Heather Webber - Absolutely, Positively: A Lucy Valentine Novel

For my family, with much love.

Acknowledgments

Although writing a book is often a solitary endeavor, producing a book is not. A big thank you to: everyone at St. Martins Press who ensures that every Lucy Valentine novel is as good as it can be; my agent, Jessica Faust, who encourages my overactive imagination; close friends Shelley Shepard Gray, Cathy Liggett, Hilda Lindner Knepp, Sharon Short, and Wendy Lyn Watson for brainstorming sessions, reading first passes (and giving honest feedback), career advice, and being the best cheering squad when writing-related neuroses take over.

Im also so very grateful to Jeannie Rigod for sharing her personal experiences regarding defibrillators with me, which in turn allowed me to write one of my favorite scenes in this book between Sean and Lucy. Thank you.

Finally, thanks to everyone who (like Lucy and me) believes that love does conquer all. Happy reading!

* * *

I love to hear from readers. You can reach me through my website, www.heatherwebber.com , where you can also learn a little bit more about me and sign up for my Every-Once-In-A-While e-newsletter.

Contents

Suzannah Ruggieri blew into Valentine, Inc., like a category five hurricane. The antique mahogany door slammed into its stopper, rattling the beveled glass panes. Her eyes were wild, her hair disheveled, her round high cheekbones flaming. Winded, she huffed, Hurry! The Lone Rangers back!

Spinning, she rushed out the way she came, her heavy footsteps thudding on the cherrywood stairs leading down to Beacon Street.

Preston Bailey, roving reporter, didnt need to be told twice. She jumped up from the russet-colored love seat in the reception area, sending notes flying in all directions. She barely paused at the door to see if I was following. Lucy, come on!

I jumped up, hesitated. I had been manning Suzs desk while she was at lunch. If I left, no one would be here to answer the phones. I had a responsibility to the companyafter all, my name was on the door. Valentine, Inc., the countrys most successful matchmaking firm, had been in the family for generations. And though I wasnt a true matchmaker like my father, I managed to have a great success rate with clients in my division of the company, Lost Loves. My father and I used our psychic gifts in very different ways.

Lucy! Preston bellowed up the stairs. The sound echoed up to the third floor and back down to me. The. Lone. Ranger. Move your ass!

Ah, hell. I grabbed my coat and followed Preston down the steps and out the thick metal door into a typical gunmetal gray February afternoon of a Boston winter.

We dodged through stopped traffic and sprinted toward the mob gathered at Boston Common. A piece of paper fluttered across the crunchy dormant grass and I stomped on it.

You got one! Preston cried.

I picked up the twenty-dollar bill. Others floated by, people chasing after them, pushing and shoving.

Do you see him? Preston stood on tiptoes, but even in heeled boots she was vertically challenged.

Standing a good five inches taller, I scanned the throbbing crowd for any sign of a masked man. No.

He has to be here somewhere! She threaded her way through the masses, throwing bony elbows and hips to get people to move aside. There was no stopping a reporter on the hunt of a huge story.

The Lone Ranger had struck again.

It was the fourth time in as many weeks. No one knew where he came from or who he was. By all accounts, he simply appeared in a mask and cowboy hat and started throwing money.

Last week, the unofficial tally hit two thousand dollars. By the look of the loot still skittering across the ground, this weeks total was going to be even higher. Preston, a reporter for the South Shore Beacon, a daily paper that mostly covered areas south of the city, had taken to trolling the Common during the day, even though she was supposed to be writing feature stories on my Lost Loves clients. She was dying to find the man the media had labeled the Lone Ranger and crack the reasoning behind such outlandish behavior.

A WHDH news crew arrived on the scene, and a reporter tottered across the grass to interview people clutching fistfuls of money.

As I tucked the twenty into my pocket and leaned against a tree, waiting for the crowd to thin, I glanced to my left and found a homeless man watching me intently from a nearby bench. Caught, he looked down and started fussing with a plastic garbage bag filled with his worldly goods. He held a thermos of what I hoped was coffee.

Sudden guilt flooded me. I didnt need the money, yet here I was eager to catch a few flying twenties. I tried to justify that Id been caught up in the moment, but that excuse didnt pass muster, as Id caught three twenties last week and used them to buy myself a cute scarf from a shop in Harvard Square.

Feeling slightly sick with shame, I pulled the twenty from my pocket, walked over, and handed it to him.

He looked up at me with a wary faded blue gaze before reaching out with gloved fingers for the cash. A holey knit cap covered his head and an oversized black Michelin Mantype coat sheltered him from icy gusts. Dirt smudges darkened pale, yellow-tinted skin. White stubble covered his chin.

Mind if I sit? I asked.

He nodded to the bench.

This, I thought, was the real story. This man and all the other homeless who called the Common home, even in the midst of a brutal winter.

You didnt want in on the action? I asked, nodding to the crowd. I spotted Preston weaving in and out, still searching. Suz was headed my way.

Legs dont work so well anymore! he shouted, his voice becoming louder with each word. Cant fight off those younguns like I used to, and its not so bad being poor.

I jumped a bit before I adjusted to the volume. I only had vague memories of my Grandpa Henry, who died when I was five, but I remembered he used to shout, too. Hed needed a hearing aid and had been stubborn about getting one. Vanity at its finest.

Did you see the guy who was throwing the money? I asked loudly, doubting this mans lack of a hearing aid had anything to do with how it would look.

He took a draw from his thermos. Masked. Hat. No horse. Tossing money this way and that.

That about summed it up. Then I smiled when I realized he was speaking (well, shouting) in rhyme.

Suz counted twenties, her eyes glowing, as she walked toward us. It just went to show how anyone could get caught up in a situation. Valentine, Inc., paid her well. Not only because she was a valued employee, but also because she was practically family. And thus, we had entrusted her with all the family secrets.

One hundred forty! Woo-ha! Ill be treating myself to some nice wine while eating a nice big steak at The Hilltop tonight.

I jerked my head toward the guy next to me, silently asking her to make a donation.

Suz frowned as she followed the motion.

I widened my eyes and continued twitching.

She huffed, peeled off two twenties, and handed them to him. Oh fine. She gave him the rest of the cash. You need it more than I do.

He quickly tucked the money inside his glove and stood up.

Ladies, Ill be on my way! he shouted, tipping an imaginary cap. Have yourselves a wonderful day! He winked, turned, and hobbled off.

For the love of Dr. Seuss, Lucy. You know hes probably just going to drink the money away, Suz said in an are-you-crazy kind of whisper.

So were you.

She flipped her dark hair. Touch.

I stood, searched for Prestons spiky platinum hair in the thinning crowd. Besides, you dont know that hell spend the money on alcohol. Maybe hes hungry. Maybe he wants a nice steak.