James Patterson: 12th of Never

Joe put the camera on a five-second delay, set it on the TV console, and ran across the room to the big leather sofa, where he flung himself down and swept me and Julie into his arms.

We grinned, the two of us—nothing contrived about it. This was over-the-moon time. This was what extreme happiness felt like.

After the shutter clicked, Joe dashed back to the camera and set it again, returned to his girls, and this time, when Julie looked at the lens, she laughed.

“Did you see that?” I yelled at Joe, way too loudly. “Did you see her smile for the birdie?”

“What is this?” Joe said, pointing at her left cheek. “Is this a dimple? Who’s your daddy?” he said, showing dimples of his own.

We took more pictures, laughed like crazy people, and then put the baby to bed and hit the phones.

I called my sister and the other three members of the Women’s Murder Club. I called Conklin and then Brady and Jacobi, the two guys I called Boss. Last but not least, I called our dogsitter, Karen, and asked her to bring Julie’s big furry sister home in time for dinner.

Joe made serial calls to people from coast to coast, all of them named Molinari. And when we were ready to stop shouting and dancing, we went to bed.

We made tender love, quietly, so we didn’t wake the baby in the next room, and it was so sweet that if I had any tears left, I might have cried.

I slept hard and woke up laughing.

Joe mumbled, “Tell me the joke.”

“A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’”

Joe laughed. “You’re giddy,” he said.

“Yeah? A hamburger and a french fry walk into a bar. The bartender says—”

“We don’t serve food here.”

“Nuts.”

“You know I love you, Blondie.”

He went across the hall and returned with the baby. She didn’t cry, which was the most amazing thing, something I was going to love getting used to. She put her cheek on her father’s shoulder and he rubbed her back.

“I know you love me, Joe,” I said. “But do I hear a ‘but’?”

“No flies on you, honey. I got a job offer. The job is in DC.”

I wanted to explode. I shouted in a whisper, “No, you don’t. No, Joe, just flat-out no effin’ way.”

“For a lot of money. Enough to buy a pretty good house.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But.”

“But what? ” I asked him.

“I turned it down.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t even have to think about it. I couldn’t leave my sweeties, my party girls.”

Chapter 109

CINDY THOMAS HAD been obsessed by the Faye Farmer mystery since Farmer’s body disappeared from the morgue and she’d been assigned one of the best stories of her career.

Fact: Faye Farmer had been murdered.

Fact: Farmer’s fiancé, 49ers star Jeff Kennedy, was the only suspect and at the same time a dead end. There was no evidence against him.

Fact: Forensic evidence that might have nailed Farmer’s killer had disappeared with her body, probably forever.

Other facts: The police were nowhere on the case, but the public and the press still wanted to know the identity of the killer.

Cindy had used every waking moment to chase rumors, interview Faye Farmer’s friends and enemies, and in so doing had become the Chronicle ’s featured headliner in print and on the Web.

This opportunity was priceless, but in the dark and lonely night, Cindy was not at peace. She replayed her conversations with Richie over and over again, and when she stopped rationalizing, she knew that Richie was right and that she had blown it.

She had neglected him, had put her work first, and even now was using work to cover up the pain of losing the very excellent man she loved.

Cindy had expected him to call her, and when it was clear that he wasn’t going to do it, she’d called him.

And now here she was.

Richie was staying at the Marina Motel, a cluster of old, two-story, Mediterranean-style structures with red tile roofs and iron railings around the balconies. At 8:15 p.m., Cindy pulled into the motel’s parking lot, nosed her car into a spot between a pickup truck and a station wagon, and turned off the ignition.

She looked up at the second floor, picked out the room, saw Richie’s silhouette against the curtains. She got out of her car and walked up the outdoor steps, her heart hammering as she walked along the pathway to room 208 and knocked on the door.

Richie called out, “Hey,” came to the door, and opened it. He had a towel around his waist and his hair was wet. He was backlit by the yellow light coming from the bathroom.

He looked good.

He said, “Come in, come in.”

He pointed the remote control at the TV, switched off the sound.

“Hi, Rich,” she said.

She thought he might kiss her hello, but he said, “Have a seat. Give me a second, okay?”

Cindy looked around at the plain, clean furnishings and at Richie’s familiar clothes draped over the desk chair. He pulled his clothes off the chair, disappeared into the bathroom, and closed the door. That reminded Cindy of the many days, weeks, and months they’d lived together, dressed and undressed in front of each other, feeling neither modest nor inhibited.

Now all that had changed.

Cindy swept the remote off the table and boosted the volume, watched the rehash of the crash outside the ballpark, then muted the volume again when Richie came back into the room. He was dressed, barefoot.

He sat down on the end of the bed. She thought she saw tenderness in his face. She knew that he must miss her as much as she missed him. They’d had the real thing. And she knew that it wasn’t over.

He said, “You saw reports on this crash, huh? It was brutal.”

“I miss you, Richie.”

He looked at her, his eyes soft, and she thought he was going to say, “I miss you, too.”

But he got up, took some socks out of the dresser, brought them back to the bed, and sat down. He was still mad at her. That’s what it was.

“I started therapy, Richie. I thought I should get some help, you know? My therapist’s name is Mary. She’s very good. And I was wondering if you’d come and see her, too. With me.”

There was a pause; maybe it lasted only a couple of seconds, but it felt eternal.

Rich said, “Ah. I don’t think so, Cindy.”

Cindy felt sick. Cold and sick. “You don’t want to see if we could work this out?”

Richie stood up, reached out his hand and pulled her to her feet, took her into his arms and held her.

He said, “Cindy, it’s not that I didn’t love you.”

“Don’t say ‘didn’t.’ Don’t say that.”

“Cin, what’s wrong with us can’t be fixed in therapy. I don’t want to force you to sacrifice what you want. And I don’t want to give up my dreams for a family.

“I’m sorry,” he said as she shoved him away, turned from him, and started to cry. “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

Chapter 110

WE WERE AT Susie’s Café in the back room, the booth by the window. It was happy hour on a Friday night and “our place” was packed tight to the walls. Conversation was almost impossible, but Cindy, Claire, Yuki, and I really needed to connect with one another, and so we shouted over the noise and gestured wildly with our hands.

An old dude at the bar had sent over a pitcher of tap, so I guess we looked good enough to go out in public, but Cindy was devastated, Claire was depressed, I still smelled like a fire pit, and I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

Yuki, however, looked as though she’d been granted three wishes: world peace, eternal youth, and everlasting love. The girl was happy. And she does love her fruity margaritas.