Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Keller
Identity and Anonymity in Carnival: Many krewes uphold traditions that protect member anonymity, particularly during private balls where identities may remain undisclosed behind formal masks.
This blend of concealment and recognition reinforces the layered nature of Carnival culture, where belonging is known within the circle but obscured to the public.
West is calling me on the phone, but I don’t feel like talking to him. I let it ring through to voicemail.
The original plan was the gym. Two hours of iron and sweat to work out the rage and pain. Deadlifts until my grip failed. That's how I always process things I don't want to confront. Push the body hard enough, and the mind goes quiet.
But tonight the thought of fluorescent lights and the clang of plates makes my jaw tight. I don't want hard edges. I don't want to grind through anything.
I want quiet. I want her. I want to be reminded that my mother's betrayal doesn't define me. I like that Quinn has restored my faith in relationships, in caring and being cared for.
Quinn is the antivenom to what the end of my mom's life shaped for me. Losing her like that, after learning she'd betrayed my father, turned me off from anything beyond casual sex.
Quinn is the first person who makes me believe again.
When I called her from the air, the invitation came out before I thought it through. Oysters. The river. Paper napkins and cold beer. It wasn't calculated, but I just wanted to see her face across a table.
The traffic light ahead turns red. I brake and use the moment to loosen my tie. The silk slides free with a whisper. I ball it up and toss it onto the passenger seat. The blazer comes next. I shrug out of it, twist in the seat, and throw it into the back.
I roll my sleeves twice. The white shirt is still crisp enough. Tailored trousers, polished shoes.
The Mississippi appears through the trees on my left. The water catches the orange and pink streaking across the sky. It's beautiful, if I let myself notice, which I do tonight.
Charlton Grant drifts into my thoughts. My thumb presses against my index finger. I catch myself doing it and stop. I can let go of the anger, now. He's a man, he made a mistake. My mother made her choices. But I don't have to carry them anymore.
I can put them back in that box.
That's what my father did. He put the photographs and receipts away and moved on with his life. He left the secrets sealed and stacked in the back of his bookcase, unseen.
I understand it now. Sometimes you can understand something, and then you can let it go. For the first time in my life, I think I'm ready to let all of that anger and pain go.
Quinn's street comes up faster than I expect. I take the turn, slowing past the old oaks that line the block. Her house sits back from the sidewalk, porch light already glowing.
I pull to the curb and put the Range Rover in park. The front door opens before I can text that I'm here.
Quinn steps onto the porch in loose blue jeans and a fitted gray shirt that hugs her shoulders. Her hair is pulled back, and her cheeks are still flushed from her run. Bare feet sliding into simple leather sandals as she turns to lock the deadbolt.
God, she's beautiful.
The thought arrives without effort. No calculation, no assessment. I smile at her, grateful for the safe place to land.
She crosses the small yard and pulls open the passenger door. The interior light catches the freckles across her nose. The ones she probably thinks no one notices.
"You look like you walked out of a boardroom and straight into a date without stopping."
I glance down at my rolled sleeves, the open collar. "That's exactly what I did."
"Points for honesty." She settles into the seat and pulls the belt across her chest. "You know, some guys plan this look. It's kind of hot you live it."
"I don't plan anything with you." The words come out before I can edit them. True in ways I'm not ready to examine.
Her mouth curves, and she doesn't push.
I pull away from the curb and head toward the river. The streetlights flicker on as we pass beneath them, casting the car in alternating pools of gold and shadow.
"So." Quinn shifts to face me, one knee tucked beneath her. "Where does someone fly to and back in a single day?"
"Savannah."
Her eyebrows lift. "Georgia Savannah?"
"Unless there's another one I'm not aware of."
"That's a lot of fuel for lunch. If I'm not being too forward, I'm fascinated to know what you had to go to Savannah for."
"Met with a preservation architect." I keep my eyes on the road. "Nothing like flying five hundred miles to have lunch with a rich asshole."
She laughs. The sound fills the car and instantly makes it warmer, happier. It's amazing that one person's laugh can do that. "What do you need a preservation architect for? Does he play at your tables?"
"It's part of an Argentum project I'm working on." I wave one hand loosely. "The committee wants to restore one of the historic properties the krewe owns. Someone has to do the legwork."
The half-truth slides out smoothly. It’s not a complete lie, because Argentum is doing just that, and Ridge and I are on the committee. It's just not what I was working on today.
Quinn's expression softens. She reaches over and touches my forearm, her fingers light against the rolled fabric.
"I like that you're continuing something your mother cared about. I bet she's watching from above, smiling down on you."
The words land in my chest like a stone dropped into still water.
I'm not sure if she would be happy that I flew to Savannah without telling anyone in my family to meet with the man who ripped all of our hearts out.
Nor do I think she'd appreciate that I lied to him, using a fake name and fictitious project.
I also wonder how she might feel about me lying to Quinn. The very thing I hate about my mother, I'm doing to Quinn. We're building something, and I'm lying to her face.
Quinn knows none of this. I don't talk about the ugly parts of my mother with anyone. She only knows what I've given her. A mother who loved jasmine. A mother who laughed too loudly. A mother who made their house a home.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "She would have liked that."
Quinn squeezes my arm once, then leaves it there. I like the weight and the warmth, and hope she doesn't move it.
The river appears ahead, dark water glinting under the first stars. The oyster bar's neon sign glows red against the deepening sky.
I pull into the gravel lot and cut the engine.
The hole-in-the-wall sits on weathered pilings over the water.
String lights crisscross above the open deck, casting everything in soft gold.
The distinct sea smell, salt, and lemon hang in the air, mixing with the muddy sweetness of the river.
A tugboat pushes a barge past, its wake slapping against the wooden supports beneath us.
Quinn slides onto the bench beside me instead of across. Our shoulders touch, but she doesn't move away.
"This is perfect." She tips her head back, watching the lights sway in the breeze off the water. "Sometimes you don't know what you need until it falls in your lap."
She has no idea how well I understand that.
"Rough day?"
"Long day. Lots of paperwork and the marathon four-hour budget meeting. Nothing interesting enough to complain about. Just glad to be able to unwind with you."
A server in a stained apron drops two menus on the plastic red and white tablecloth.
"Two dozen on ice of whatever's freshest. Surprise us. Screwdriver for her, no pulp."
I look at her with raised eyebrows as if to confirm. She smiles and nods her head.
"And a Maker's neat for me," I finish.
When the server walks off, Quinn grabs my thigh and squeezes. "You remembered."
"I remember everything about you."
"That's either romantic or terrifying."
"Why not both?"
She laughs, and I watch her mouth. The way her lips part. The flash of teeth. The way the sound seems to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
This woman.
The oysters arrive on a bed of crushed ice, shells glistening. Mignonette and cocktail sauce in small ramekins sit in the middle of the arranged oysters. Lemon wedges are scattered around the plate. Quinn reaches across and plucks one from my side of the platter.
"Excuse me."
"You weren't eating it fast enough." She tips the shell back, swallows, and grins. A drop of mignonette clings to the pad of her thumb.
I reach over and wipe it clean with my napkin. The gesture happens before I think about it. Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.
"I'm a ravenous oyster-eater. I should have warned you."
"No warning necessary. I'll be here to contribute to the messiness."
"I'm very capable of making my own messes."
"I've noticed."
She shoves my shoulder. I catch her hand before she can pull it back, hold it for a moment, then release. Her fingers linger near mine on the table.
Someone passes behind us, squeezing through the narrow gap between tables. My hand finds her lower back, steadying her even though she doesn't need it. The warmth of her skin bleeds through the thin fabric of her shirt.
"So." Quinn takes a long pull from her beer. "Lincoln Lawyer. Realistic or fantasy?"
"Fantasy. No defense attorney is that cocky and that competent. They're either one or the other."
"Objection. You forgot handsome. He's handsome, cocky, and competent, not unlike someone else I know."
She points to me accusingly and smiles as she takes a sip of her screwdriver out of her plastic cup.
"I beg to differ. I'm not cocky."
"You just proved my point. It's okay. Own it."
"I think I've met my match. Maybe you should have been an attorney, Ms. Mercer."
Her cheeks flush as she ducks her head and reaches for another oyster. I file away the reaction. I'm enamored with the way compliments catch her off guard, how she deflects with humor.
She doesn't know how beautiful she is. That makes her even more dangerous.