Quinn, by design

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Niall waited on hisporch for his brother, the image of Lucy from the first Sunday she’d visited him crystal clear in his mind. Exhausted, grieving, and even then, he’d been shaken by her courage. He was bigger than her, stronger than her, and she’d been prepared to confront him on behalf of her grandpa. He admired the hell out of the way she wouldn’t turn tail when she was afraid.

She hadn’t known why Bechet scared her, still she’d dealt with him professionally and regularly.

Her grandpa had told her stories to distract her while he was dying, and she’d played Cam’s game to comfort him.

She’d told Niall about the whispers following her gran’s death. Told him her lover had accused her of being deliberately out of the room when she was babysitting her gran. The bastard’s betrayal would have hit harder than a back-hander and felled any other woman. She’d retained her dignity and goodness. Because after Niall and she had found their rhythm, everything she’d done for him had been driven by kindness.

She’d eased his guilt about his da’s death using logic, compassion and a smack of rage to acquit him of neglect.

She thought he’d kept the exhibition secret because he didn’t trust her. Why hadn’t he seen he’d fixed the game to make her blame herself?

“Waiting for me?” Liam called from the gate.

“Thinking,” he replied. “Come on in.”

Sitting opposite each other in the kitchen, Liam hauled a bottle of Jameson’s from his briefcase and set it on the table. “You’ll want a drink for what I have to say.”

“I’m guessing the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the Irish-speaking world”—Niall leaned back on the chair legs to collect two Vegemite jars and set them on the table—“but you’re making me nervous.”

“You deserve to be nervous. I met Lucy’s lawyer this afternoon.” Liam splashed whiskey into both jars.

“Maybe I need water.” Niall pushed his chair back this time and crossed to the sink.

“Only if you plan to swim.”

“Was Lucy there?” Niall set a jug of water on the table but swallowed a mouthful of raw spirit. He was hungry for a sight of her after twenty-four hours.

“We were the only witnesses.”

“That sounds ominous.” Niall stared into his jar, the lingering taste of Jameson’s nutty tones no balm for his building panic. He’d made Lucy cry.

“Fascinating is closer to the truth. I emailed Mr. Dawson the letter refusing the bequest. He acknowledged receipt. Today he asked for a meeting.” His brother let the words hang in the air. Working on a Sunday. Not good.

“Tell me.” Niall had met Henry, a master of the non-committal expression.

“He told me there’s a codicil to Cam’s will.” Liam poured water into his jar, swirled it, then looked up. “If you reject the bequest as it stands, you’re to receive fifty thousand dollars cash.”

“Praise the saints. She doesn’t have that sort of money on hand.” Niall slammed his jar on the table. “Do you believe him?”

“Stop abusing the fine glassware,” Liam muttered. “And I don’t like my chances if I accuse Henry Dawson, a lawyer with a sterling reputation, of lying about a will. But, no, I don’t believe him. What did you do for Lucy to rub your nose in her wealth?”

“I said she was stupidly rich,” he confessed with the penitence of a devout Catholic. “That I couldn’t be a pet poodle.”

“You’re some kind of dumb ass. What brought that tirade on?”

“She stocked my fridge.”

“What was she thinking?” His brother’s sarcasm made Niall wince. “I might have to go down to McTavish’s and abuse her myself.”

“Don’t mock me. It might sound like a small thing, but it was the last in a long line—” He stopped, appalled by what he was saying.

“Of kind actions.” His brother finished for him. “You tend to show your feelings through actions rather than words. Sometimes you need to say the words.”

“She said I turned her into a thief.” Whereas for a man who insisted his self-respect was inviolable, he’d made her question the honesty of every moment they’d shared, and triggered an old pain.

Liam whistled.

“Can I refuse this bequest too?”

“I asked if there were other codicils? He suggested there might be a series of escalating offers, each more valuable than the last. Then he smiled, part white-pointer shark and part guppy.”

“That can’t be legal.” Niall raised his jar to his mouth then set it down untouched. “Can it?”

“I’ve not come across something like this before.” His brother drummed his fingers on the table. “I did say there were no witnesses.”

“Why is she doing this?” Niall rose to pace his small kitchen, struggling to reconcile the Lucy who was careful with money to the profligacy of this potentially endlessly rising offer.

“You’ve given notice that you’re leaving in a few weeks, leaving you without a home or a workshop. You’ve cancelled the exhibition and rejected secure employment with the foundation. You’ve beggared yourself and made her feel responsible.” Liam took a small sip of his drink.

“I didn’t want her to think I was hanging on to the foundation because of the money. Without the exhibition, I’m not mentor material.” Niall returned to the table, picked up the drink, stared once more at its contents, and set it down.

“Do you blame Lucy for losing the exhibition?” Liam asked.

“She asked if I was aiming for sainthood or martyrdom.” Niall scrubbed his face. “Anna says we get that from Da.”

“If you said Lucy was stupidly rich and you couldn’t be her pet poodle, then I’m not surprised.” His brother toasted him, then downed another mouthful of fine whiskey. “You’ve made her wealth the issue, and she was supposed to hear ‘I love you’?”

“She’s terrified of debt, of not being in control, yet she risked ruining herself to have twenty-four-seven, hospital-in-the-home care when Cam got ill.” Niall was missing something.

“Offering you fifty K puts a lot of money in play now.”

“I’ve got it all wrong.” Niall slammed his fist into his other palm.

“You’re alone with that, boyo, because I’m always right.”

“We’d need years to list all your wrong decisions, but I’m happy to make a start.” Niall allowed himself to be momentarily distracted.

Liam splashed more water into Niall’s whiskey. “Okay, I’ve made the odd mistake.”

“I didn’t follow up for Da, because I was basking in the glory of the mentorship.” Niall scratched at the old scar. Liam, meanwhile, had been paying their father’s debts to let Niall finish his mentorship and build a career in Ireland. Liam’s sacrifice hadn’t been Niall’s first seed of self-doubt, but guilt had landed in fertile ground.

“For the love of Mary and Joseph, we dealt with that. We did. There’s something you’re not telling me about Ireland.” His brother visibly scrolled through his prodigious memory. “You were coming home with a woman and then you weren’t. We weren’t talking enough then for me to ask why.”

“Sinead changed her mind.”

“Why?” His brother had honed his cross-examination skills since childhood. He practised silence as torture.

“She said I only cared about the craft and the glory, never mind food on the table. She was right. I wasn’t about to give up my dream for anyone, even the woman I planned to marry,” Niall said. Her words were the poison he’d tried and failed to dislodge from his mind, feeding his doubt about his grand plan for his future.

“What else?” his brother demanded.

“What do you mean, ‘what else’? Isn’t that enough?” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You’ve never mentioned her, so you can’t have been too desperately in love with her. I’m guessing there was a sting in the tail.”

“She called me a ‘fuck buddy,’ said I’d make a better living selling sex instead of furniture.” Confiding in his brother lessened the horror somehow.

“And Lucy’s paying you for sex.” Liam’s expression was flat.

“She’s wealthy. I’m living rent free in a property she owns,” he let fly. It sounded crazy saying it aloud. But Niall had been weary in body and soul when he’d arrived back in Australia, and seeking to find his balance ever since. “And that’s insulting to both of us. But what the hell does it look like?”

“You tell me.” His brother’s steady gaze locked onto his.

“She hates debt, but doesn’t care about money.” And I’m a feckin’ eejit. “Family. That’s what counts, and she keeps losing it.”

“And that insight gets us precisely where in unravelling this puzzle?” His brother was watching Niall fumble his way to some truth Liam had already worked out. “Sinead was wrong. You’ve spent the past year making frames, which require little of your genius to produce, to pay me back. In the past few months you’ve added restoring pieces for Lucy and for her fancy client. You take work to pay the bills. You’ve also made the cradle and alphabet toys for me, Anna’s got a new mirror, and I bet you’ve got a design for Lucy on the go. You more than pay your way. I’m proud of you, and I admire you.”

“I love you.” Niall knocked back the rest of his whiskey.

“Good thing I watered yours. Did you hear what you just said?”

Liam balanced on the tipped-back chair while Niall joined the dots. For the people he loved, Niall always found time. Ipso facto, he hadn’t loved Sinead.

“What about Lucy?”

“I love her too.”

“Have you told her?”

“She’s too angry to listen to me.”

“Do something so she’s not angry.” Liam made it sound easy.

“The only thing that might make her listen is if I organise another exhibition.” Short of grovelling, an exhibition was the only idea Niall had.

“Should be child’s play if you put your mind to it.” Liam drained his jar. “I’ll tell Lucy’s most unorthodox lawyer we’re considering his very generous offer. We need a fortnight.”

“Will he accept?” Niall asked. Without Lucy, two weeks stretched to eternity. Two weeks was the timetable from hell to organise an exhibition.

“I feel sure I can convince him a matter of such significance needs a little time to contemplate.” His brother pushed to his feet, a man ready to move mountains on Niall’s behalf.

“Lucy’s seriously pissed off. She might not talk to me again even with an exhibition.” Niall met his brother’s gaze, seeking reassurance.

“When you’re down to one option, it makes sense to go with it.”

––––––––

Two weeks later Niallleaned against a wall in a grand, whitewashed warehouse space. The spartan cavern showcased his work better than the gallery he’d originally signed with, and the vestibule display provided a slice of what visitors could expect. He figured he’d chatted and glad-handed everyone in the room, because he owed himself and his family the courtesy of making this show a success. From the smile on Kate’s face when she placed red dots on various pieces, people were buying as well as looking.

With his family’s help, he’d managed to assemble about thirty pieces, including frames and Lucy’s washstand in the vestibule. Part of his apology to her. Part of making peace with who he was and what he might become, if Lucy listened to him.

Only there was no Lucy, and he hadn’t prepared for her no-show.

Pushing off the wall, he fixed a smile on his face and prepared to re-enter the fray. In three weeks, he’d leave Cam’s workshop. He had an unsigned contract for a smaller space further out of town and was so exhausted he’d almost forgotten his name.

“She’s not coming.” Niall tugged at the silk tie Anna had brought with her tonight and insisted he wear.

“She’s not here yet,” Anna replied.

“She hates being late. Did she tell you she was coming?” he demanded, because he needed hope to sustain him for the next hour.

“Not in so many words.” Anna grabbed the lapels of his jacket and manoeuvred him around to face her. “This is the last time I’m fixing this tie. Now stand still and look at me as if you’re interested in what I have to say and simply ecstatic at how the show’s going.”

Niall looked at her. She and Kate had sweated blood to get this show together in the tight timeframe. “I can’t thank you enough.” He kissed her forehead.

“Yes, you can. I won’t get tired of hearing how grateful you are for, oh, I’d say a decade or more.” Anna patted his tie. “Did you send Lucy an invitation?”

“I sent two, one to her at McTavish’s and one to the house.”

“Leave the man alone.” Hunter arrived at Anna’s shoulder. “We know she got the one at McTavish’s because I recognise half this crew from her spring gala sale. Her customers have eclectic tastes, or else she strong-armed them.”

Kate waddled up and took Niall’s right arm.

“I feel surrounded,” he murmured.

“If you still plan on saying a few words, you should say them soon, whether Lucy’s here or not.” Kate was staring at the entrance. “Your mum’s keeping watch and will let us know as soon as Lucy arrives.”

“How did you convince Mum to leave Newcastle?’

“You’re kidding. She wouldn’t miss her brilliant son’s exhibition for quids, plus she was due a visit to talk babies with me.” Kate patted her large baby bump.

Crazy to feel excitement and a gnawing emptiness at the same time, but Niall’s last two weeks had been spent on a seesaw tipping from exhilaration at finally achieving a goal he’d worked for to despair at Lucy’s absence. In a strange way having the fake codicil hanging over his head formed some connection, as did finishing her washstand. He’d buried himself in work, creating smaller pieces and designing more.

Sleep eluded him. When he closed his eyes, he saw Lucy standing on the other side of the room. Each time he took a step toward her, she stepped back, and the distance between them became endless. He woke in a sweat.

The idea to display drawings of new designs came to him in a rare, hopeful dream. Lucy had been standing at his shoulder in the workshop, looking at drawings for Leopold’s picture frames, and he’d heard her voice in his ear: “Whatever you do, it’s the same basic principle. People buy based on the design. If they see a finished product, they buy more.”

Hard as it was to accept, Leopold’s had provided him with options. They’d told him to come back if he was interested in a new contract, offered a deal based on three or six monthly deliveries, rather than every few weeks. He could enjoy designing frames if the job was a one-off, not a necessity to pay down debt.

“The natives are getting restless, despite our fine selection of beer and peanuts.” Anna interrupted his thoughts. “Showtime.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Hunter said. “I added fine wine and canapes to the spread. The punters are stuffing themselves and can wait until you’re ready. If there’s no speech, so be it. To be honest, the works speak for themselves, carpenter. I’m very impressed.”

More praise, and still this hollow in his stomach.

Would Lucy let him in if he turned up on her doorstep? Begging held growing appeal.

* * *

The warehouse hostingNiall’s exhibition sat on the other side of the quiet suburban street. Still, Lucy hesitated, her stomach switching to some vicious internal spin cycle, making it hard to stay upright. She reached instinctively for her pearls. Her thumb and forefinger moved from gem to gem as she recited the lessons her gran had taught her. Honesty was essential for love to survive. Forgiveness came a close second. She hadn’t been honest any more than Niall had, and she wasn’t sure he’d forgive her.

But he”d listen.

Because he was an honourable man—stubbornly honourable some days. She exhaled to the count of six and settled.

She pushed through the entrance doors to a large vestibule, and gasped. Her washstand was spot-lit on a raised dais, meticulously restored using the Breccia Oniciata pink marble Grandpa had stored for decades and her gran’s beloved jug and basin set. Her gaze flew to the flyer advertising the exhibition taped above it. The print copy was about three metres by four, showcasing the Huon pine table, with Lucy’s bowl filled with lemon and ruby grapefruit toward one end. The caption Quinn, by design was artfully scribbled across the other end of the table in the poster.

“The contrast does rather take one’s breath,” said a white-haired woman sitting at a simple, elegant Queensland walnut table near the entrance. Lucy would swear the table was a Quinn original and the woman his mother—she had the same grey eyes.

“I thought the exhibition was of Niall’s furniture.” Lucy absorbed the multiple images. On the left-hand side wall were a half-dozen frames of different sizes, each holding a copy or a fragment of the poster. On the opposite wall were six framed mirrors, reflecting the posters, and the washstand. The message seemed to be I’m all of this.

If there was a clue to whether he’d accept Cam’s bequest or call her bluff in this display, she couldn’t interpret it.

“Niall’s work,” the woman explained.

“I’m guessing this is a family affair?” A redundant question when Lucy knew the Quinn and Turner twins fiercely defended their own. Kate had called at McTavish’s to collect the fruit bowl, absolving or depriving Lucy of a chance to drop it off. She could have insisted on delivering it and on seeing Niall. But the two weeks Liam had requested to consider her cash offer flashed as loudly as any No Trespassers sign. “The poster looks like an Anna design.”

“You know my daughter-in-law’s sister?” Niall’s mother’s expression held the same mix of shrewd speculation and kindness as her son’s. Lucy had known Anna was family, but the warmth in Mrs. Quinn’s voice confirmed it.

“I’ve met her.” The loss of Lucy’s family was a permanent ache. “Was it her idea to change his business name? I like Quinn, by design.”

“Niall’s idea.” The woman glanced at something on her phone. “I’m his mother, Mary. Just for our records, are you already on our invitation list, or were you lured by Anna’s clever advertising?”

“An invitation.” Relief had blinded her to the content of the flyer, although it had contained a fragment of the poster. More importantly, the personal invitation gave Lucy a legitimate reason to see him, to see his exhibition, and to apologise for her messy temper tantrum. If the opportunity to ask what he planned to do about Cam’s bequest came up, she’d take that too, because the two-week deadline expired tomorrow. Niall’s mother was waiting for her to introduce herself. “I’m Lucy McTavish.”

“Cam’s granddaughter,” Mary said matter-of-factly.

“You knew Grandpa?”

“I met him once, but he believed in my boy, so I was inclined to like him. I can take you through if you like.” She checked the front door. “I doubt many more will come. The show’s closing soon.”

“Please don’t. I’m sure you’re busy. I’m happy just to wander around,” Lucy gushed. The older woman held up a hand, and Lucy shut her mouth, before she developed verbal diarrhoea. The Quinn and Turner families had believed in Niall for years, whereas she’d almost cost him this chance. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Lucy didn’t want company for her first conversation with Niall since their fight.

“Whisht, lassie. No need to apologise. You’re here now,” Mary said, revealing more shared qualities with her son. “Some of your friends visited earlier. At least, I assume they were friends because they listed you as the source of their information about the show.”

“I forwarded the invitation to a few people.” She’d created McTavish history by promoting an exhibition other than their own, but hadn’t hesitated before forwarding the invitation to her entire client list with a strong personal recommendation. “I guess I follow the music and chatter.”

The music was a subtle riff underscoring the hum of cheerful voices. Mary waved her through the door. The single large room with bare rafters, double-height windows, white-washed walls and polished cement floors didn’t pretend to be a professional gallery, but someone with a clever eye had turned it into a cathedral of art. Probably Anna, but Niall would have known the empty spaces would draw the visitor’s gaze to the elegant simplicity of his designs.

Niall was responsible for Icehouse’s national anthem Great Southern Land playing in the background. Australian pop royalty backed by a full orchestra and choir suited the blend of awe-inspiring old and new creations spread out before her. Niall’s skill was formidable, but his artistry stole her breath.

Despite the grandeur of the space, the Huon table attracted all eyes. Lucy recognised pieces from the storeroom, plus Liam and Kate’s table and cradle. An exquisite mirror decorated with a frieze of gumnuts was new to her. She smiled involuntarily. She’d bet Gran’s pearls he’d designed it for a child. A girl.

“Hello, Lucy.” The wrong voice spoke near her ear.

“Hello, Hunter.” She liked the man, but he wasn’t Niall. “Have you been delegated to see me out?”

“We both know you have an invitation.” He slipped an arm around her waist, as if he feared she’d disappear. “Unless you’re planning on doing something to get yourself thrown out?”

“I needed to see his success.” She surveyed the animated crowd, noting the sold dots on every item. Some really were for sale. “It is a success, isn’t it?”

“Financially, it’s a success. Creatively, it’s a success. But there are other measures.”

“Now you’re talking in riddles.” She freed herself. “Niall deserves the creative and financial success.”

“Money and fame aren’t enough to nourish the soul.” Hunter was notoriously private, making his low-voiced reflection echo like a confession.

“Without buyers, he can’t make furniture.” She’d thought Niall had doubted he’d find buyers for his designs. Hunter upended her assumptions. Niall’s father’s debts hadn’t brought him home. They’d been his welcome. What had brought him home? “If you haven’t been delegated to throw me out, and we’re agreed I’m not here to make a fuss, why are you shadowing me?”

His dimple appeared with his grin, making her see why Anna was attracted. “Moral support. And any other support you want.”

“That’s kind. But Niall and I have unfinished business, so I’ll have to speak to him at some point.”

“And you think there’s safety in a crowd?” He tsked. “You poor, deluded woman.”

“Is he here?” She hungered for a glimpse of him. She’d taken a happy snap of him in his workshop one day. Lucy had known she was lovesick when she’d started carrying a print copy in the sleeve of her phone, checking it more often than incoming calls.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Niall stepped onto a small stool, so he stood above the crowd.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from him. The workshop photo missed his power—a facsimile of a good-looking man. Energy and a sense of purpose bounced off him.

Please accept Grandpa’s bequest. You don’t have to deal with me if you don’t want to.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. It’s a pleasure to see familiar faces.” Niall’s gaze rested on her. “And faces I hope will become familiar as years pass. Quinn, by design is my work, but the result of the faith and support of many people. Two people not here deserve special mention. My father, Mick Quinn, who planted the passion for wood in me, and Cameron McTavish, who’s been a more generous patron than I deserve. My extended family have been relentless in helping put this show on.” A woman nearby cheered. “Liùsaidh McTavish has been an inspiration. To all of you, my thanks.”

The world stopped. The music died. Lucy could hear her heart pounding. Niall had called her Liùsaidh before his closest family. An inspiration. Mary had been generous with her welcome, but she was the greeter at the feast. It was Mary’s job to charm visitors regardless of her son’s opinion of them. Niall’s tongue had lingered over the vowels in Liùsaidh. Lucy adored the simple caring at the core of him.

“Earth to Lucy.” Hunter nudged her, and she stared at him. “Sounds like he’s ready to speak to you.”

“You’re right. This isn’t the place.” Hope was a resilient emotion, ready to overtake good sense because the man you loved called you an inspiration. “I should find somewhere without an audience.”

“Give me half an hour, and I’ll clear the place.” He sauntered toward Anna.

Lucy and Niall had each let slip small moments when they might have told each other the truth, a zero-sum game where the final outcome was a refusal by each of them to make a commitment.

“I’m thirty-four and can’t make enough to support myself much less anyone else.”

She was thirty on her next birthday and still had occasional nightmares where she stood accused in a court of law for her mum’s murder. “There’s no statute of limitations on murdering your mother,” some ghoul recited.

She exhaled, exorcising the fears and uncertainties that she’d tripped over too many times. Never murder, rather an error in judgment forgivable in a ten-year-old.