Now I had to make sure.

"It's been a long week," I said. "Really long. You see, I have this talent for finding lost objects. Sometimes it comes in handy, and sometimes it's a pain. There are all kinds of rules. For example, my father lost some valuable artwork this week. Priceless, really. But I couldn't help him find it, because it didn't really belong to him. That's a long story in itself. Have you ever lost anything?"

He nodded, watching me warily.

"Then you can understand," I said brightly, taking his cold hand in mine. I felt the wave of dizziness as my vision took me from Boston Common, to Roxbury, to a well-maintained street, to a gray house with black trim and lacy white curtains in the upstairs windows, inside to a basement with a hidden trapdoor that led to a secret warehouse packed with Bubble-Wrapped canvases.

I pulled my hand back, focused through the dizziness. "It's harder for me to find people. Part of the rules. Plus, it doesn't help when the people don't want to be found. They dress up in a costume, or use an assumed name at a hotel, or pretend to be a rhyming gimpy homeless man."

"Lucy!" Preston ran up the path. "There you are. Sean said the Lone Ranger was here. Did you see him? Was it Mac? Is he still around? Does he know what happened with Rick yesterday?"

"Preston, breathe!"

She sucked in a lungful of air but didn't take her eyes off the crowd.

"He's not out there," I said.

"How do you know? Did you search the whole crowd?"

"Preston, have a seat. I want you to meet someone, a friend of mine."

Her gaze flashed between me and the man on the bench. She held up her hands. "Whoa, I don't have any extra cash, so don't think I'm giving any away. I work hard, you know."

"Sit, Preston. Please."

"You know, Lucy, you should have called me about what happened with Rick Hayes. I missed a huge scoop. The protests were just about over by then. My boss is hopping mad and my front-page story went to the sportswriter."

"I might have a bigger scoop for you."

Interested, she motioned for me to scoot over. I made room for her.

"Like what?" she asked.

The man looked helplessly at us.

"First, introductions," I said.

Preston sighed. She stuck out her hand. "Preston Bailey."

The man looked at me, then held out his hand. "Mac Gladstone."

In the distance I saw a coppery-colored blob chasing pigeons while someone tugged helplessly on his leash. Rufus was taking Christa Hayes for a walk. And he was, in fact, having a blast.

Preston fell off the bench.

I looked down at her. "Mac and I were just discussing that it was time to go home. Right, Mac?"

"Yes, it's time. This was my last hurrah."

Suz walked over and looked at Preston on the ground as if it were a common occurrence. "Only sixty dollars. How am I going to save a down payment on a house with sixty dollars?"

Mac stood up and handed her his trash bag. "This might help."

"Uh," she threw me a help-me look, "thanks?"

Preston was still stunned. The rapid-fire questions would come as soon as the shock wore off.

"You might want to open it," I said to Suz.

Holding it at arm's length, she said, "I think I'll pass."

"I'll open it!" Preston lunged.

"What's going on?" Suz held it out of Preston's reach. "What's in here that's so exciting?" She untied the plastic strings and looked inside. The color drained from her face. "Oh. My. God."

"There should be about five thousand in there, give or take a bit," Mac said. "The last of my stash. Is that enough for a down payment?"

Suz stumbled over her words. "What? I mean who? Why?"

"Because you cared enough about a homeless man to give him money."

Suz winced. "I can't keep this. I only gave you that money because Lucy made me feel guilty." Reluctantly she held the bag out.

He pushed it back toward her. "But you still gave it. And any friend of Lucy's is a friend of mine."

"I'm a friend of Lucy's," Preston chirped.

Mac laughed, then sobered. "Yeah, but you stole my hat. She," he motioned to Suz, "didn't steal my hat." Mac took a small silver whistle from his pocket and blew into it.

Rufus suddenly stopped chasing pigeons and headed our way. Christa chased him. He barked happily as he reached us. His tail wagged as he sniffed and licked in greeting. Christa hung back until Mac motioned her near. He put his arms around her shoulder. "We're going home, kid."

Mac, Christa, and Rufus walked ahead of us. They were going to gather Mac's things from his new hotel room and head back to see Jemima.

I was impressed Preston didn't ask if she could join them because I had a feeling Jemima wouldn't have welcomed the media. There was time enough for questions, for answers, for figuring out the whys and hows.

Suz walked next to me, hugging her trash bag. Preston glanced over at her and pouted. I put my arm around her. "Look on the bright side."

"What? The scoop?" She smiled halfheartedly. "I guess it is a good scoop. It's not a five-thousand-dollar scoop, though."

"Not that scoop. I have another one. A huge one. The biggest of your career, Preston. National-no, international headlines."

Her steps faltered. Her lip quivered. "What is it?"

I motioned to a bench, and we sat. I looked her straight in the eye. "There's a condition."

Her jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

I wasn't. At all.

"What kind of condition?"

"I want you to stop looking into my family's past. Stop trying to figure us out. Let it be."

"But-"

I cut her off. "And I want a promise that if you ever do learn anything about us you won't write about it. That you'll keep our secrets-all of them-safely tucked into your heart, just as my family as tucked you into theirs."

Tears swam in her bright blue eyes. "That, Lucy Valentine, is better than any old scoop."

I smiled. "So you don't want to know what it is?"

"Are you kidding?" She bounced with excitement. "Spill! And while we're at it, can I get a company credit card, too?"

"Now you're pushing it."

We linked arms as we walked back to the office. If I planned everything just right, Tristan Rourke could get a fresh start, Mac's paintings would be recovered, my father would get a little life lesson, and Preston Bailey, roving reporter, would get the scoop of a lifetime and I could stop worrying about her so much.

All I had to do was see a woman about some laundry....

33.

Later that afternoon, Maureen Rourke opened the door with a smile on her face. It didn't fade when she recognized me. "Lucy Valentine. Yours be a name I'm hearing a lot these days. We owe you a debt of gratitude, we do."

"Not at all." I glanced at the street. The black Ford with tinted windows sat idling a few houses down. "Come for a walk with me?"

She looked between me and the car and said, "Let me get my coat."

We headed in the opposite direction of the car. The curtain in an upstairs window of the house next door to Maureen's fluttered. It was a three-story house, gray with black trim. The basement had a secret trapdoor leading to an underground hideaway.

"Has Tristan been living next door to you all this time?" I asked.

She didn't bother denying it. "There's a secret tunnel that runs between the houses."

I stopped, looked at her. "I think we both know the FBI won't leave him alone until he's proven innocent of those art thefts. And we both know he's guilty."

Her eyebrows shot up.

"But here's the thing," I said. "If all that artwork in Tristan's basement is found, oh, say, in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town ... Tristan might just have a chance at a normal life. The life he's always wanted."

"I'm listening," she said.

So I told her my plan.

A week later, a rubber chicken flew through the air. Rufus chased it, Thoreau nipping at his tail.

Dinner was cooking and there were a lot of people gathered to celebrate my parents being back together. I admit to some doubts they'd still be together come tonight, but they proved me wrong. And then they surprised me by accepting Jemima Hayes's request to hold the shindig at Mac's house.

The front windows were still boarded up, but the rear of the house-where the party was being held-was as beautiful as ever.

I watched Christa's face as she sat on the couch between Dovie and Mac and flipped through the album Dovie had put together for her. Inside were dozens of old photos of Betty Gladstone that Dovie had rounded up from her collection of pictures and from friends as well. There seemed to be a story with every photo. Pipe tobacco scented the air as Mac puffed away. No one dared tell a dying man that smoking was bad for him.

Across the room, Rufus dropped a drool-covered chicken in Sean's lap for him to throw again. He obliged.

I stood off to the side and watched as Maggie, Mum, Jemima, and Suz (Teddy was working) shared the kitchen, laughing and chatting as they put dinner together. My father and Raphael sat on the stainless-steel Fritos, heckling.

Cutter looked at me from his spot on the hearth. I raised my glass to him in a silent toast. He had Preston on one side and Marisol on the other. Cutter smiled. He loved every second of the attention-maybe he wasn't so different from Dad after all.

I jumped when Raphael appeared by my side. "Sorry, Uva, didn't mean to startle you."

"I was lost in thought."

"Good thoughts or bad?"

I sipped my wine, glanced at Cutter. "Good."

Raphael followed my gaze. "Ah. It's good to have him here. Did you warn him about Preston?"

"I did, but I don't think we need to worry about her trying to dig up our secrets anymore."

"She's making quite a name for herself."

"Yes." Two of her stories-one on Mac's disappearing act and stint as the Lone Ranger and one about a raid on a Nashua, New Hampshire, warehouse where millions of dollars of priceless art pieces were recovered-had been picked up by the Associated Press. And she was currently working with Tristan and Meaghan on an article about the launch of their Clean Start Foundation, whose mission was, among other things, to revitalize impoverished neighborhoods and mentor foster children. I'd just received an invitation to their wedding, which was three weeks away. They weren't wasting any time.

"Has Dad forgiven me yet?" I asked.

His Vermeer and Gandolfi had been in that warehouse and were now back with their rightful owners. It had taken me quite a while to convince him it was the right thing to do. He still wasn't totally buying it.

"No."

"He will."

"Undoubtedly."

When Mac's paintings had been recovered, Mac had bought them back from the Mayhew, and both were now hanging above the fireplace. Jemima carried a platter of appetizers into the living room. She patted Christa's head as she passed and gave her father a kiss on his cheek. Rick was due back in court next week. Jemima had been right about his star rising in the wake of the shooting. I couldn't turn on the television without hearing his name.

Mac had admitted he left in a last-ditch effort to show Jemima what was truly important in life and that it wasn't too late to turn things around. By the glow on Jemima's cheeks, she had taken the lesson to heart. Mac had, too. He started chemotherapy in two days.

"Any news on those librarians?" Raphael asked.