Chapter 4
Chapter Four
My dad looks good. That's the first thing my brain serves up while my fork hovers over my plate like it's lost signal.
He's tan. He's wearing a polo I don’t recognize and boat shoes I do, because they're the same brand he always wore.
Even now, he knows exactly what to put on to look like a man you'd hand your savings to.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, and doesn't wait for my answer. The chair scrapes against the floor, and he drops into it, setting his plate on the table. The smell of eggs and sausage suddenly makes me want to vomit.
“I'm actually in the middle of—“
“You look great, Harper.” He settles in, putting his elbows on the table. “Your mom said you put this whole week together yourself. Must’ve been a lot of work.”
“It was.” Why am I telling him that? Why am I not throwing my water in his face and storming out of this restaurant?
Fifteen years, and this is his opening move? Not I'm sorry or I’m so sorry I ruined our whole lives or Did I mention how sorry I am? Something along those lines was really the only acceptable option, and yet here he is trying to give me compliments?
Here's the thing nobody tells you about having a criminal for a father. The crime they commit is almost irrelevant. It’s the breaking apart of everything you thought you knew about them that devastates you.
All those years before, he was Ray Quinn of Quinn & Associates, the guy who did the books for half the businesses in Maple Glen, Ohio.
The guy who sponsored the Little League team and the fall festival and the new scoreboard at the high school, whose name was on the outfield fence in letters you could read from the road.
Dads trusted him with their payroll. Widows trusted him with their retirement. Our church trusted him with the building fund, and every Sunday he passed the offering plate down the pew.
Every Monday he moved money that wasn't his into accounts that didn't exist.
Eleven years. That's how long the forensic accountant said it went on. Eleven years of skimming, shell companies, and doctored statements. My entire childhood, basically, give or take a few toddler years. The house I grew up in, the braces on my teeth, the trampoline he bought us when I was jealous of Finn’s.
Some percentage of it was paid for with the college funds of the kids I sat next to in homeroom.
They never could pin down the exact number.
High six figures. Enough that when the case finally cracked open, it didn't just take down our family.
It took down half the families in our town, including Hendersons' hardware store, which never recovered, and Mrs. Kaczmarek's retirement.
She taught piano to half the town, including me, and was forced to move in with her son in Dayton.
I still can't hear a metronome without feeling sick.
Maple Glen is not a big town. There was nowhere we could go without witnessing the wreckage.
They repossessed the cars the same week the school did spirit week.
Mom stopped going to the grocery store in town.
She drove forty minutes to the one where nobody knew us, and then, for about two years, stopped driving anywhere at all.
Dahlia was fourteen. I was sixteen, and I did what I do.
I made lists. I forged Mom's signature on permission slips and learned which bills had to get paid first.
“The casserole's decent,” my dad says, nodding at my plate like we do this every Sunday. “Your mother always said cruise food was overrated, but I don't know. I think people just like being disappointed in nice things.”
And that is the sentence that does me in. A little philosophy, warm and charming, like he's a man with opinions about buffets instead of a man who made me the answer to a security question at three different banks before I could vote.
My eyes go hot with zero warning. I stare at my watermelon until it blurs and am about to ask him how it compares to the food in prison when a hand lands on the back of my chair, and I jump.
“There you are.”
Finn. Empty plate in one hand, sunglasses hooked on his collar. His eyes hit me for a half-second, one flick, reading my face and wet lashes, then move to my dad with a smile so friendly and cold, I shiver.
“Mr. Quinn,” he says. “Been a while.”
“Finn Gallagher.” My dad stands to shake his hand, delighted. “Look at you. Your father used to say you'd either end up building bridges or jumping off them.”
“Little of both.” Finn's hand comes off the handshake and back to my chair. “Hey, Harp, we're late. The thing with the venue guy. He moved us up.”
There’s no venue guy. There’s no thing.
“Here, let me get that.” Finn leans over and picks up my laptop, hesitating so I can swipe my tears and stand without my dad seeing me do it. “You'll have to excuse us,” Finn tells him. “She's the only one who knows what’s happening around here.”
“Course, course.” Dad's already seated again, reaching for his orange juice. “We'll have plenty of time to catch up. Whole week ahead of us.”
Finn steers us out of the buffet with a hand that hovers an inch off my back through the hall, out the heavy door onto the promenade deck, where the wind sweeps against my face, hot and humid. I get about four steps before my breath goes shaky.
Finn guides me to the rail, still holding my laptop, and stares out at the water. “Wind's brutal out here. Making my eyes water.”
I make a noise that's half laugh, half hiccup. “Shut up.”
He grins at me. “Not making it better?”
I shake my head, and I can’t hold it in a second longer. My eyes well up, and in one motion, Finn sets the laptop on a lounge chair and pulls me into him. His arms wrap around me, crushing me to his chest as I sob.
He doesn’t say anything, just lets me cry into his perfect shirt. He smells even better up close. Both strange and familiar. I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but it’s long enough that I can’t figure out how to untangle myself without it being awkward.
Finn does most of the work for me. When he feels me start to pull away, he drops his arms and steps back, shoving his hands in his short pockets. He looks out at the water while I try to clean up my face.
“I didn't know they invited him,” he says.
“I got outvoted.”
His jaw works. I wonder if he’s going to bring everything up. Talk about what happened after Dad left, or at least acknowledge how weird it was that we never talked about it back then.
“Why didn’t you want Dahlia and Theo to get married?”
Finn blinks. “What?”
“She told me. When they came out to Denver. You got all antsy.”
“I didn’t get antsy.”
I give him a look. “You told them they should wait.”
Finn’s lips pull into a straight line. I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods to the laptop. “What were you working on?”
I blow out a breath and lean over the rail. “I made a flower order that missed the boat in Miami. I assumed it was my mistake, so I was going back through my emails and looking at the receipt.”
“Did you find the problem?”
I shake my head. “Someone put in a revision. No idea who.”
He frowns. “Like, all the flowers?”
“No, just the peonies.”
“Dahlia loves peonies.”
I laugh. “How do you know that?”
He raises an eyebrow and taps his temple.
I roll my eyes. “Right. Good listener.”
Finn settles in next to me, leaning over his arms. “Theo and I went to that farmer’s market in Golden last summer—”
“How often do you go back to Maple Glen?”
He shrugs. “Twice a year, maybe? My parents are lonely.”
Twice a year is a lot. He’s activated my daughter guilt, already simmering on low after seeing Dahlia with Mom last night. They’re closer than we are, understandably. She’s been there when I haven’t.
I smile, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher. “I felt a little sorry for you growing up.”
“What? Why?”
“Because your parents were always so busy with work. Well, kind of jealous, too. You could do whatever you wanted after school.”
Finn drops his eyes, his smile widening. “Yeah. Too bad. We could’ve gotten into a lot more trouble.” He turns his head to look at me, and my cheeks warm.
“See, that? Right there.”
“What?”
I shake my head, the metal rail digging into my ribs. “You’re such a flirt! For no reason!”
“Uh, there’s usually a reason.”
“No, Finn. You flirt with everyone, and it’s kind of mean.”
His smile falters.
“Sorry, no. It doesn’t matter. You were saying? The farmer’s market?”
He wets his lips and hesitates, then turns, pressing his back to the rail so we’re facing opposite directions. “Right. We went to the market, and Theo got Dahlia peonies. I told him he should get actual dahlias—”
I laugh. “Oh my gosh, so lame. Do you know how many guys have tried that?”
Finn’s laughing now, too. “That’s what Theo said. Hard pass.”
I feel his eyes on me, but based on how my body is reacting to him, especially after that hug, I keep my eyes trained forward on the waves.
“Who else had the delivery info? For the flowers?” he asks.
“A woman at Guest Services. Mom. Dahlia. Theo.” I draw a deep breath. “It’s not a big deal. Dahlia won’t care. I just want everything to be perfect for her.”
He nods, crossing his arms. “Give me a job.”
“What?”
“I'm serious.”
I turn to see if he’s messing with me.
“Harper, I'm the best man. Do you know what my responsibilities are right now? I've got the slideshow for the welcome dinner. I’ve prepared the toast. It's memorized, and it’s great, by the way. You'll cry.”
“Okay, presumptuous.”
He ignores me. “That leaves six days of me standing around while Theo and Dahlia get passed between forty of his relatives.”
“And friends.”
“Right.”
“Who you know.”
“Well—” Finn blows out a breath.
My eyes widen. “Wait, are you nervous?”
“No, I’m not—” He drops his arms and re-crosses them.
“Holy crap. Finn Gallagher is nervous. Wait! Is it because you’ve slept with half of Dahlia’s bridesmaids?”
“I haven’t slept with them!” Finn leans in, lowering his voice. “Kissed, yes. Not half, but a few.”
I chortle. “When? Back in high school? Or on your bi-annual visits back to Ohio?”
“That’s not the point. I’m just saying that I have nothing to do.
Meanwhile you're out here running a seventy-three-person operation alone while dodging your—” He catches himself, glancing back to the restaurant, and recalibrates.
“While dealing with a very full guest list. Harp, I manage subcontractors for a living. Flaky, unreliable subcontractors. Let me deal with your flower vendor or carry tables or something. I’m going crazy here. ”
I should say no. Spending more time with Finn when he’s already staying in my literal bedroom is the last thing I need this week.
But he did just help with my dad. And, there’s a good chance, based on all the puzzle pieces I’m putting together, that Finn is as uncomfortable at this wedding as I am.
Justified or not. Plus, the thought of someone else who’s not Mom or Dahlia lending a hand or problem-solving with me if the crap hits the fan makes the tight knot in my chest release a little.
I decide to take pity on him. “Fine.”
Finn gives a fist pump that makes him look like he’s seventeen again.
“But you have to do what I say,” I caveat.
“Perfect.”
“And that doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“Got it.”
“I’m serious,” I say that more for myself because my insides are starting to fizz.
Finn gives me a solemn nod. “Yep. Just one question. Can I call you Perry?”
“Hell, no.”