Chapter 39 Quinn
THIRTY-NINE
Quinn
The End of Carnival: Ash Wednesday: Ash Wednesday marks the formal close of Carnival season, when parades end, masks come off, and krewes disperse until the following year.
The shift from spectacle to solemnity underscores the cyclical nature of Carnival, where excess gives way to reflection before tradition begins again.
I carry a stack of folders toward the conference room, my mind half on the grant review scheduled for two o'clock and half on the flutter of movement low in my belly. The baby has been active today, small kicks that remind me I am never truly alone anymore.
I round the corner and stop.
Keller Stone stands just inside the front door, sunlight from the tall windows catching the frame of his glasses. He wears a charcoal suit, no tie, collar open. The same careful posture I remember. The same quiet command of whatever space he occupies.
My heart doesn't race, my breath no longer catches. But he still does something to me when I see him. He's a beautiful man.
His gaze finds mine across the foyer, and we lock eyes for a moment.
Carmen glances up from the reception desk, her pen hovering over a sign-in sheet. Two interns pass behind me carrying boxes of printed materials. The building hums with ordinary Wednesday activity.
I can't stand here frozen now that he knows I've seen him. That would be awkward. And rude.
I walk toward the foyer with the same measured stride I use for board meetings, even if I'm waddling more than striding these days. The folders stay tucked under my arm.
"Keller."
"Hi, Quinn." His voice is even and warm. He's mellowed some since I last saw him.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
"Your development coordinator reached out last month. Mira, I think her name was." He adjusts his glasses. "She's impressive. Thorough. She understood exactly what Southern Stars needs for its next phase and articulated it clearly."
Pride swells behind my ribs. I hired Mira for exactly the reasons he's commending her on.
"She's exceptional. We're lucky to have her."
"I wanted to deliver this in person." He extends a cream envelope, heavy stock, no embellishment.
I take it. My fingers brush the edge of the seal.
"Do you mind if I open it?" I ask. I don't ever know the etiquette, but if he took the time to deliver in person, I want to thank him properly.
"Sure," he says easily.
The flap gives easily. Inside, a single check. I read the amount twice before my brain accepts it.
One million dollars.
My hand trembles slightly. I press the envelope against the folders to steady myself.
"Keller. This is very generous. Thank you. It will be put to good use."
"The work is worth backing." His tone carries no expectation, no quid pro quo.
I look up. His expression is calm, unreadable, but his eyes hold something that looks like respect.
"Thank you." I keep my Executive Director voice intact.
Silence stretches between us. Carmen's keyboard clicks in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings.
"Well, I'm going to let you get back to work. Three more weeks, right?"
I still can't believe I'm going to have a baby in three weeks.
"Yep. She'll be here before we know it."
He smiles warmly. "Let me know how I can help you. I hope you got the things I sent for the nursery."
"I did. And I will. It's good to see you, Keller," I say.
"It's good to see you, too."
He nods once, turns, and walks back through the door into the afternoon light.
The string lights glow softly against the darkening sky. Oak branches hold them like jewelry, casting warm pools of gold across the lawn.
A jazz trio plays near the gazebo, trumpet, bass, and piano weaving together in something slow and easy.
I stand near the beverage table, sparkling water in hand, holding my low back and watching our guests mingle. The turnout exceeded my projections. Mira's networking paid off. Kirk's volunteer coordination ran smoothly, and Carmen handled registration without a single hiccup.
My eyes find Keller across the yard.
He stands in a loose circle of three donors. His jacket's off with his sleeves rolled up. He holds a beer, and his posture is relaxed, shoulders down, weight easy on both feet. He listens while Frank Caldwell gestures about something, nodding at the appropriate moments.
At least it appears so from here.
The baby shifts, pressing against my ribs. I adjust my stance and feel the familiar ache bloom through my legs. It seems like it was yesterday that I could stand for hours. Now, twenty minutes sends complaints through every joint.
The fire pit crackles nearby. The November evening delivered the perfectly cool New Orleans night.
Guests drift toward their cars in small groups, calling goodnight, promising follow-up emails. The catering staff collects empty glasses and stacks chairs along the perimeter.
I should circulate and thank people, play hostess until the last car pulls away. But I have no energy for that tonight. I can't leave until everyone is gone, so I'll stay right here and watch.
Keller walks toward me. He's one of the last guests still here.
"Would you like to sit? You look like you need to take a load off."
"Yes." I don't pretend to be fine. "Please."
He guides me toward two Adirondack chairs near the fire. The heat is nice against the chill settling into the evening. I lower myself carefully, one hand braced on the armrest, and exhale when my weight finally leaves my feet.
Keller settles into the chair beside me. He lifts his beer, takes a pull, and stares at the flames.
"Good turnout tonight."
"It's been a fantastic fundraising quarter." I wrap both hands around my water bottle. "Mira really has done a great job. We wanted to show our appreciation."
"You throw a great party."
The fire pops, and a trumpet riff floats across the lawn as the trio packs up.
Silence settles between us. Not uncomfortable. Just weighted with everything neither of us says.
He shifts in his chair, turning toward me more fully.
“Quinn.”
I hold his gaze. The firelight reflects in his glasses, softening the sharpness that used to undo me.
“I need to say something.”
The fire cracks and settles between us, embers glowing low.
“I’ve had time to think,” he says. “About how I handled everything.”
I don’t interrupt.
“When I found out about your role in the investigation, I reacted.” His voice is steady. “I let the shock and hurt of it dictate what I did next.”
The baby shifts beneath my hand.
“I didn’t stop to separate what was your job from what was us.” He exhales slowly. “I didn’t give either of us the space to work through it, instead making a decision in anger, and I treated it like it was clarity.”
That is the most humble and kind thing he's said since all of this blew up.
“There were things coming up for me that had nothing to do with you. Old stuff about my mom. About trust. About what I thought betrayal looked like.” His voice remains steady. “I let that bleed into us. That wasn't fair to you.”
He doesn’t look away. My throat is suddenly sandpaper, so I take a sip of my water.
“You were doing what you believed was right. And instead of standing in it with you, I walked.”
The fire pops softly between us.
“I know I can’t change that,” he continues.
There is no defensiveness in his voice, which is so goddamned endearing I could cry. It's the hormones. It's got to be the hormones.
“But I don’t want to avoid something good because I’m afraid of sitting in hard things,” he says quietly. “I’d like to try again. Not because of the baby. Because I miss you. Because what we had was real. And I think it’s worth doing better.”
He glances toward the fire for a moment, then back at me.
My chest tightens, not with longing but with recognition. He is not defending himself. He is not minimizing what happened. He is owning it.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “For saying that clearly.”
He nods once.
“Keller, I just don't think I can go backwards. We shared something truly magical. And every second of it was real. But it was marred by my job, and for that, I regret how it tore us apart. You had every reason to be upset. It was an impossible situation for both of us.”
His expression does not change. He does not argue or push. He simply listens.
"My life is calm, Keller. Finally. The baby is coming soon, and I'm focused on stability right now. On building something solid for her." I turn the water bottle between my palms. "We don't need to be a couple to raise her well."
The fire pops. Somewhere behind us, a staff member stacks the last of the folding chairs.
"I want you fully present as her father.
I want you to be consistent. I need to know you're going to show up for her, not because of what we had, but because she's yours.
" I look at him directly. "I'm not willing to rebuild something fragile weeks before giving birth.
It's just too much. The timing isn't right. "
He absorbs this without flinching.
"I understand. I do."
He picks up his beer again and takes a slow drink. "I'd like be there for the delivery, if you don't mind. Whatever you need before, during, or after, I want to make sure you have it."
Relief loosens something in my shoulders. This is what I hoped for. Partnership without pressure. Respect without romance.
"Thank you. I'd like that."
For a minute, we just sit, listening to the fire crackle and the last guests filter out. The air smells faintly of smoke and sweet olive.
“Is your back okay?” he asks after a beat, gesturing toward the way I’m leaning.
“It’s eight months pregnant, so no,” I answer with a laugh. “But I’ll survive.”
He shifts forward without thinking. “You want me to grab one of those cushions from inside?”
I look at him with such affection. He's a good man. His thoughtfulness is automatic. Practical. Not romantic.
"I should probably head home. I think everyone is officially gone."
"I'll walk you to your car."