Free Wicked Fix by Sarah Graves Page B

no
    particular sense that it would--and in any case there
    was no sense saying so to Paddy.
     
    "Starting right now," I told him. "Or next spring,
    I'll let you sort out your taxes all by yourself and go to
    Augusta to try defending the hash you've made of
    them."
    I spoke to both of them; Terence was Paddy's business
    partner as well as his domestic companion but
    even he wouldn't go anywhere near Paddy's IRS filings.
    So my threat carried weight.
     
    Paddy sighed irritably. "All right. I guess it can't
    do any harm talking about Tate now." His face still
    said different, though, and I couldn't help wondering
    why.
     
    "But you'll have to come along with me," he went
    on. "I'm going over to Deer Island to get some more
     
    sketch work from one of my freelancers, and I'm picking
    up my car there."
     
    He grabbed a portfolio case, a sweater, and his
    wallet. "And Terence is coming, too. Aren't you, Terence?"
     
    A look of surprise crossed Terence's jutting features,
    but he put away his papers and got up obediently.
    Publicly, Paddy was the up-front, bossy one of
    the pair, but I got the sense that in his quiet way, Terence
    was the strength of the duo.
     
    "Oh, do hurry up, Terence," Paddy called as I
    went out onto Water Street. Glancing back, I stepped
    straight into the path of someone who obviously
    hadn't seen me coming, either. The resulting full-body
    collision slammed me against the brick building; for an
    instant I saw stars.
    "I'm so sorry. Are you all right?" The woman I'd
    run into reached out to steady me, concern on her face.
     
    "Fine." I laughed, a little shakily. She was my size,
    with pale curly hair and wide violet eyes, wearing navy
    slacks, a knit shirt, and running shoes. But she'd been
    hitting the gym regularly, to judge by the punch she
    packed; there was a lot of muscle mass hidden in that
    petite-looking body.
    She assessed me closely as if to make sure she really
    hadn't injured me, then flashed an apologetic grin and
    went on her way. By then, Paddy was on his way out
    the door, still frowning over his shoulder, and I wondered
    if maybe this trip to Deer Island with him was a
    mistake.
     
    But by the time we got to the ferry dock, his mood
    had lifted, buoyed as always by his unquenchable enthusiasm
    for Eastport. He was a New York refugee like
    me, veteran of SoHo and Greenwich Village, but unlike
    me he'd been born in Eastport, gone away to school
    and to get his career started, then had come back.
     
    "When I was a kid," he recalled nostalgically as we
    strolled down the tree-lined lane to the dock where the
     
    ferry was just now approaching, "you could stand at
    the end of the pier there and catch your dinner of codfish.
    Or sell them. I had a little red wagon. I'd go
    around to the housewives. Of course," he added, a bit
    less enthusiastically, "they'd want me to clean them,
    first."
     
    "Nowadays," Terence put in dryly, "Paddy likes
    his fish to be broiled with butter and garlic, preferably
    by someone else. Whatever happened to the little red
    wagon, though?" he asked Paddy affectionately, dropping
    his arm over the other man's shoulder.
     
    "Never mind," Paddy retorted, letting Terence's
    arm linger a moment. But then he stepped away. "The
    boat's coming in; let's go."
     
    Terence looked crestfallen, covered it smoothly,
    but not before I caught the look of deep hurt on his
    face. The ferry slid aground with a scrape of its metal
    ramp on the beach gravel. Then we were boarding,
    climbing the metal ramp while cars and sports utility
    vehicles--most with out-of-state license plates, filled
    with tourists--went alongside us onto the bargelike
    vessel.
    The grumble of diesel engines propelled the ferry
    back out onto the water, and we were away, the island
    town receding behind us and an onshore breeze gusting
    freshly.
     
    "Great day," Terence called over the engine noise,
    putting his face into the wind. The tide was running
    hard, so the ferry pilot skirted the edge of Old