In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [67]
“I’m tired,” Mamzelle Dorothea murmured. “Tomorrow is another day. Come back and see me then. . . .”
She was already sleeping when they crept out of the room, leaving her with the scent of gardenias and the tinkling fountain, and her dreams of a once-glorious past.
Camelia closed the heavy door soundlessly behind him. You learned the ropes quickly in a place like this, he thought.
As they strode down the steps to the car, Camelia stole a quick glance at Mel. She had not uttered a word during Mamzelle’s story, never interrupted, never shed a tear. But he could see the tension in the stiffness of her back, in her tightly curled fists, the stern line of her mouth.
He slid an arm around her shoulder. “You gonna cry, or what?”
She turned to look at him, then she shook her head. A weary smile curved her lips. “Poor Ed,” she whispered. “That poor boy. How did he ever survive?”
“He wouldn’t have. Not without Mamzelle Dorothea.”
“Thank God, and thank her,” Mel said softly. But, like Mamzelle’s, her heart ached for the boy who had become the man she loved.
38
Back in the rented convertible, Mel was driving while Camelia sat back with his eyes closed.
“Remember, I’m a cop,” he said, opening his eyes. “I could cite you for doing double the speed limit.”
Mel slammed her foot on the brake. Dropping back to a modest fifty, she flashed him that wide smile. “Sorry, Detective. Somehow I figured I was with a friend.”
Their eyes met. “You know you are.”
She nodded, looking quickly away, but she was smiling.
Camelia stared straight ahead through the windshield. It was the closest he could come to telling her he was in love with her. It was ridiculous, he knew. And they surely looked ridiculous, the odd couple—she so tall and blonde, he shorter and dark. The tough Sicilian cop and the daffy southern belle by way of California. He sighed. She was such a touchy-feely woman; she linked her arm with his when they walked down the street; held his hand at the dinner table as he talked to her; lay her head on his shoulder when she was tired and he was driving them home.
And he envied a dying man because she loved him.
“Thanks for the Tylenol Flu,” Mel said. “I’m feeling better.”
“Was it the pills, or Mamzelle Dorothea’s story that made you feel good?” She threw him a smile and he added, “Okay, okay. Do I say I’m sorry now? For suspecting that Ed might be Mitch?”
“You do. Unless you still want to see which way the cards will fall,” she quoted him, mischievously.
“So, I apologize. But let me remind you, we still do not have the full picture on Ed Vincent, a.k.a. Theo Rogan.”
“We do not. But as Mamzelle Dorothea said, tomorrow is another day.”
They were driving north now, through countryside, on a narrow road Mel knew only too well. Strange, she thought, how much shorter the drive seemed than on that long, fateful night, when the wind had tossed trees around like matchsticks and the ocean had flung its roaring power over the land.
She braked as they came to the bridge, letting the engine idle as she stared once again at the place where she had thought she would die. The bridge had been repaired now, and the sea glittered below it, a benign silvery blue. She felt Camelia’s hand on her shoulder, turned and met his eyes.
“It’s over now, Mel,” he said gently. “There’s no need to fear this place again.”
But inwardly she was still quaking. It wasn’t until she got to the other side and her breath came out in a great whoosh that she realized she had been holding it in. She drove on, up the rough lane, through the trees, to the beach house. She switched off the engine and put the car into park, and they sat there, silently contemplating Ed’s private retreat, basking in the mild sunshine.
“Kinda nice,” Camelia said finally. He got out and walked up the steps onto the porch. “Yeah, nice,” he said approvingly. He was mentally upgrading his image of Ed Vincent the bigshot– richman–developer. This place was low-key comfortable, more like a fishing cabin than a palace in the Hamptons,