Midnight Valentine(45)

“There you are!”

In the doorway appears one of Theo’s workers, a redheaded guy with a tool belt strapped around his waist. He’s smiling, eager, unaware of what he’s walked in on.

I don’t know exactly what he walked in on either.

Theo drops my wrist as if he’s been scalded, turns, and strides out of the kitchen. The worker watches him go like it’s totally normal behavior for Theo to leave with no warning, then turns to me with a shake of his head.

“Hi, there. I’m Toby. I’m part of Theo’s crew.”

A little breathless, I lean against the island for support. I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “Hi, Toby. I’m Megan. Nice to meet you.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “There are some doughnuts out here if you want. Theo stopped on the way over and got ’em.”

Before the words are completely out of his mouth, Theo returns, holding something wrapped in a white paper napkin. He walks to me and holds it out, giving it a little jiggle when I don’t react quickly enough.

As soon as I remove it from his hands, he turns around and leaves again, pulling Toby along with him by the sleeve of his shirt.

“See ya later!” calls Toby over his shoulder as Theo drags him away.

Still a little shaky, I unwrap the little package Theo’s given me. When I see what it is, my heart stops dead in my chest.

It’s not technically a doughnut. It’s a pastry. A bear claw, to be specific.

Cass’s favorite breakfast food, which he ate at least a few times a week, including the day he died.





13





I’m standing on the back patio, staring blankly at the sea with the uneaten bear claw in my hand, when a voice calling my name pierces the thick snarl of my thoughts. I turn to see Suzanne hurrying toward me from inside the house. She’s wearing a hot-pink sweat suit and flip-flops. With no makeup on and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looks ten years younger.

She also looks completely freaked out.

She bursts through the open French doors and engulfs me in a hug. “I just heard about the fire! Thank God you’re okay!”

“Word travels fast,” I mutter, wondering if everyone in town has a special gossip line on their phone that rings when there’s juicy news.

She pulls away, holds me at arm’s length, and looks me up and down, as if searching for damage. When she doesn’t find any, she pulls me into another hug, this one tighter.

“Suzanne, I’m fine,” I say after a moment, touched but also irritated by her concern. I’ve never been one who enjoys people making a fuss over me.

When she pulls away this time, she’s on the verge of tears.

“I should’ve made you stay in a rental until this place was fixed up.” She draws a hitching breath. “Jesus, Megan, if anything had happened to you, it would’ve been my fault.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say firmly. “Accidents happen all the time. These kinds of things are nobody’s fault.”

She looks up at the house with her brows pulled together, as if she’s afraid of it. “I don’t know, sweetie, my mother always says an accident is just fate’s way of making sure you know you’re not the one in control.”

I blow air through my lips, a derogatory sound that coordinates well with my eye roll. “There’s no such thing as fate, Suzanne, or destiny, or an old man in white robes in the sky who watches over us and expects us to spend an hour each week sitting on hard wooden benches in a building with ugly stained glass windows praying to a statue of a dude nailed to a cross. We’re alone in the universe. Everything that happens is simply chance.”

I have to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that’s asking about the bear claw in my hand. And the computer renderings of the Buttercup. And the lightning strike. And a man who just happened to be out for a midnight stroll on the beach in front of my house the moment I needed his help.

And half a dozen other things scratching restlessly at my subconscious.

Suzanne says flatly, “That was depressing. Remind me not to invite you over for Christmas dinner. You’ll give the baby Jesus a migraine.”

“Sorry. Is it too early in the morning for nihilism?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No time of day is good for negativity, hon.”

“It’s not negativity. It’s…practicality. It’s realism.”

“It’s bullshit is what it is,” pronounces Suzanne with finality, giving me a small shake. “Don’t let life rob you of hope just because it’s kicked you in the balls a few times.” She pauses. “Metaphorically speaking, of course. I wasn’t insinuating I think you have testicles.”