10. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
H annah got a beer from the fridge and pushed it shut with her elbow.
“So are you dating?” she asked as she grabbed a bottle opener to pop the cap. “Or…”
She trailed off, her nose scrunched up dubiously.
In the main room, Annette raised her hand, her beer dangled from her fingers, and chimed in with, “That’s what we all want to know!” she said. “I could save some money if he’d make up his mind!”
Quentin glanced over at her and then back at Hannah. “What is wrong with her?” he asked.
“A lot,” Hannah said. Then dodged a flung cushion as she threw a laughing apology Annette’s way. “Sorry! It was a joke, jeez.”
“Not a funny one!” Annette fired back. She got up on her knees on the couch and turned to look expectantly at Quentin. “And you didn’t answer her? Are you dating the DILF? Yes or no?”
Quentin frowned.
“That’s not…don’t call him that,” he said.
He had an iced coffee instead of a beer. Unlike Hannah, who still lived on their parents’ property, he had a drive back home tonight. He took a drink, the drizzle of caramel sickly sweet, and tried to work it out. Annette wasn’t owed an answer, but the question had occurred to him as well.
Yes or no? That would be easy, but…
Did half a dozen dinners with Joe and his family count as dates, or was that firmly in the family friend arena? What about the handful of heated kisses, all mouth and hunger and hands, between interruptions?
That definitely wasn’t ‘family friend,’ but he wasn’t sure it counted as a whole ‘date’ either.
“I’ve seen him a couple of times,” he said vaguely. “He’s my new petsitter.”
Annette huffed and rolled her eyes. “Sure,” she said. “Because god forbid you go for the cute twink who already took care of your cat.”
Even Hannah gave her best friend an exasperated look. “The cute twink lost our Grandma’s cat,” she said. “The only date he had a chance at was in court. For negligence!"
Annette puffed her cheeks out in exasperation. “That wasn’t…” she stopped, huffed, and slid back down onto the couch cushions. Her sullen mutter drifted up over the back. “I’m sure that wasn’t the plan, from what I heard.”
It was Hannah’s turn to roll her eyes and give Quentin an exasperated look.
So weird, she mouthed at him.
I know!, he said silently back.
“Don’t be rude,” Kathryn interrupted them as she finished chopping the apples.
She wiped her hands on her apron, getting most of the juice and flour on her jeans, and grabbed the oven gloves from the side.
Her gray-blond hair was scraped back from her face in a fraying braid.
“And leave Quentin be, Hannah. Dating a parent is different; you have to be patient. Ask Dean how long it was before I took him seriously.”
Hannah took a drink of beer. She didn’t look at Quentin. She didn’t need to.
“Didn’t you hook up with Dad on your first date, Kathryn?” she asked innocently as she took a drink of beer.
Quentin leaned back against the marble-topped island and added helpfully. “It was in Hong Kong, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Hannah said as she mock-toasted him with the bottle. “Hong Kong. He picked you up in the bar, and you didn’t realize he was your boss.”
Kathryn swiped at Hannah in passing with the oven glove.
“It wasn’t a date,” she said primly. “And I definitely didn’t take him seriously.
It was months before I met you, or Dean met Quentin.
When you have a kid, you can’t just roll the dice on whether someone is a good match just because they’re good in bed. ”
OK.
Quentin supposed he couldn’t complain. He had opened that door himself. Still, he could have done without that detail about his mom and stepdad.
“Also,” Kathryn sniffed as she reached for the oven. “I picked him up.”
She pulled open the oven. Smoke belched out in a greasy black cloud, and she coughed as she stumbled back.
Instead of grabbing the pie dish, she used the oven glove as a fan to try to disperse the smoke.
It worked, but not well enough. Smoke billowed up toward the ceiling, and the smoke alarm went off, an incessant squeal that pulsed through the house.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Kathryn exclaimed.
Quentin set his coffee down, grabbed a dishcloth, and jogged over to flap it back and forth under the sensor. Meanwhile, Hannah grabbed the oven gloves from Kathryn and, blinking through the smoke, grabbed the pie tin from the oven.
The pie crust was cremated to the point it looked like volcanic rock, black and actively smoldering, and dried beans used to blind bake it popped audibly as the cool air hit them.
A cloud of greasy smoke followed Hannah through the kitchen as she headed for the door.
Annette ducked under Quentin’s arm to beat her there and pulled the door open, but just too late.
The ass fell out of the pie tin, and the hot, brittle mess of pastry hit the floor and shattered into hot splinters.
Kathryn looked at it, sighed heavily, and put her hands on her hips.
“It couldn’t go on fire before I cut the apples up?” she demanded, as if the pie crust had immolated itself with no help. The smoke alarm finally gave in to Quentin’s aggressive wafting, hiccuped out one last beep, and stopped. “What am I going to do with them now?”
It took half an hour to clean up the mess. Just as Quentin emptied the last scrapings of crust into the bin, the front door opened.
“I’m home,” Dean yelled. “That smells…good.”
Kathryn rolled her eyes and smoothed her hair down one-handed at the same time. “Liar.”
There was a pause, and then Dean came into the kitchen, in his sock soles and shirt sleeves. He had two paper bags of dessert in his hands that he offered up.
“Well, it’s a good thing anyhow,” he said. “Otherwise, what would we do with this?”
****
Benjy squatted on the oil-stained tarmac next to the plane. He watched as Quentin fed the plastic tube up through the engine and twisted it onto the quick-drain connector.
“I kinda thought it would be more high tech,” he said.
“Some are,” Quentin said. He held his hand out for the empty plastic jug he’d given Benjy earlier and, when it was handed over, shoved the tube into it to let the oil drain out. “But I like the Cessna because I can do most of the upkeep myself. That way I know it’s been done by someone I trust.”
He talked Benjy through the whole process and what the next bit of upkeep—changing the filter—would be as the first jug filled slowly.
Quentin tested the temperature of the hose with one hand and sighed.
He’d taken the Cessna for a spin before Joe and the kids got here, but he probably should have done another loop.
The oil was thick and gloopy; it ran slowly out of the plane.
“I’m going to go and grab the fresh filter from the hangar,” Quentin said. He tapped the side of the bottle with his finger, making it wobble on the uneven tarmac. “If this fills all the way, just kink the hose like this.”
He demonstrated, and the oil flow dribbled to a halt. Then he pointed to the extra bottle he had stashed under his jacket to stop it from blowing away.
“Then grab that and just swap it over. OK?”
Benjy looked worried. “What if I get it wrong?” he asked.
“I get to scrub the runway,” Quentin said. He patted Benjy’s shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world. As long as you don’t panic, though, you won’t.”
He ran Benjy through what to do—kink and change bottles, and what not to do, panic—twice. Once he was confident that it had sunk in, he pushed himself up and headed over to the hangar.
The filter was already unboxed and set out, all white and pristine. Quentin picked it up and then dodged a low-flying Cody, who yelled ‘zoom-voom’ as he took a tight turn around Quentin’s legs so he could sling-shot toward the back of the hangar.
Joe, hair all messed up and eyes crinkled with laughter, managed to grab him before he got too far.
“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly as he hoisted Cody up off the ground. The blond toddler flailed in brief protest and then threw himself backwards over Joe’s arm. “He’s a plane.”
“He has to follow his nature,” Quentin said understandingly. “You sure you guys aren’t bored?”
Over on the battered hangar couch where she was sprawled, feet up over the back and head dangled off the cushions, Jessie took her attention off her phone.
“I am,” she groused.
“Then go help,” Joe said.
Jessie mugged an upside-down, thoughtful expression. “Oh...um…I don’t wanna?”
“Jessie!” Joe snapped. He switched Cody from one arm to the other. “That’s enough. You don’t have to help, but you wanted to come, so you don’t get to spoil it for everyone else.”
“Ugh!” Jessie exclaimed as she swung her legs off the sofa and scrambled to her feet. “At least…at least you don’t have to worry about us anymore. Quentin can just teach us to fly and drive and…and…and—”
She stumbled over her words as she ran out of ideas.
“...shave?” Quentin suggested.
The startled snort of laughter that escaped her took the wind out of her sails.
“What? No! Gross,” she spluttered. Then she looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes and worked her jaw from one side to the other.
A deep breath steadied her enough to mutter, “....sorry. I just don’t see what the point is.
I mean, we can’t afford this stuff. It’s nice while Quentin’s around, but he’s not my dad.
He’s not Benjy’s. They were, and they left. ”
She sniffed and wiped her nose roughly on the heel of her hand.
There was a soft pause until Joe awkwardly said, “Jessie,” in a gentle voice and stepped toward her.
She recoiled.
“It’s fine!” she said. “I don’t care. I don’t, OK?”
She turned and fled out of the back of the hangar. Joe let Cody slide to the ground and started after her. Before he could get more than a step, Quentin stopped him.
“Do you want me to talk to her?” he asked.
Joe looked at him. “Why you?” he asked.
That was a good question. It took Quentin a second to come up with an answer.