11. John
11
JOHN
Q uinn blinked at me, letting my words soak in.
“That’s quite the statement, Mr. Elliott.”
“I’m aware. And I meant it.”
She swallowed, looking past my shoulder. “I like you, John. And I felt, feel, the same way. Even when we were disagreeing, I was attracted to you.” She sighed, pushing back a stray lock of hair from her forehead. I tried not to smile as it fell back and she brushed it away again. I leaned forward, tucking it behind her ear.
“But?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“I wondered if one of the reasons I liked disagreeing with you was because I felt safe enough to do so. Somehow I sensed there was a line, and you would never cross it.”
I frowned. “Your ex?”
“He wasn’t the nice man I thought him to be when I married him.”
“Tell me.”
She looked around. “Here?”
“We’re alone. The door is locked. We can go into the kitchen, and you can do your prep while you talk if that would help.” I sensed this would be a huge leap of faith for her to tell me and she would be nervous. Keeping her hands busy might be a good idea.
She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes. I’ll make my pie crusts.”
I followed her to the kitchen, staying out of the way as she gathered her supplies. I let her lead, giving her the time she needed to gather her thoughts.
“I met Preston Dutton at a friend’s party. He seemed nice. Polite. Handsome. Good manners. We had a great conversation, and he asked for my number.”
“I thought your last name was Harper.”
She nodded. “I changed it back when we divorced. I didn’t want any connection to him. I legally changed Abby’s name as well.”
I nodded in understanding. “How old were you when you met him?”
“Too young. Eighteen. He was older. I was taking business courses, and he was just graduating from finance. I told him my dream of having a little diner someday. Living in a pretty house and having kids. He told me he wanted to give me a big house and a big family. We became inseparable. I thought he was perfect. We wanted the same things. We had the same goals.”
“Did your parents like him?” I asked as she measured and mixed.
“I lost my parents when I was eight. Until then, life was pretty normal. By then, my grandparents were older and in a home. I had to go into foster care.” She looked at me, the pain in her eyes evident. “I never had a home or a family after that.”
“So that’s why it was so important to you,” I said, understanding.
“Yes. His parents, on the other hand, didn’t really like me, but he didn’t care. We eloped less than a year after we met. He graduated, we moved, he got a job and rose up the company ladder fast. He worked constantly.”
“Not easy on a relationship.”
“No.” She paused as she separated the dough into balls, wrapping it and putting it in the fridge. She leaned against the counter. “I worked in a small restaurant, learning the ropes. I loved it. He, on the other hand, hated it. Made me quit and told me it was beneath me. He couldn’t have a wife who ‘slung hash’ for a living.”
“Nothing wrong with honest work.”
“That was what I believed. I thought he did too. The boy I married disappeared. And he became a man I didn’t recognize.” She gazed around the kitchen for a moment, sadness etched on her face. “He changed. Everything he said he loved about me was now tedious and beneath him. I was an embarrassment most of the time.”
“You could never be an embarrassment.”
“To him, I was. I got my house, all right. One he picked. Huge, ostentatious. Cold. He had it decorated and refused to let me touch it. I had to drive an expensive car. Dress a certain way. I wasn’t allowed to even think about my dreams anymore. Everything was about him and his career. I got pregnant because he decided it was good for his image.” She sighed, rubbing her hand over her eyes. “That wasn’t what he told me, of course, but it slipped later. He got me drunk, and we had sex without a condom. I was shocked to find out I was pregnant. He was smug. Later, I found out why, and I was furious. Not,” she explained quickly, “that I was pregnant. I was thrilled. But the way he did it.”
“I can understand that.”
“We grew apart—especially him. Other than for his image, he wanted nothing to do with Abby. And little to do with me. I was trapped in a marriage with someone whose favorite thing to do was tell me all the ways I disappointed him.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes. And as I found out, he simply enjoyed being mean. Nothing was ever his fault. Everyone around him was treated better at work. He had to work twice as hard to get half the recognition. He complained all the time. Chastised me every chance he got.” She paused. “And slept with a lot of other women. When I found out, he informed me it was my fault. If I was the wife he expected and deserved, he wouldn’t have to look elsewhere.”
“Bullshit. You know he was full of it, right? The term narcissist comes to mind. He would tear you down to make himself feel superior.”
She laughed, the sound bitter. “He did it well. He had broken me down for years, constantly belittling me, chipping away at my confidence. Taking away my choices. He was first in everything. But he made one mistake.”
“Which was?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. I wanted to go find this bastard and beat the shit out of him.
“He made me a mother. Suddenly, I had someone to care for. A little baby I had to protect—one I loved more than anything in the world. I started questioning him. His motives. His thoughts. I hated the pristine, colorless world he forced us to live in. The cold house. The perfect image. He was horrified if he came home and Abby was fussy or messy. He even hated that I called her Abby, not Abigail, which he insisted she be referred to as.” She shook her head. “She was too little and sweet for that big name. I called her Abby when he wasn’t around. I’d make up songs with her name in them, and she loved them.”
She was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. “He picked on me all the time. If the house wasn’t in perfect order. If I didn’t look as if I walked off a runway. But I started fighting back. Arguing with him. Still, he had the upper hand. Everything I had was his. I had no money, no job, no experience. Not even a credit card of my own. I knew if I left, he would find me and bring me back. So, I fought to give Abby a normal life. It was as if I lived two separate lives. During the day, we dressed the way we liked. Went places. Had fun. When he was around, we were shadows. Always perfect.”
She stopped, gripping the worktable.
“Did he hit you, Quinn?” I asked, my voice tight.
“No, he used words. They didn’t leave marks.” She met my worried gaze. “They only leave scars.”
I knew what she meant. Unable to take the distance between us, I crossed the room, gathering her hands in mine. “What gave you the courage to walk?”
“Abby. I was tired of watching her light fade when he was around. She was only four and acted like an adult. I didn’t want that for her. He ignored us unless it was to yell or demand one of his stupid outings. We’d have to dress up and act like a happy family. There was an event he insisted we go to. Abby wasn’t feeling well, but he refused to listen. She wasn’t herself—listless and refusing to do as he demanded. We ended up leaving, and when he got home later, he ranted for hours. I told him I was done and wanted a divorce. He refused and we argued. He grabbed me and shook me really hard while yelling. He left bruises because he was holding me so tight and he shook me so roughly I had a headache for hours. It frightened me and I wondered how long until he lost his temper with Abby. How defenseless she would be if he shook her.” She swallowed, her voice shaky. “I couldn’t take that chance.”
I nodded, knowing this was the incident she’d been thinking about the other day. The thought of him hurting her made me furious, but I tamped down my anger so she would keep talking.
“When he left for work on Monday, I went to a lawyer and she helped me. The next week, I was gone. He found me fast, but I had people on my side now. For almost a year, he badgered me. I sold the car he’d given me. The fancy phone. The jewelry. Even most of the expensive clothes he’d insisted I had to wear went to a consignment shop. He was furious, but he’d put things in my name for tax purposes. I lived off that tiny nest egg I accumulated. We stayed in a small place. Took the bus and walked. I had a cheap, throwaway cell. I worked at the local diner. And I hadn’t been that happy in a long time. No one was constantly telling me what I was doing wrong. How much I’d let them down, time after time. I had my own thoughts and feelings. Abby could laugh. Scatter her toys. She was happy. I became Quinn again.” She tugged on her overall straps. “I wore what I liked, ate what I liked, and lived how I wanted. I rediscovered myself.”
I nodded encouragingly. “I like this rediscovered Quinn,” I murmured.
She smiled. “I like her too.”
“What happened?”
“He met the perfect woman, who was exactly like him. Then he couldn’t divorce me fast enough. He signed away his rights and gave me money to get me out of his life.” She sighed, her body suddenly slumping. I pulled her into my arms. “We moved here,” she murmured, her head resting on my chest.
“Jesus, I regret the way I acted with you,” I muttered, holding her tight. “I’ll regret that the rest of my life.”
“No, you were just you.” I felt her smile. “A grump. But I could see you were using it to keep people away, not because you were unkind.”
“I will never be a grump with you again.”
She tilted her head back, her eyes warm. “I think you’re kinda cute when you’re being a grump. But I do like the Farmer John Abby knows.”
“You know him too. Or at least, you’re beginning to.”
“I am.” She smiled. “I like him.”
I bent down, taking her mouth. “He likes you. Very much.”
We kissed sweetly. Softly. I drew back. I looked around the kitchen, wanting, needing to explain something to her. “I knew this place well,” I began.
“Oh?”
“Thelma Hopkins was a second mother to me even before I lost mine. I ate here a lot. She always helped me make up meals in the spring I could eat during the busy planting season. She’d drop off food from here all the time. Check on me. I could talk to her about everything. When she died, it was as if I lost my mom all over again.”
“Oh, John.”
“Meatloaf Monday was my favorite. She always made extra for me. I loved it cold on sandwiches.” I shrugged ruefully. “The thought of a newcomer arriving and taking over her place didn’t sit well with me. I took it out on you, and I’m sorry.”
“Yet you supported me at the city council meeting.”
“I realized Thelma would kick my ass for being a grump. She would want this diner to be brought back to life. By being an ass, I was dishonoring her.”
“So you didn’t object about my silly name.”
“I love the name. It’s exactly right. And I want to kick my own ass for being anything but nice to you.”
She cupped my face. “You are forgiven.”
“Just like that?”
“I forgave you when you supported my request. And since then, I’ve grown quite fond of you,” she said with a wink.
Unable to resist, I kissed her again.
“Can I help you with something so you can go home?”
“I just have to put the roast in the slow cooker. It’ll cook low and slow all night.”
“May I come over once I finish for the day? Spend some time with you and Abby?”
“Oh, she would love that!”
“And her momma?”
She linked her arms around my neck. “She’d love that too.”
“Good.”
After my chores were done, I stopped by the farmhouse, had a shower, and then grabbed a tote I had found when I was looking for clean towels in the hall closet. I put it in the back seat, glancing at the sky. It was beginning to cloud over, and they were calling for rain soon. If it stormed, I would be there with Abby and Quinn. Maybe that would help calm their fears.
I swung by the pizza place, ordering a large pie. I didn’t want Quinn to cook, and I had a feeling pizza would be a treat for them. I added some pop and ice cream, putting it in the tote.
I was right, judging from the delight on Abby’s face and Quinn’s wide smile, even as she protested my bringing food. Unable to resist, I bent and silenced her with a kiss. The soft coo from Abby as I lifted my head made Quinn’s eyes widen.
“Farmer John,” Abby hush-whispered. “You kissed my momma.”
“Yep.”
“Are you her boyfriend?”
“Ah—”
Quinn bent down. “That’s a personal question, Abby.”
“But Momma, he kissed you! In the front yard! It’s not like when he kissed you in the kitchen the other day.”
I met Quinn’s shocked gaze. Obviously, the kid was stealthy, and we were busted.
“Yeah, I’m your momma’s boyfriend.”
“Okay. I like you.” She skipped away. “Let’s have pizza!”
“I guess we have her approval,” I mused, handing Quinn the box and reaching for the tote.
“You bring pizza, swings, and share your cake. Hardly a shock,” Quinn informed me.
“Does Momma approve?” I teased.
“Depends what toppings you put on the pizza. There had better be some olives.”
“I got the Kitchen Sink. Basically every topping, but I skipped the hot peppers.”
“Then you’re a keeper.”
I grinned all the way into the house.
After we ate, the rain hit. Growing up, Laura had loved storms. We both had. We’d sit on the porch with our parents, watching the rain dance on the hard ground, the way the wind moved the trees, and we were fascinated watching the lightning light up the sky, eager for the rumble of the thunder that followed.
This wasn’t the case with Quinn and Abby. Abby clutched her doll and teddy, looking fearful and upset. Quinn was stronger, but she jumped at the sound of the gathering force of the storm. Quinn had lit some candles in case the power went out. She had some cushions and blankets on the sofa, but I saw the way they were eyeing the hallway to the bedroom.
Not really wanting to sit in a closet, I sat on the floor, patting the space between my open legs. “Quinn—here.” Confused, she did as I asked, and then I beckoned to Abby. “Your turn.”
She scrambled onto her mother’s lap, and I draped a blanket around us and wrapped them in my embrace. “Nothing can hurt you,” I assured them. “I have you both.”
I felt Quinn relax, and Abby curled up, patting my forearm with her little hand.
“Can you sing, Momma?” she asked, still nervous.
I wasn’t prepared for Quinn’s voice. She sang softly, one hand sifting through the curls on Abby’s head. Her voice was sweet. Lyrical. Rich. I shut my eyes, letting it roll over me, the sound so beautiful I lost myself to it. She sang and hummed, her talent evident.
Outside, the storm began, the rain heavy. The lights went out, but we stayed a huddled little ball of bodies, arms, and legs as Quinn sang. The candlelight flickered on the walls and the wind rattled the windows, but I kept my girls safe. I didn’t have to do much. Murmur quiet words of comfort. Press a kiss to Quinn’s head. Squeeze Abby’s hand that rested on my arm. Praise the song Quinn finished, hoping for another. She sang some old songs, a couple I recognized from the radio and a few cute kid songs, having Abby sing with her.
I enjoyed myself in a way I didn’t expect. Protecting them felt good. Holding them felt right. Hearing Quinn sing was incredible. Feeling their trust caused an emotion I hadn’t experienced for a long time. Despite the reason for it, it was a heady sensation. One I liked and couldn’t recall feeling before. Time passed, the lights coming back on, but still, we sat together.
Quinn fell quiet, and I peered over her shoulder. “She asleep?” I whispered.
“Yes. She never falls asleep in a storm.” Quinn tilted her head back, meeting my eyes. “You made her feel safe, John.”
“I think your singing did the trick. You have an incredible voice, Quinn. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Oh.”
“You must know that.”
“I always loved to sing. Preston told me my ‘warbling’ was irksome. When I reminded him that he used to enjoy it, he told me he only said it to be polite.”
“Do you have his address?” I asked, my voice mild enough.
“No. I know where he works, but why—” She stopped. “Don’t be silly. You’re not going to go beat him up.”
“I want to. I want to show him how words and fists can feel the same.”
Her eyes shone. “No. But I admit, I love that you want to.”
“Should we put Pumpkin to bed?”
“Yeah. I have to figure out how.”
“Move forward a little.”
She did, and I slid out, hauling myself up onto the sofa. Then I stood, stretched and bent, lifting Abby from Quinn’s lap. She was easy to hold with one arm, and I held out my hand, pulling Quinn to her feet.
“Good God, you’re strong,” she muttered.
I followed her down the hall, amused. “I basically work out from morning until night. I hope so.”
I set Abby on the bed, watching as Quinn efficiently tucked her in, arranged the doll and teddy, then bent and brushed a kiss to Abby’s forehead. “Night, baby,” she whispered. “I’ll leave the light on.”
We tiptoed back to the living room, the night-light casting stars and shimmering moons on the ceiling.
“Will she wake up?”
“No, usually once she’s down, that’s it. Unless there is another loud storm.”
“I think it’s passed.”
“Good.”
I sat on the sofa, pulling Quinn close. She snuggled beside me, her head on my shoulder.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m good. Having you here really helped.”
I pressed a kiss to her head. “Good, but I meant about earlier. Sharing your story with me.”
“Yes. I feel…I don’t know, lighter, having shared it.”
“That’s always a positive.”
She was quiet then looked up at me. “That day when you stopped to help me with my tire, you said something.”
“I said a lot of stupid things.”
“No, I meant you said something that stuck with me. About someone flirting with a stranger and it not being the first time.”
“Ah, that.”
“That happened to you?” she whispered.
“Yeah. My ex.”
She turned, taking my hand. “I’ll listen if you want.”
I ran my knuckles down her cheek, not really wanting to talk about my past, but knowing she deserved to know my story too.
I blew out a long breath. “I’ll keep this short since I don’t like thinking about it, never mind talking.”
“You don’t have to,” she offered.
I hunched closer and kissed her. “Yeah, this time, I do.”
Maybe I’d feel lighter too.