Lucky stood on the back deck, breathing in the crisp air. Someone once told him that whatever you did on New Year’s Day predicted how you’d spend your year. Lucky’d spent his scrubbing crayon off walls to make at least part of the house presentable enough for guests.
Guests meant Bo stayed inside, away from any fireworks that might set him off—advice from Dr. Libby. She hadn’t steered Lucky wrong yet.
The door behind Lucky opened and closed. Johnson said, “Figured I’d find you out here. Mind if I join you?”
Did Lucky mind? Not really. “Is there any way to stop you?”
Roman candles shot into the sky from the next street. Lucky glanced over his shoulder. Bo stood in front of the fireplace, showing Walter’s wife paint samples. Safe.
Johnson chuckled. “I reckon not, but I’m not a total asshole. If you really wanted to be alone, I’d let you. But I’d make you tell me why.”
Lucky shrugged but didn’t turn. Loretta Johnson’s name had crept onto the list of people he’d show his back to. “Not that I don’t like those folks in there, but I’m not a mingle and party kind of guy.”
“No, you have Bo for that.”
“And why are you out here?”
“Same reason as you, I guess.”
“Where’s Phillip?”
Johnson’s high-heeled shoes clip-clopped across the deck. She placed her elbow on the railing, drink in hand. “He’s with his parents tonight at some country club shindig, I’d imagine.”
“And he didn’t ask you to go?” Once upon a time Lucky had felt like a dirty little secret. Didn’t do much good for one’s ego.
She laughed without humor. “Can you imagine the looks on their faces when a tattooed black woman from the streets of Houston showed up at their hoity-toity affair?”
“You told me how you got together, but how did you two ever become a couple in the first place, if you don’t mind my asking?” Normally Lucky didn’t give a rat’s ass about other people’s drama. But he’d spent enough holidays alone to not like the feeling.
“Oh, you know how it is. I thought, ‘He’ll help me pass the time, keep me occupied until I get settled.’ I never expected to develop feelings for a privileged little rich boy like him.” She turned her head enough to give Lucky a weak smile. “Nor did I expect him to admire my struggles, not think less of me because of where I grew up.” The ice in her glass clinked when she lifted it to her lips and downed the contents. “It can’t go nowhere, but I’m not big enough to do the right thing and let him go.”
“Why do you have to let him go?” Lucky would never let Bo go. Not now when they’d come so far.
“His folks have big plans for him that don’t involve a woman who wears a badge and might go to work one day and not come home.”
Yeah, Bo and Lucky both faced the same hard facts. But he’d rather live with the worry than without Bo. Did that make him selfish? “Life is short. You take what it gives you and make the best of it.”
“My, my, my. The great Lucky getting all philosophical. I never thought I’d see the day.” Johnson’s laugher rang of truth this time.
“Hey! Even a blind squirrel gets an acorn every now and then, Johnson.”
“That it does, that it does. And it’s Rett. Only non-friends call me Johnson. Now, c’mon in and say goodbye to all the nice people. Sounds like they’re getting ready to leave.” She turned fully, staring at Lucky face to face. “You can deny it all you want, but you’re good people.” A quick lunge brought her down to his level. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Happy New Year, Lucky. I hope it rocks.”
Lucky brought his hand up to cover the spot she’d kissed. “Same to you, Rett. Same to you.” She disappeared back inside the house. His and Bo’s house, with the half-finished tile floors, and mile-long list of projects.
He breathed deeply again and stared up at the sky. Home. After many years of roaming, he was finally home.
Walter Smith was helping his wife into her coat when Lucky reentered the house. “Oh, there you are, Lucky. We were just coming to say good night.”
“Well, I’m here now.” At a nudge from Bo, he added, “Thanks for coming, and thanks for the gift. You didn’t have to.”
“Now, Lucky. You and Bo will have to come to dinner with me and Walt sometime.” Mrs. Smith wrapped Lucky in a floral-scented embrace. “You have a lovely home. Happy New Year.”
Bo escorted the Smiths, Lisa and her husband, and Mrs. Griggs to the front door. She’d even worn a nice dress for the occasion though her coat resembled a bath robe. Lucky remained with John—Rett. She grabbed his arm. “You scratched your way up from the bottom. Don’t blow it.”
With way more wiggle than necessary, she shrugged into her jacket and traipsed out the front door to a chorus of slamming doors. Bo returned a few minutes later, grinning ear to ear. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No.” And worth Bo’s bright smile, dimple included.
Bo patted Lucky on the ass. “Help me with cleanup. I’ve got plans for us tonight. I’ll load the dishwasher if you’ll take out the trash and let the dog out.”
“You’ve got a deal.” Lucky grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and made the rounds, picking up a napkin here, a few dropped morsels there, dumping a trash can. Cat Lucky glared at him from the bedroom. “I know. How dare I lock you up and let strangers invade your castle, your highness.”
Next, he approached the guest room with caution. He pushed the door open, the door pushed back. A whine emerged. “If you want out, you gotta let me in.”
He pushed, Moose pushed, overeager to escape. Damn, Lucky should add the going-on-seventy-five-pound-puppy-push to his workout routine. After a struggle he got the door open enough for the dog to barrel out into the hallway.
“Oh no, you don’t.” He grabbed a handful of fur before the beast tore through the house, and slipped on the leash. Sometime soon he’d have to go back to the shelter, make the fostering permanent, in his name, and in Bo’s.
Leash in one hand, bag in the other, he called out, “I’ll be right back.”
He stepped outside, trotted to the dumpster he used for disposing of ripped up carpeting, and threw in his bag.
For a moment he stood there, recalling all the times he’d returned to an empty house, wishing someone waited for him. Now lights shone from every window. “No, Rett, I won’t blow it.” Blow Bo, maybe… in about five minutes.
Moose whined, thudding his tail against the sidewalk. “Okay, okay.” The critter dragged Lucky to the fence. Lucky opened the gate, removed the leash, and let the dog run free.
The street light’s glow reflected off something shiny at the edge of the yard. What the hell? Lucky crept closer.
A Harley Road King? Ah, hell! Bo’s Harley Road King. The one they’d left in Mexico. His heart slammed against his ribs. Vibrations from his pocket made him jump, and he yanked his cell phone out.
“Happy New Year!” appeared on screen from an unknown number. He circled the bike.
A flat, wrapped package leaned against one side. No need taking chances. Who had brought the bike? How had they gotten through the gates?
He ripped open the paper. A picture. Or rather, a painting. The gloom wouldn’t allow him to see clearly. He lugged the package into the house. Bo sang in the kitchen, rattling dishes.
Lucky snuck into the bathroom, locked the door, sat the painting on the sink, and turned on the light. For a moment his breath caught: the image bore the same style as the portrait of Mama Mangiardi.
A landscape, Paris, judging from the French words on the buildings in the background. Two men sat at a café table, the first unmistakably Nestor. One arm encircled the other man while he lifted a glass of wine in toast with the other. A golden band circled the third finger of his left hand that hadn’t been there at Lucky and Nestor’s last meeting.
Lucky lifted his phone and redialed the text number. “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”
Damn. How often did the guy change numbers? A white sheet of paper caught Lucky’s eyes, a reminder of the picture he’d gotten a few months back, warning him of Walter—a card.
Lucky’s heart pounded.
The front of the card showed two champagne glasses and the words, “Happy New Year.” With trembling fingers he opened to read, “Happy New Year. May you be as happy in your new life as I am in mine. No matter where you go or what you do, you’ll be watched over, only not by angels. Expect the Harley’s title in the mail, made out to William Patrick Schollenberger III. One day Cyrus Cooper may need to ride again. I hope he’s ready. Keys are in the saddlebag.”
The card was signed N.
The second man in the painting also toasted—and also wore a band. Most of his face was obscured by shadows, but white strands highlighted his dark hair. Lucky studied the image, his heart putting together the mystery a split second before his brain did. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Hopes, fears, and tons of guilt fought for dominance in Lucky’s brain. Then they all… vanished. The load he’d carried for years dissolved.
Bo knocked on the door. “I let Moose back in. You ‘bout ready to call it a night?” He rattled the doorknob. “Hey, why do you have it locked? Are you okay in there?”
Lucky unlocked the door and let Bo into the bathroom. Bo stooped down in front of the painting. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s a New Year’s present. I found it outside, along with your motorcycle.”
Bo jumped back, eyes wide. “Who’s here? Do they know about us? Call Walter! Now!”
“Bo, calm down. If Nestor wanted us dead, we’d be dead already.” Words he’d said over and over the past few months. “Look closer.”
Bo inspected the image. “Oh my God. Nestor and…”
Lucky nodded. “Yeah.” So much made sense now.
“Did you see this?” Bo pointed to the lower right corner of the painting.
Beneath Nestor’s name and the date he’d written a single word:
Redemption.