Catherine Coulter: Hemlock Bay

Lily paused for a moment, then added, “I also called Tennyson. He’s very saddened by his parents’ death. It’s difficult for him to accept what they did, that they used him-used both of us-to gain their ends. He said he knows now that his parents were feeding me depressants all those months and that they had been the ones to arrange for my brakes to fail when I was driving to Ferndale.”

“But how did they know what you would be doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Tennyson said he called them from Chicago, just happened to mention that he’d asked me to drive to Ferndale, and when. I feel very bad for him, but I wonder how he could have been so blind to what his own parents were.”

“They fooled you as well,” Savich said. “At least enough. No one wants to see evil; no one wants to admit it exists.”

Lily said, “I’ve decided to fly to California for the memorial service. I’m going for Tennyson. He’s been hurt terribly. I feel that I must show him my support now, show everyone that I believe he was innocent of everything that happened. He knows I’m not coming back to him, as his wife, and he accepts it.” She sighed. “He said he was leaving Hemlock Bay, that he never wants to see the place again.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” Simon said.

Savich said, “Please tell Tennyson for us that we are very sorry about what happened.”

“I will.” Lily raised her head, listened, and smiled. “Sean’s awake from his nap.”

Both Savich and Sherlock were up the stairs, side by side, their hands clasped.

Simon smiled at Lily, sipped his coffee. Savich had made it, so it was excellent. He sighed with pleasure.

“So, Lily, as your new consultant, I think it’s very good for you to go back for his parents’ memorial service. It will put closure on things. It will be over. Then you will begin to move forward. Now, I’ve been thinking hard about this.”

“And what did you decide, Mr. Russo?”

“I think the first step is for you to move to New York. It’s never wise for a client to be any distance at all from her consultant.”

Lily walked across the living room, gently placed her teacup on an end table, and sat down on Simon’s lap. She took his face between her hands and kissed him.

Simon sighed, set down his own cup, and pulled her close. “That’s very nice, Lily.”

“Yes, it is. Actually it’s better than just nice.” She kissed his neck, then settled herself against him. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re the best, Simon. I can’t believe it’s all really over-that I’m even going to get all my paintings back. But you know what? I want to stay in Washington for a while. I want to settle down, let the past sort itself out, and when I’m ready for the future, I want it to be with a clean slate, no excess baggage dragging along with me. I want to launch No Wrinkles Remus again. I want to be my own boss for a while, Simon.”

She thought for a moment that he’d argue with her, but he didn’t. He rubbed his hands up and down her back and said, “Our time together hasn’t had many normal moments, like this. I think the consultant will need frequent visits, lots of contact, and both of us can think about things looking forward, not back.”

She kissed him again and pressed her forehead to his. “Deal,” she said.

Simon settled back and wrapped his arms around her, her cheek pressed against his neck. He said, “I forgot to tell you. An art dealer friend e-mailed me, said Abe Turkle is in Las Vegas gambling, and winning. He said Abe looked and acted like some big lumberjack; no one would believe for an instant he’s one of the top forgers in the world.”

“I wish I could remember what happened to that painting he gave me at his cottage.”

The doorbell rang.

Dillon and Sherlock were still upstairs playing with Sean. Lily pulled herself off Simon’s lap and went to answer the door. When she opened it, a FedEx man stood there, holding out an envelope. “For Dillon Savich,” he said. Lily signed the overnight receipt and brought the envelope back into the living room.

She called out to Dillon. Shortly, Savich, carrying Sean over his shoulder, Sherlock at his side, came downstairs.

Dillon patted his sister’s cheek. “What you got, babe?”

“An overnight envelope for you, Dillon.”

Savich handed Sean to Sherlock and took the envelope. He looked down at it, bemused, and said, “It’s from the Beach Hotel in Aruba.” He opened the envelope, pulled out a sheaf of color photos. Slowly, he looked at each of them.

“Come on, Dillon, what is it?”

He raised his head and said to Sherlock, “These are the photos that Tammy took in the Caribbean to show to Marilyn.” There was a white sheet of paper behind the last photo, just a few lines written on it. He read aloud.

“Mr. Savich, Tammy was right, the beaches here are very beautiful. I’m glad she didn’t kill you.” MARILYN WARLUSKI