She sat very still for a few minutes, seeming to go away somewhere. She swallowed, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she took a deep, unsteady breath. “I used to keep a journal, when I was young,” she said in a faint voice. “I started every entry ‘Dear Mom.’ It was my way of making her real to me. Even when I hadn’t heard from her in ten, fifteen, twenty years, she was always real to me, the person I told everything to, always there, whenever I needed her.”
“Jen, I don’t know what to say. Except that we’ll figure out what happened to her. I swear I won’t let it rest.”
She was eerily calm, though he suspected there was a lot going on inside her. Then she cleared her throat, and her gaze shifted, and once again, he had the impression that she was acting guilty.
“Um, about that,” she said. “My mother had a secret… I just found out.” She got up and went over to the table. Beside her laptop was a rusty tackle box, charred on the outside, something salvaged from the fire. She handed him a teacup that appeared to contain a handful of tiny stones. “I think these are diamonds,” she said. “In fact, after calling Laura, I’m sure. And I think whatever happened to my mother stems from this.”
Rourke took one of the stones in the palm of his hand while she explained that they had been hidden inside fishing sinkers, the homemade sort.
A chill slipped over him as he considered the possibilities. Mariska was in possession of a hidden fortune, and she had somehow put herself in danger. “We’ll have to verify what this is,” he said. But that chill told him Jenny was correct.
She stood by the table, looking small and lost. “I was so angry at my mother,” she said at last. “I blamed her for leaving me and never coming back. I…don’t know what to feel now.” She folded her arms under her breasts as though to hold herself together.
Here was the thing. Rourke knew for sure he was a son of a bitch, because what he was feeling was a sting of pure lust for this woman. It was nothing new, but here he was, in the wake of tragedy, wanting to take her to bed. He’d done it before, when they thought Joey had died. And here he was again, reporting another tragedy and still wanting her. Rourke was the Grim Reaper with a hard-on.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jenny asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
Food for Thought
BY JENNY MAJESKY
Come Spring
In Poland, the Thursday before Lent is known as Tlusty czwartek (Fat Thursday). When the day arrives, we know springtime is just around the corner. It’s traditional to enjoy Mazurki, which are thin cakes. Each grandmother passes the recipe down to her daughter and so on, down through the generations. The family gathers and shares the Mazurki, and passionate arguments ensue as people choose their favorites. This one nearly always wins the competition.
MAZUREK
½ cup pure, unsalted butter
4 ounces baking chocolate, melted
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons milk
2 cups flour
icing made from 1 cup powdered sugar and 1-3 tablespoons of milk
chopped walnuts or pecans for garnish
Preheat oven to 350°F. Cream butter; add melted chocolate and sugar and mix well. Stir in eggs, one at a time. Stir in vanilla, salt and milk. Gradually add flour and mix well. Spread in greased 15 x 10 x 1-inch pan and bake for about 20 minutes. Drizzle with icing and sprinkle with chopped nuts. Cut into squares and serve.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
1998
Rourke’s Saturday-night watch had just started when a call came in—personal. He picked up at the duty sergeant’s desk and stood looking out the window at the bleak, stormy weather. “Officer McKnight here.”
“It’s me, bro,” said a welcome voice. “Home at last.”
“Joey.” Rourke shut his eyes and thought, Thank God. Joey was finally back. After the mishap that had resulted in a mistaken report of his death, Joey had been sent to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. There, he’d undergone several procedures to save his eye, but nothing had worked. He’d been transferred to Walter Reed and finally honorably discharged.
“Yep, that’s me,” he said. “Otherwise known as ‘Lucky.’”
Rourke sensed the bitter irony behind his words. Joey had lost much that night. His brothers-in-arms, whom he’d loved with unabashed ferocity, as well as his right eye. Not unexpectedly, the incident had changed him irrevocably, and a new hard wariness became apparent in his sparse e-mail messages and phone calls.
“Where are you?” Rourke asked.
“I’m in Kingston, at the station. Next train’s not for an hour. I need a lift to Avalon. Planning to surprise the little woman, you know? She’s big on surprises.”
Rourke’s mouth went dry. What had happened between him and Jenny that night had been a huge mistake. Mutual grief had stripped away all their defenses, but that was no excuse. And the hell of it was, he’d do it all over again if he had the chance, even though guilt ate at him every time he thought about it.
Until that night, he hadn’t known sex could be so powerful, a possession of sorts. And he hadn’t known how important that was, or how devastating when it was taken away. He had surrendered willingly, though. The second Joey had called the morning after and they realized their mistake, a sick guilt had frozen Rourke and Jenny, and they’d avoided each other ever since. Neither was sure whether or not Joey had figured out what had happened, but a terrible suspicion haunted them. They’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.
“So whaddya say?” Joey prodded.
“You been drinking, Joey?” he asked.
“Hell, I’m a soldier. A veteran. A one-eyed veteran. Of course I’ve been drinking. How about you swing down this way and give me a lift?”
A thirty-mile drive involved
