Chapter 12
KANE
“…close behind you.”
The warning comes too late. The door shuts with a definitive bang and I watch in disbelief as the old doorknob falls to the floor with a clatter.
Quinn grimaces as the round object rolls across the room like a pinball off course.
“I’ve been meaning to fix that, but it wasn’t high on the priority list. I’m afraid we’re stuck in here unless someone with a key to the front door can come and let us out.
” She runs her fingers through her auburn tresses.
“I really hate to call Maeve this late at night.”
Spending a few hours alone with Quinn is definitely not a hardship for me. As long as she’s okay with it. I wouldn’t want her to feel like she’s trapped with me against her will. “Then don’t. If Maeve’s an early riser, you can give her a call in a few hours.”
“That would be a fine plan if I had my phone on me. I left it on the bar.”
“No problem. You can use mine.” I reach for it in my pocket, but it’s not there. “Damn. My phone’s on the charger. At my place.”
Maeve giggles, the sound warming my insides. “Nothing left to do right now, but to have a drink. Good thing the Jameson’s on this side of the door.”
“I’ll definitely drink to that.” I uncap the bottle and fill our glasses halfway, then hand one to Quinn. “Move the glass around a bit to blend the whiskey with the ice. It’ll enhance the flavors.”
After swirling the glass, she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip, emitting an erotic sound as she savors the taste.
“Oh my gosh, that’s good. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like an explosion of smokey fruit and vanilla on my tongue, yet mellow at the same time.”
My insides are warming up fast, both from her words and the spirits. I need to change the subject before I make a fool of myself.
“You know what I think we need for the festival?”
She takes another sip, then responds, “What’s that?”
“Food trucks. With all the carnival favorites.”
“Ooh, I like that idea. Maybe some deep-fried twinkies.”
Looks like we’re on the same page about the deep-fried delicacies. “Deep-fried everything. The more outrageous, the better.”
That infectious laugh of hers hits me again like a shot through the heart as she poses a question. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever had deep fried?”
“Are we talking sweet or savory?”
“Either one.”
“Hmm. Non-sweet, I’d say deep-fried spaghetti and meatballs.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “What? I can’t even imagine that.”
“No joke. I was at the state fair in Tampa a few years back and wanted to try something different. One of the trucks was offering spaghetti and meatballs on a stick. They even gave me some red sauce to dip it in. Absolutely delicious.”
She tilts her head to one side as if imagining it for herself. “Portable pasta. That’s interesting.”
“Spoken like a true marketing professional.”
“I suppose. Old habits die hard.”
“Do you miss your job in the big city?” I find myself holding my breath for her answer. I have to know.
“Why do you ask? You’re determined to win that bet, aren’t you? If I go back to Boston, you get Kavanaugh’s.”
That’s not why I want to know. To hell with the stupid bet. I don’t want her to leave.
She doesn’t wait for me to answer the question. “Actually, my old boss called me the other day. Offered me a promotion to come back.”
My mouth goes dry. That’s a damn hefty incentive to leave Pelican Point. “Are you going to take it?”
She looks me in the eyes as if trying to gauge my reaction before responding. “No. I told you before. Kavanaugh’s is all I have left of my family. It’s where I belong.”
Relief washes over me. Now that we’ve put that to rest, I can get back to our previous discussion. “Deep-fried Oreos.”
She gives me a blank look. “What?”
“After the deep-fried spaghetti, I had my favorite deep-fried dessert. Oreos.”
There goes that moan again, as she sighs. “Mm. Deep-fried perfection.”
The throaty sound and the look on her face as she closes her eyes in ecstasy hits me straight in the groin.
Damn. I’m definitely in trouble. Not knowing what else to do, I refill our glasses and look around the office for something, anything, to re-focus my attention.
Over in the corner, I spot a large box with the names Michael and Rose written on the side with a marker.
Quinn’s parents.
She catches me staring at the box. “That’s a box of my parents’ things. I haven’t had the courage to look inside it yet. Maybe now’s the time.”
For the first time since I met her, I witness a vulnerability in Quinn.
In this moment, there’s no spunk and sass, just a fellow human revealing what’s behind her mask.
“We’ve got plenty of time in here right now.
If you’re ready. Will you tell me about your parents? Share some of your history with me?”
She nods her head and goes to the corner, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I join her on the floor, waiting patiently as she takes a deep breath and opens the top flaps.
She reaches in and removes a photo album, cradling it reverently in her hands. “I remember looking at this when I was a little girl. It’s my parents’ wedding album.”
I scoot closer to her as she opens the book, revealing photos of a smiling couple in Kavanaugh’s Korner decked out for a wedding reception.
A much younger version of Connor and other faces I recognize from around Pelican Point appear in the background of many of the pictures.
“You look just like your mother. She was very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Quinn replies as she lightly caresses the image of her mother, as if trying to remember what her skin felt like. After turning the final page, she sets the album aside and takes another book from the box. “My baby album. Maybe we don’t need to look at this one.”
“I’d love to see your baby pictures. I bet you were a real cutie.”
She lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Okay. But don’t tell anyone I shared these with you.”
The album begins with photos of Quinn’s birth, and continues for every birthday, school picture, and special occasion, taking me through the stages of her childhood. It comes to an abrupt end with the sixth-grade version of Quinn.
“My mother loved to take pictures of me. I think she documented just about every aspect of my life with a photo…until she died.”
I reach out and lightly brush her arm to comfort her as she continues to share memories of the parents she lost too young.
I can’t bring myself to tell her about the Friday the Thirteenth curse and my grandmother’s insistence that it was responsible for the loss of her parents on that fateful date.
So I give her the only words of comfort I can muster.
“I’m sorry.”