“Did you read in Florida Today about Edward’s sentencing?” Liz asked.
“Yes. Your father told me. I think he should have gotten longer, but there was no proof he had anything to do with killing Regina. And dead men—as in, David Worth—tell no tales.” Ryan looked over at her with a searching gaze.
“Eyes on the road, buddy.”
He cleared his throat, then said, “Speaking of newspapers, have you seen today’s Daily Post?”
“No. I’m allergic to that rag.”
“Well, you might not be anymore, if you check page six. There’s a copy on the back seat.”
Liz reached behind her, then opened the paper to the headline, “Author’s After-Rehab Apologetic Recant.” Instead of vilifying Liz, Travis Osterman had told the true story of what had happened the night Liz got the scar. Staring back at her in black and white was everything she’d ever wanted in a confession—so why didn’t she feel satisfied? When she reached the last line, it became clear: “Travis Osterman’s new novel, Glass and Blood, will be out in August. The novel is a work of fiction, but insiders say it is not far from the truth about the Pulitzer Prize–winning Osterman and author Elizabeth Holt’s days of wine and roses—and the night that culminated in violence and broken dreams.”
Liz folded the newspaper and threw it back into the back seat.
Ryan took her hand. “I desperately owe you an apology for the way I treated you when we first met. But I want you to know that once I got to know you, I knew that what was being said about you wasn’t true. The McAvoy Brothers was both my and most of the guys on at the FDNY’s favorite male-bonding novel. I guess I was sticking to bro-code by believing every word that ‘Pulitzer Prize–winning’ Travis Osterman said about you was true.” He squeezed her hand. “I promise to atone for myself. I’ll do the dishes the next time we have a cook-off.”
“The next three times, mister!”
“Deal.”
They left the rest unsaid. Liz could understand the resonance readers felt with their authors. If Liz’s favorite author had become embroiled in such a scandal, she would probably stick her head in the sand, too. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Nothing would surprise her after what she’d gone through. She touched her cheek and felt a new sense of comfort as she traced the scar. She also realized that, if that night hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t be here now with her father, Aunt Amelia, Betty, Pierre, and Kate. Or Ryan.
Chapter 38
“We did it,” Liz said, clinking her champagne glass against her father’s and Ryan’s.
“A job well done, team,” Fenton said. “I had a hunch you two would work well together.”
Liz took a sip of champagne. It was her first drink of alcohol since the night of the scar. When Liz had told her therapist that she’d sworn off drinking, her therapist had wisely said, “You weren’t the one with the addiction to drugs and alcohol, Mr. Osterman was. It’s okay not to drink for a while, if it makes you feel better. Just remember, the only time to drink is when you’re feeling good with where you are in this world. Never drink when you’re sad or depressed, because it will only lead to more of the same.” Wise therapist, Liz thought.
Music filtered out from the speakers tucked under the eaves of the beach house. Kate and Pierre were nearby playing chess. Kate rarely let Pierre win, but Liz loved that it was Kate’s idea to have a daily chess game with Pierre to keep his mind sharp. Every weekday after lunch, Pierre would walk to the emporium for a game with Kate at one of Deli-casies by the Sea’s bistro tables. Liz had watched them yesterday when she’d brought over her conch ceviche for Ryan to try. He’d grudgingly admitted it was delicious, and Pops added it to his Friday seafood menu.
It was cooler than usual for Memorial Day. The ocean was calm, the temperature was in the low eighties, and there was a slight offshore breeze. Soon the weather would become so steamy, they wouldn’t be able to catch their breath when stepping outdoors. Liz didn’t mind, because she planned to be in the Indialantic’s library, writing her next novel. She was five chapters in and might make her deadline after all. Not even Betty had seen her manuscript yet. Liz needed it to be hers alone for the time being.
Betty called out, “Liz, these Mexican chorizo and shrimp burgers are delicious. I’ve had two.”
“Chorizo?” Kate asked. “Vegetarian chorizo, right, Liz?”
“Of course,” Liz said, laughing. Kate was as much of a vegetarian as she was. “Don’t thank me, Betty—thank Ryan.” Liz looked at Ryan, with his Kiss the Cook apron that she’d loaned him. It certainly gave her ideas.
Ryan held up his glass to Betty. “Thanks, Betty. Not as good as the meal Liz made for Pierre’s birthday, but I appreciate the compliment.”
Liz smiled, because Ryan had actually been Liz’s sous-chef for Pierre’s eighty-first birthday dinner. Liz knew all of Pierre’s favorite Julia Child recipes. Like a well-oiled machine, Liz and Ryan had turned out a meal of Pissaladiere, Moules Marinières, coquilles St-Jacques à la Provençale, and Soufflé aL’orange, which translated to savory onion tarts layered with anchovies and olives, mussels steeped in white wine and herbs, sea scallops in a creamy cheese sauce, and an orange soufflé.
She felt her spirits free-fall at the thought that Ryan would be leaving soon. Pops’s second operation was scheduled for the following week. She excused herself and walked to the railing overlooking the beach. Aunt Amelia and Captain Netherton were both barefoot, running into the waves like children. Killer was behind them, digging a tunnel to Australia. His front legs were in a frenzy, spraying sand into the air. Maybe he, too, would find treasure and Aunt Amelia wouldn’t have to worry about the Indialantic’s bills.
Ryan came
