Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I take another sip of my perfectly chilled vinho verde and scan the menu while Quinn wraps up her story about a team of rowdy Alaska fishermen who kept her on her toes for every minute of their flight to Seattle yesterday.
“We cut them off but it just made them sing louder,” she says with a sigh, then refocuses on the menu. “What looks good?”
A soft breeze rises up from the sea, bringing the thick scent of salt and sunscreen.
After my return to work last week, I probably should have gone home to rest instead of saying yes to meeting Quinn in Portugal, but I reasoned that I could rest just as well rest on a beach towel in Ericeira.
And I’m glad I came. It’s refreshing to be away, and to spend time with Quinn.
“Squid? Or maybe the sea bass.” I set my menu aside.
A pair of tanned, lithe young women in wetsuits with surf boards under their arms saunter past, bantering in Portuguese.
“We should take surf lessons tomorrow,” Quinn says, watching them with a wistful look in her eye.
“You go ahead.”
Compassion fills her gaze. “Is your leg still bothering you? ”
“I’m trying not to overdo it.” It’s still a little bit tender and the bruising isn’t all the way gone yet.
Even though I know not to let Russel’s insensitive comment drive my actions, I have yet to reclaim the skirt or dress option of my uniform.
Maybe after this next rotation—a grueling four-day Alaska loop.
“Fish and chips for me,” Quinn says, setting her menu aside. “It won’t be as good as that seaside pub we found in Suffolk, but when in Portugal…” She gives a dramatic shrug that makes me laugh.
A waitress leads two men past our table.
They’re mid-thirties, dressed in that effortless way European men have mastered: dark jeans, button down shirts that manage to look freshly pressed no matter the time of day, aviator sunglasses, and that perfectly curated day-old scruff.
One of them gives Quinn a slow glance, his lips quirking in approval.
They get seated on the other side of the patio, but I can sense their lingering gazes.
“I’m a little behind on the latest from our favorite Finn River reporter,” Quinn says, drawing me back to our conversation. “Have police made any headway with that woman’s death?”
Annaleise’s most recent headline flashes in my mind. CULT VICTIM PERISHES IN ARSON FIRE.
I sip my wine. “It’s not official, but she was definitely involved with drugs.” Nothing about dealing, so maybe that was still just a rumor?
“So she went to that abandoned house to get high?”
“Looks that way.”
“Given what Annaleise dug up, I feel really bad for her,” Quinn says.
Trina Guthrie was raised in a cult and suffered years of trauma from several of its members.
At fourteen, she escaped, then bounced from family to family in the foster care system.
As an adult, reading between the lines Annaleise wrote with careful tact, it seemed trouble was never very far from Trina’s life.
It’s like that second chance she fought for at fourteen never quite came true.
Linden’s words bounce around in my mind. Healing from that kind of upbringing…it’s an uphill battle. If Trina’s story never made the papers, how does he know so much about it?
“If only someone had gone looking for her…found her before…” I say, meeting Quinn’s sad gaze.
Before the fire .
With a grimace, Quinn sets her menu aside. “Have they found her friend Stacy yet?”
I shake my head. Annaleise is convinced Stacy left town, though she doesn’t know why .
Is that why she called Linden? She thinks he might have the answer? I know her story. Why do I feel like there’s more?
“The police wanted to know why Russel and I divorced,” I say.
“That’s rather obtuse, isn’t it?” She puts her hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”
I told them he lied to me, kept secrets from me, and resisted my decision to split. It’s not what you think spilled from his lips like a broken record.
The waitress arrives to take our orders and a busboy swoops in to refresh our waters, then we’re back to enjoying the afternoon sunshine and the patio’s sweeping view of the Algarve’s prettiest beach.
“What’s the latest with the party?” Quinn asks.
I take another sip of wine. “Everything is done. I finished the slide show and did a test run. The guest count is locked in. Catering is set.”
“No more surprises from Darienne?”
I shake my head. “And it’s too late even if she tried.”
She gives me a sly grin. “Now that your sexy single dad neighbor is going as your fake date, I’m extra sorry I can’t be there.”
My breath locks up in my chest, but I force down a sip of my wine. “You’re going to be too busy kicking ass on Mont Blanc to be sorry.”
Her eyes light up. “I’ve never trained so hard in my life.”
“I want a picture of you on the summit the minute you get back to basecamp.”
She toasts me with her beer. “And you are sending me a full report of the party.”
Think you can keep your hands to yourself if I dust off my suit?
Can I? That might be a tall order considering my out-of-control thoughts. Though I tried to ignore Linden, those final days I was at home, so was he, working on projects, going for long swims, playing basketball beneath the afternoon sun with no shirt.
“Deal.”
For two days, Quinn and I tour our favorite coastline.
She takes a surf lesson while I nap in the shade of a blue umbrella, the Atlantic’s gentle breath cooling my skin.
We stay out late, sample every form of almond pastry, get hopelessly lost, and laugh so hard we cry.
The night before we have to part ways, we’re heading into our hotel when the two well-dressed men we saw at the beach café are standing at the small bar just inside the entrance. The taller one locks eyes with Quinn.
“How about a nightcap?” she asks, me, eyebrow cocked.
I plant a kiss on her cheek. “You go ahead.”
“Saving yourself for a certain firefighter?” she teases.
I laugh in surprise while a soft heat thickens in my core. “Promise me you won’t leave the hotel.”
Her eyes fill with mischief. “Promise.”
In the morning, Quinn comes down to the little restaurant with an extra spring in her step.
“Look who’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” I tease .
“Surprising, considering how little sleep I got.” A waitress arrives with coffee.
We talk about her trip to Chamonix and our future plans to hike a section of the GR11 trail through the Pyrenees. I’m going to miss her this week. She’ll be off the grid for most of it during her climb.
At the airport, where we’ll part ways, she asks about the one thing we haven’t covered. “Is it still hard to fly in Alaska, after what happened?”
“A little.”
Her eyes turn serious. “It wasn’t your fault. Just remember that.”
I pull her into a hug. “Love you, girl.”
She gives me a little squeeze. “Love you back.”
We both hate goodbyes, so we never say it. She steps back with a warm smile then turns away. I watch her melt into the crowd.
The next day, after my return flight and crashing at Quinn’s Seattle apartment, when I arrive at my gate, seeing the friendly faces of my crewmates fills my chest with an almost painful joy and reinforces one of the best perks of my job—these people.
Our joking and banter as we ready the plane for passengers melts away the last of my apprehensions, and after everyone’s on board and safely settled, the thrust of the plane as we accelerate down the runway before lifting into the sky brings a prick of emotion to my eyes.
Quinn’s right. I shouldn’t beat myself up.
It was one misstep. One tiny moment of neglect.
The baby’s wounds healed, and the union backed me up.
But my lapse in attention still haunts me.
Add in the knife twist that is flying with Russel, and for a time, I wasn’t sure I could still love this job.
I considered transitioning out, even switching to a different airline.
But in moments like these, I know this is exactly where I’m meant to be, and I won’t let anyone take it from me.
“Grr,” I say at my reflection.
“The blue one makes your tits pop,” Annaleise says from the edge of the toilet.
I shoot her a scowl. “It’s not about me.”
“And yet you’ve tried on every dress you own.” She arches an eyebrow.
She’s right. I’m making this into a way bigger deal than the situation warrants.
It’s the thought of kissing Linden that’s got my apprehensions in high gear.
Add in my excitement to see my dad happy and loved by his people, anxiety due to the last-minute party details jumping through my mind, and the certainty of a run-in with Russel, and it’s no surprise I can’t focus.
Annaleise comes in behind me so our eyes lock in the mirror. “You’d be gorgeous in a paper bag. Wear what makes you feel good.”
“Okay,” I say with a decisive nod.
I return to my room and reach for the blue wrap dress I bought in Florence a few years ago. At the time, I had imagined wearing it for a night out with Russel, but I never got the chance.
Why not wear it tonight? But not for him. For me.
When I slip it on, the cool, dense fabric feels buttery against my skin, and I know it’s the right choice.
I slide Mom’s pearl drop earrings into my ears and affix the matching pendant.
In the full-length mirror inside my small closet, I smile through a sudden rush of emotion.
Mom’s definitely with me today. She would be so proud of Dad.
Back in the bathroom, I smooth the front panels and adjust the wide sash that ties above my left hip so the bow lays flat.
“See? Fucking stunning,” Annaleise says with a bright smile.
I laugh.
We share a quick hug before heading downstairs. When she offered to come over, I thought she’d bring up Trina Guthrie or the search for Stacy Morrow or the arson investigation. There have been no new stories this week, so maybe it’s old news.
“Give em hell, darlin’,” Annaleise says with a wink, then slips through the door.