done it if it weren’t for Lionel’s involvement. Now there was a real scientist. And for a while, the work had been interesting. They’d been able to achieve statistically significant samples of telekinesis at the molecular level. That’s why Morgan had brought him on, to keep them on the straight and narrow.
Only now, Morgan was obsessed with this artifact, this Eye of Athena. And he’d signed on as coauthor to Zag’s embarrassing article. Theodore couldn’t help but fear that his current association with the Institute was putting his reputation on the line. It had been too long since he’d published anything significant. And now, he was involved in this bullshit. He was in danger of becoming the laughingstock of physics.
Shit, he could already feel his acid reflux kicking in. Forget the Chinese. He wouldn’t get through the night.
“Theodore?”
The sound of her voice startled him. Theodore turned, his heart hitting his throat, making it difficult to catch his breath. He searched the shadows and found her standing near the bougainvillea.
Her bright red hair was severely pulled back and she wore a black vinyl trench coat tied tightly around her slim waist and ruby-red spiked heels, the same color as her lipstick.
Immediately, he cleared his throat—a nervous habit. He walked to her and grabbed her arm, steering her deeper into the shadows.
He looked around nervously. “I told you never to come here!” he whispered harshly.
But he could already feel his growing erection. Jesus.
She stepped back. In clear view of his neighbors, she opened her trench coat to expose her beautiful naked body.
Her bright red pubic hair had been shaved in the shape of a heart.
“Should I go home, baby?” she asked sweetly.
His hands shaking, Theodore couldn’t get the front door opened fast enough.
8
Seven balanced two bags of groceries as he walked up the path to the house. “Dinner has arrived!” he called out loudly.
Nick, his eleven-year-old nephew, burst out the door, an enormous smile on his face. That smile made Seven’s heart just stop right there in his chest.
Jesus, Ricky. What you’re missing….
He handed one of the bags to Nick and tousled his blond curls. “I’m cooking.”
“No, you’re not.”
Beth was already standing at the door, holding it open. She was wearing jeans and a lacy white blouse, her blond hair loose around her face. As he passed, he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m cooking,” he said again.
She shut the door and followed him into the kitchen. “No, you’re not.”
The three of them stood in the modest kitchen, unloading groceries. Just a year ago, Beth had been an upscale harbour wife, involved in all the right charities, taking classes in interior decorating. The kitchen of their waterfront home in Huntington Harbour had been her masterpiece: granite counters, two built-in Subzero refrigerators, top-of-the-line Viking equipment. Now she stood in a kitchen not much bigger than the galley of what had once been Ricky’s fifty-five-foot yacht.
He remembered the day Beth finally looked at him, her brown eyes tired and flat. Her words chardonnay-slurred, she’d told him, “Let them have it. I can’t make up for what Ricky did, killing their son. If this is what they want,” she said, signaling to the house and beyond, “they can have it. They can have every penny.”
She’d been talking about Scott’s family. After Ricky had pleaded guilty to the murder of his lover, Scott’s family had filed an unlawful-death suit.
She’d been drunk at the time; Seven had no idea if she’d meant what she’d said. But the next day, she’d called her attorney and made the arrangements. A week later, Beth started AA.
The last ten months had brought on more changes. The five-hundred-dollar cut and color in Beverly Hills had given way to Lady Clairol and a local salon in Seal Beach. Sweater sets and slacks worn with ballet flats from Neiman’s and Bloomie’s were downgraded to jeans and dresses from Target.
The funny thing—she looked younger. Hipper. More alive. She’d been working at a friend’s real-estate firm. Next month, she was going for her broker’s license.
“Look at this.” He held up some filet mignons and portabella mushrooms. He had a bag of prewashed mescaline greens and three potatoes, each practically the size of Nick’s miniature Nerf football.
“I’m telling you guys. Even I can’t blow this,” he said with a grin.
Mother and son gave each other a look.
“What?” he asked.
Beth picked up the steaks and the mushrooms. She gave Seven a pat on the cheek. “There’s beer in the refrigerator.”
Nick headed for the sink with the potatoes. “Mom, can you preheat the oven?”
“What?” Seven asked again. “Hey, that thing with the pot pies, that was a fluke. I swear, I think the thermostat was broken or something. No way those things would have gone up in flames otherwise.”
Forty minutes later, they were seated around a small glass table in the kitchen, the steaks perfect, the mushrooms divine, the potatoes slathered with sour cream and butter. A delicate vinaigrette had been tossed into the salad.
They’d let him wash the “prewashed” salad.
Still, it felt good, looking around the table. Nick was starting middle school in the fall and was excited as all get-out. He’d tested into the higher math classes, although English wasn’t looking so good. Hearing the enthusiasm in his voice, Seven felt a hard knot in his throat. Ricky had always been the brains of the family.
Like father, like son.
But Seven could only see the good things in Ricky’s son. His brother’s blond hair and green eyes—the athletic build that soon would bring the attention of too many girls. Already, Beth complained about the phone calls.
“Nicky,” she said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “They call him Nicky. Is Nicky there?” she mimicked in a breathy, nervous voice of a preteen girl.
“Mom!”
They were having a good old time teasing poor Nick. It was the kind of evening Seven hated to end.
So he’d offered to drive them down to Main Street. On Tuesday nights, the area was closed off to traffic. Street musicians and booths selling anything from jewelry to produce made for a loud and colorful walk ending at Cold Stone Creamery.
Nick hooked up with friends from school. Beth and Seven had taken a table in the corner, giving the kid some space.
Beth looked down at her cherries and chocolate chopped into French vanilla ice cream. “I am truly going to regret this come morning.”
“Nah,” Seven said, digging
