Chapter 12
“Hey, Effie.” Shiloh—she was pretty sure the waitress’s name was Shiloh…or, shit, was it Shay?—smiled warmly, tugging on her ponytail to tighten it. “What’ll it be?”
As promised, she had shown up at the bar shortly after noon.
Later than she’d wanted, but Martha had waylaid her on her way down the stairs, forcing her to eat a full breakfast before she left.
It was a B and B, after all, and Martha was determined she get the full experience so that when she left she could leave a thorough review on all the booking sites.
“Is Finn around?” she asked, craning her neck to try to see past the saloon-style doors into the back.
“Sorry.” Shiloh’s smile turned apologetic. “He called me this morning and asked me to open. Grace is sick.”
“Grace?” She hadn’t met a Grace. At least, she was pretty sure she hadn’t.
“Mm-hmm.” Shiloh reached beneath the bar, pulling out a giant canister of maraschino cherries from which she started to restock the condiment caddy on the counter. “You know. Mrs. Hawkins.”
She most certainly did not know. “And Finn is with her? Mrs. Hawkins? Grace?”
“No,” Shiloh said slowly, looking at Effie like she was dumb. “She’s sick.”
“Right.” Because that made sense. “So…do you know where he is?”
“I imagine probably at home. Do you want me to call him for you, or—”
“No. That’s fine. I’ll just…” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the door. “Thanks.”
She stood and slipped outside, looking back at the bar with a frown.
That was strange. Some woman was ill, apparently, causing Finn, who wasn’t with her, to call out from work.
Either Shiloh was terrible at explaining things or something didn’t add up.
Fortunately, she knew where Finn lived, and it was only a short seven-minute walk from the bar.
She hadn’t gotten a good look at the outside of the house the last time she’d been there, but now she slowed to drink in the sight of the cozy-looking cottage Finn called home.
With its steep gabled roof and oval-shaped windows and honeysuckle creeping up the trellis along the eastern side of the cottage, the place looked straight out of a storybook.
It was bursting with character, the door painted a welcoming shade of butter yellow that complemented the slate-gray wood-shingle siding and white trim, adorned with a wreath of pine cones and pampas grass.
Effie stepped up onto the stone porch and rapped her knuckles against the door.
The curtains fluttered, a shadow passing behind the frosted-glass sidelight. The door opened and Finn’s eyes widened a smidge as his gaze fell on her. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, but then again, Finn did look a little rumpled, his hair pressed flat against one side of his head and the other sticking up at a funny angle like maybe he’d just woken up from a nap. “I went to the bar, but Shiloh told me you called out.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Her name isn’t Shiloh, is it?” Dammit, she knew it was Shay.
“Are you talking about Shannon?”
“Shannon.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. She told me you were probably at home.” It occurred to her that Finn had positioned himself in the gap between the door and the jamb like a barricade. She frowned. “Is now not a good time?”
He hesitated long enough that she felt wrongfooted standing there.
“Look, Effie…”
She waited, not very patiently, as he darted a quick glance over his shoulder. Almost as if there was someone else in the house. Someone he didn’t want her to know about.
Effie sucked in a sharp breath and pursed her lips.
That would explain why he was acting strange.
Shannon, too. So who was it? Mrs. Hawkins?
Or maybe it was Daisy. Could that girl not take a hint?
Finn had said he wasn’t interested. Unless that wasn’t true.
Men lied all the time; he wouldn’t be the first to say something he didn’t mean.
But Finn didn’t strike her as a liar, and after spending the better part of five hundred years witnessing the worst of mankind, she was a damn good judge of character. Plus, he didn’t have any reason to lie about this. They weren’t together, not in any traditional sense.
Maybe it wasn’t Daisy. Maybe it was someone else. Now isn’t a good time for me could mean anything. Whether he was looking for a relationship or not, she struggled to believe he didn’t have needs. Needs he’d likely rather see met with someone else than all by himself.
There was a vicious burn inside her chest, the idea that she may have interrupted Finn mid-hookup putting a bitter taste in her mouth.
Her disappointment that even if Finn hadn’t lied, he may not have been entirely truthful was layered over what she could privately admit was jealousy, the soul bond making her feel things she wouldn’t otherwise.
“There’s something I have to tell you.” He gruffly cleared his throat, rolling his jaw, struggling plainly with how to say whatever it was he was trying to. “I haven’t known when the right time would—if there’s even a right time to— Shit, I guess what I’m trying to say is—”
“Who’s Grace?” she blurted, putting them both out of their misery, ripping off the Band-Aid and cutting straight to the point.
He jerked his head back. “What?”
“Shi— Sorry, Shannon said someone named Grace is sick. Mrs. Hawkins.” Derision colored her tone, her irritation mounting the longer she thought about Finn getting his rocks off with some other woman, a woman who might very well have still been naked in his bed.
A bed Effie had woken up in only days before.
It was enough that technically Finley was married, but clearly so was this Mrs. Hawkins. Did marriage not mean anything anymore?
“Why don’t you come in.” He stepped back, opening the door wider.
She crossed her arms. “I’m fine out here.”
Finn looked at her funny but shrugged. “Okay. Grace is my best friend’s mom. Mark.”
She harrumphed. An older woman. Lovely. “I suppose your generation was raised on American Pie and Fountains of Wayne.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Stifler’s mom? Stacy’s mom?” She rolled her eyes. “Forget it.” She racked her brain trying to remember a Mark. She’d met Monty, Savannah, Peyton, Brittany, Chrissy, and—Jeb? But no Mark. “Was he not at—”
“No.” He gave a short, sharp shake of his head. His eyes were shadowed, and his face had gone tight. “You didn’t meet him.”
She threw up her hands. “Then, what does any of this have to do with—”
Inside the house came a high-pitched wail, the sound slingshotting her heart into her throat.
A strained look passed over Finn’s face. He let go of the door and stepped back, his hand falling to his side. From behind him came another ear-splitting cry, and Effie’s heart, still lodged inside her throat, seized.
She opened her mouth, but her voice seemed to have vanished.
“Come on.” He took another step back, beckoning her inside with a tilt of his head.
She followed him down the hall in a daze. The door to the bedroom across from his was open, the walls painted a soft shade of lilac. No sooner had she stepped inside the room than she drew up short, her feet suddenly rooted to the spot as Finn picked a squalling baby up out of a crib.
“This is Beatrix. Or Bea,” he said, cradling her against his shoulder, gently rocking her from side to side. Like magic, the crying stopped instantly.
Her heart, on the other hand, seemed to be beating double time. “Is she—
“Mark’s,” he said, almost absently giving the baby a little pat on her bottom. Her footed onesie had yellow ducklings all over it. “I’m her godfather.”
She tore her eyes away and met his. He was staring at her, the expression on his face impossible to read. A rare thing. “You’re…you’re babysitting?”
“No.” He ducked his chin, his lips brushing the top of Bea’s head where dark wisps of fine hair lay flat against her scalp. “I’m not. I…Mark and Kaitlyn…There was an accident. A car accident. They—they, um, they didn’t make it.”
She felt the blood drain from her face, her knees suddenly weak.
“Bea was with a sitter,” Finn said, his voice hoarse.
“It was—it was their first date night since she was born. I was on a mountain with shitty reception when I got the call. I got on the first flight, but…I—I think we all assumed Mark’s mom would—” His throat bobbed.
“Turns out, Grace has got Parkinson’s. It’s early still, but she can’t…
A baby’s too much. She watches Bea sometimes, when she can.
Otherwise…” He shrugged, the gesture so helpless that it tore at Effie’s heart.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but Mark and Kaitlyn were pretty fucking clear about what they wanted, god knows why.
” He sniffed, blinking hard a few times.
“So, yeah. That’s—that’s why I’m not at the bar this morning.
Which was Mark’s, too, by the way.” He shook his head, looking utterly and completely lost. “He gave me everything he cared about. Everything that mattered. He just gave it to me.”
The baby gave a soft coo, and Effie pressed her knuckles into her breastbone, trying in vain to will away the ache.
She was so small. Five, maybe six months old, if Effie had to guess. She would never know the sound of her mother’s or father’s voices or get to feel their hugs. She’d have no memory of them. None at all.
“Say something,” Finn pleaded, sounding so desperate that something inside her broke.
“You have to tell her,” she implored. “Her parents. She’s not going to remember them.
You have to tell her about them. You have to—you have to tell her how much they loved her.
” She pressed a fist against her stomach, gasping for breath.
She couldn’t seem to get any air in, her heart was racing too fast. “You…you have to make sure she knows that. You have to make certain she understands that they didn’t want to leave her.
She has to know that it wasn’t her fault, that—”
“Effie—”
“You have to.” It didn’t matter that Finn was staring at her, horrified, his eyes wide and his lips parted, his face ashen. She needed to say this. He needed to hear this. “You’re all she has now, and she has to know that—”
“I will,” he vowed, looking her in the eye. “Okay? I promise.”
“Good.” Her voice broke. “That’s—”
She paused, the corners of her lips stinging, burning something fierce.
She touched her face, and her fingers came away wet, shaking.
Crying. When was the last time she’d shed actual tears, tears that had spilled over, trailing down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw?
Demons weren’t supposed to cry. Demons weren’t supposed to do a lot of things that she did.
He took a step toward her, and she skittered backward, out of reach. “Are you—”
“I can’t.” More tears escaped, blurring her vision. Even her nose was running. “I have to— I can’t.”
Finn still had the baby cradled against his broad chest, and the sight of that alone was enough to undo her, something inside her splintering. She did the only thing that made any sense. The only thing she could.
She turned on her heel and ran.