Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
QUINTON
“Eat your greens or no ice cream, little lady.”
My daughter, love of my damn life and spitting image of the woman who couldn’t be bothered to stick around for her, pouts. Her dark chestnut curls bounce as she shakes her head, dark eyes narrowing over her pretty nose and tilted-up chin.
“Yucky.”
Her five-year-old face bunches with disgust.
I fold my arms over my chest, leaning back on the ancient dining chair. It creaks with my weight. Maisey’s eyes widen at the noise. The sooner I get rid of all this decrepit old junk, the better.
Every damn piece of furniture in this house is an accident waiting to happen.
And since nobody on either of the town’s buy-sell-trade sites wanted the junk, I’m stuck with it.
Until I can burn it all, bit by bit. The town dump wouldn’t take it on principal, something along the lines of the fact that it would be like trashing the great Agnes Elizabeth MacKelvie.
Small towns . . . Good Lord.
Besides, I didn’t know her, really. My mother left our father when we were young, only going back here once a year for an annual visit. Never long enough to be meaningful. Just long enough to check it off the ‘not-a-bad-ex-daughter-in-law’ list.
But the chance to raise my little girl in a place like this, where she can be safe and happy, trumps every feeling I have about map-dot towns. This one included, with its family history and apparently massive shoes to fill, thanks to Agnes.
So, we’re burning it all. And as soon as I have it cleared out, new furniture should just about be here, if the estimate from the local furniture store is accurate. Besides, the ash will be good for the gardens I plan on installing when the warmer weather comes in spring.
“No ice cream, remember,” I warn, and she harrumphs but plucks the floppy green vegetable between two tiny fingers and holds it up for inspection.
She winces as she brings it closer to her mouth. Taking a small bite, she pretends to gag.
I know it’s pretend because she used that same tactic last week with the lettuce on her burger when we made homemade chicken burgers, as per her request. Guess she wasn’t anticipating the crunchy layer of watery goodness.
“Hmmm. Dis so gross, Dada.” Her mouth is full of mushy greens.
I shake my head. “Not with your mouth full, Maise.”
She swallows, wincing again dramatically. “There, done.”
Her eyes sparkle as she places her cutlery in the center of her plate, like the little lady I’m trying to raise her as.
“Good job, kiddo. Just let me finish up.”
“I can get yours, too, Dada.”
She slips off the old chair and runs for the kitchen before I can object.
I finish up my meal and take our plates to the sink. Scraping them off, I glance up.
A light on next door catches me by surprise. Hank’s room is on the other side of the house . . . As is Marie’s.
Nice old guy. Shame about his condition.
I dunk the plates into the soapy water, washing them down as Maisey plonks the ice cream tub on the counter, climbing onto one of the stools.
She pulls out the drawer, finding a scoop before her little tongue pokes out in concentration as she sends it through the middle of the ice cream.
Her curls hang around her shoulders as she leans in further, so determined.
The ice cream is hard, and the scoop flings out of her grip, hitting the floor.
“Oh shit,” she hisses.
“Maisey Emmaline MacKelvie. Manners.”
She snickers softly, climbing off the stool to pick up the scoop before handing it to me to wash off under the tap.
I hand it back to her, and she mounts the stool with determination anew.
“Save some for your old man, hey?” I chuckle, pulling two bowls out of the cupboard and setting one by the tub just in time as she rolls the perfect ball over the edge and into it. It lands with a plop, and she giggles, cracking the smile that blooms over my face so damn wide.
My heart squeezes in my stupid chest.
It’s moments like these I’m glad her mother decided to leave and go alone.
I don’t think I could have handled it if she had taken Maise with her to Vegas.
The other side of the fucking country. Still, the fear that one day she’ll change her mind and come to collect always lingers in the back of my mind.
My gut churns, as if on cue, every time that particular thought springs back to life. Luckily, it doesn’t come up too often.
“More?” Maisey asks.
I snap my gaze to the overflowing bowls.
“Think that’ll be good.” I take the bowls to the sofa and flick the television on as she puts the ice cream away and runs for the living room.
She’s in my lap a second later. “Daddy, you forgot the spoons again.” She giggles, turning on my lap.
Her little hands wrap around my jaw as she whispers, “What would you do without me?” Her forehead presses to mine.
“No idea,” I say softly. And I damn well mean it.
God knows how I will make it through a day when she starts school next week.
After two weeks of settling in, it’s time she started at her new school.
My little contracting sidekick, she has more knowledge and skill than half the guys I work with.
More sass, too. Someone’s got to keep us in line.
The guys on-site adore her. The pink hard hat was a hit when she first started coming to work with me a year ago, when I could no longer afford babysitters or day care.
One of the downfalls of owning your own business. The highs are great, the lows can ruin you.
Maise’s gone and back with two spoons a beat later, curled up against my chest again.
I flick it over to her favorite show about rescue dogs and try to eat my ice cream one-handed.
She’s clean and sweet, all bathed and in her pajamas.
And when the bowl slips in her lap twenty minutes later, I slide it to the side table and pry the spoon from her grip.
“Bedtime, my girl.”
I carry her upstairs, tucking her into the enormous canopy bed in the room she chose for herself. Knows her mind, my little girl. Of course she does.
I glance out the window to the drum. The load has been reduced to coals that now glow and flicker with the occasional lick of flame.
Under the night sky out here in middle-of-nowhere Vermont, the sight is something to behold.
I just hope I can make this work. That business picks up, and we get settled here for good.
Maise needs a good, stable home. Somewhere to grow and play. In the center of chaotic Boston wasn’t it. Grafton being a far cry from the city is one of its most attractive features.
I adjust the blankets around her shoulders and kiss her hair before turning out the light and closing the door almost all the way shut. I pad across the hall to my own room. The master.
This is the most impressive house I’ve ever lived in, and the room is incredible.
More space than my old apartment. And this room is also home to an ornate king canopy bed.
Matching nightstands. Luckily for this old bed, I’m too tired to disassemble it and haul it down the stairs to meet a fiery end.
I shower and pad downstairs to lock up and turn out the lights. The lights next door are burning still.
I frown, hesitating for a moment. But I know Marie is there, and she would call if she needed help.
Weary, I stretch, heading up stairs. By the time my head hits the pillow, my eyes are drifting shut.
“Daddy, I’ll be fine. Go to work, okay?” Her hand presses against my stubble. I’m squatting at the front doors to Grafton Elementary School. A crabbity old teacher, Miss Francis, stands behind Maise, waiting with a not-so-patient face.
“You sure? We can ditch this joint and play hooky . . .”
Her little brows drop quickly. “No, uh-uh. You can go play hooky, but I’m going inside to make friends.”
I chuckle and rise to my feet. “Good for you, kiddo.”
“Did you get the forms from the admin office, Mr. MacKelvie?” the old bat asks again.
“Yep.” I wave the forms that are still clutched in one hand at her as her mouth pinches and she ushers Maisey inside.
“Have a great day, my girl,” I utter, watching the large double doors swallow my flesh and blood who’s currently dragging my goddamn heart on a threadbare string behind her. The Christmas wreaths that hang on each door jostle as they thud shut, and I’m left outside in the cold.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I loose a breath and trudge through the light, fresh snow to my truck. Once inside, I crank her over and toss the forms onto the bench seat. The sooner I get to site, the sooner I can get back to pick Maisey up.
I turn onto Pleasant Street and head back to Main. It takes all of four minutes to get to the Grafton Inn, where we are currently doing renovations in the dining area. A medium-size job, nothing major. But keeping the old heritage style the building has keeps us on our toes.
When the truck rolls up outside the inn, I take a second to appreciate the grandeur of the architecture, the stoic white columns, the wide porch, the multipaned windows, and the whitewashed stone exterior. It’s a stunning building, and one of the landmarks of this small town.
Currently, it’s decorated with wreaths, boughs of holly, and bright-red blooms hung under the eaves of the first-floor balcony that spans the entire front.
The porch itself is littered with ornaments and stylish decorations that make the space look like a winter wonderland.
Which it kind of is, this time of year. The snow flanking the building and covering the grounds really sets it off.
Incredible.
I kill the engine and haul my ass inside, knowing the guys will be waiting for me. I can hear the steady thrum of power tools before I make it to the dining room. Helen, stationed at the reception desk, gives me a big smile and a wave. “Morning, Quinton, how did she go?”
Her blue eyes follow me as I wander past, heading for the dining room. “Better than her old man.” I give her a lopsided grin.
Helen sags against the desk with a sigh.
Is she okay? I hesitate for a second until crimson blooms over her cheeks and she excuses herself, turning away to busy herself with the computer at her desk.
Okay . . .
I see the guys hard at it the second I clear the double doors to the dining area. The space has been closed since we started, and as Miranda, the co-owner, likes to remind us all every afternoon, every day we take to revamp the old space, she is losing money.
I’m well aware of the difficulties of small business—currently running my own.
“Morning, boss man, almost done sanding. We’ll clean this up in an hour or so and get onto the finishes.”
“Great. Time is money, boys.”
They all roll their eyes at me.
Ronan, the eldest on our crew in his early forties, simply shakes his head.
Caleb, our part-time guy who owns a legit reindeer farm, chuckles into his respirator mask and sends the sander back along the banister he’s working on.
And then there’s Sebastian, the quiet, moody one of the group.
He fires up the industrial vacuum and makes short work of the fine dust before rolling up our drop cloths behind him.
Man of few words and one of the hardest workers I’ve ever had.
I make a start helping Seb, rolling out the cloths as he goes. Everyone does every job on my crew, no hierarchy and no special favors. If it has to be done, it gets done. Period.
We’re an hour into the work when my butt vibrates.
It takes a second to realize what on earth is going on. When Ronan tilts his head at me, eyes fixated on my ass, I realize what he’s trying to say over the noise.
My phone’s ringing.
Plucking it from my back pocket, I swipe the semi-familiar number and step outside, careful not to drop fine sanding dust over the inn’s foyer floor. “Hello?”
“Mr. MacKelvie?”
“Yup, speaking.”
“You will need to come and collect your daughter. There’s been an incident.”
Ah, fuck.