “GREYMEADOW.”

Garvey always wondered what it would be like to shed all decorum, jump on that gate, and swing on it. He spent his entire childhood speculating about it, and never did find out.

When his grandmother—in pearls and silk stockings—dropped down on her hands and knees beside the flowerbed, however, he forgot all about the gate. He watched in fascination as she clawed at the soil with her manicured, diamond-bedecked fingers. She tore out one red petunia plant after another, ripping them into shreds and tossing them aside—she even tore a dangling earthworm in half and tossed it aside.

“There,” she said, when the plants had been decimated, their remains in an untidy heap.

“Why didn’t you just ask the gardeners to fix it?”

“Because sometimes, the only way to get something done right is to do it yourself.” She brushed her hands against each other, and crumbles of soil fell away. Her fingers were stained red from the blossoms. “You do what has to be done, and then you wash your hands and you move on. Don’t you ever forget that, Garvey.”

He never did. He frequently reminds himself that Grandmother Quinn wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty when necessary—and that he shouldn’t be, either.

And he never has.

But garden soil is one thing.

Human blood is quite another.

Shaking his head, Garvey heads out the door.





CHAPTER EIGHT




I can’t take your call right now, but if you’ll leave your name and—”

“Where do you think Daddy is?” Lucy asks yet again, as Lauren hangs up on Nick’s voice mail yet again without leaving a message.

She’s already left three on his cell and a couple more on his home phone. Ryan texted and e-mailed him as well, about an hour ago—when Nick was almost an hour late.

Now it’s been two hours with no word, and Lauren is growing concerned, though she’s not letting on to the kids.

In response to Lucy’s question, she simply shrugs and says, “I’m sure he’s on his way.”

But she isn’t sure at all.

She hasn’t heard from Nick since yesterday’s unfortunate pocket-dial call—which, of course, she didn’t share with the kids.

When he failed to return Ryan’s call last night, she privately thought it was possible that Nick might have since realized what had happened earlier. Maybe he’d been so embarrassed that Lauren had overheard his intimate moments with his girlfriend that he didn’t want to call back and risk an uncomfortable confrontation.

Not that Lauren would ever bring it up. Ever. She’s done her best to forget it, in fact.

Anyway, Nick could have just dialed Ryan’s cell to talk to him directly. She’s surprised he didn’t.

With a pang, Lauren looks at her three children, sitting around the kitchen table dressed for brunch with their father. Ryan has on a polo instead of a T-shirt; Lucy’s wearing a too-skimpy—in Lauren’s opinion—skirt and top, and Sadie’s in a pink ruffled sundress with a dozen strands of beads around her neck.

They’re such great kids. How can Nick bear to be away from them? How can he ignore them?

Maybe he isn’t. Maybe something’s wrong.

“I’m worried about Daddy.” Lucy echoes her thoughts. “What if—”

“You know, I should have talked to him myself when he called Friday night and made these plans with you guys.” Lauren shakes her head. “I bet he meant next Sunday. He’s probably still on vacation.”

Ryan’s head snaps up. “You said he called yesterday to say he was home.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that.” She shouldn’t have lied. But she was trying to protect Ryan—and, perhaps, to protect Nick as well. Big mistake.

“Anyway, Mom, he definitely meant this Sunday,” Lucy insists.

“Maybe you misunderstood.”

“No. I make plans with people all the time. Trust me, I didn’t screw it up.”

“Well, Dad did.” Ryan, who has been mostly silent, scowls. “He totally blew us off.”

“Maybe he’s on his way and he’s stuck in traffic or ran out of gas or something,” Lauren suggests.

“He would have called.” Lucy clutches the Robert Ludlum book she started reading last night. She was planning to show it to her father.

“Maybe he forgot his cell phone,” Lauren tells her, “or the battery’s dead.”

“Why are you making excuses for him, Mom?”

I’m not. I’m protecting the three of you from disappointment.

“Do you want more Goldfish crackers, Sadie?” she asks, picking up the bag.

Her youngest nods and slides her plastic bowl toward Lauren, who refills it for the third time. Poor little thing has been starved.

So is Lauren. She looks at the stove clock. Right about now, she should be sipping a Bloody Mary in an upscale Manhattan bistro. When she called Alyssa earlier to say she’d be late, her sister moved the reservation ahead an hour. “I’m just glad you’re not calling to cancel,” she told Lauren. “I had a feeling you might.”