QUINN
LUCY WAS NOT IMPRESSED by Quinn’s announcement that she was going out.
“Why?” she asked, her voice so tiny it was barely a whisper.
Good question. Quinn slipped a pair of delicate gold hoops through her earlobes and touched her neck to make sure she was wearing the right necklace. She was stalling, trying to come up with an answer that would explain why she was shirking the duty Nora had so thoughtlessly—so belatedly—thrust upon her. But I’m punishing my husband and I just have to get out of here weren’t exactly kid-appropriate answers. Neither was We have to discuss what to do with you.
And Quinn absolutely couldn’t speak the truth that was making her heart beat high and just a little too fast in her chest: I’m dying to see him.
She pushed the thought out of her mind with a savage thrust and said: “My mom needs me.”
It was an explanation that seemed to resonate with Lucy. She nodded in resignation, as if she knew what it was like to be beholden to her mother. Why? Quinn wanted to ask. What happened to you? But prying had proven to be an exercise in futility before. Little Miss Lucy-Lou was a riddle with layers that had to be slowly, carefully peeled back.
“I won’t be gone long,” Quinn assured her. “And Walker will be here with you.”
That didn’t seem to offer Lucy much comfort. She was wedged into a corner of the couch, and at the mention of Walker’s name she drew herself into a tight little ball: knees tucked snug beneath her chin and arms wrapped around her legs. Lucy was wearing the pajamas that Walker had bought her and she balled the excess fabric in her fists.
“Hey.” Quinn sank to the floor in front of the couch. Her dress was a soft, silky material and it pooled around her thighs as she knelt. Tentatively, Quinn reached out a hand and placed it over Lucy’s bare foot. Besides brushing Lucy’s hair, it was the only time that Quinn had touched her, and she was grateful that the child didn’t jerk away. They were making progress at a snail’s pace, but at least they were moving in the right direction. Were they bonding? Or starting to? A part of Quinn wanted to stick around and find out, but she was committed now. Her mother had texted no less than four times and Walker was in the shower, prepping himself for a night on the couch and a House of Cards Netflix binge.
But they both knew he had no intention of watching TV. Walker would spend the evening listening, watching, waiting. After Lucy’s unnerving phone call, Walker had abandoned his sculpture for the day. Instead of working, Quinn watched as he fished a tire iron out of the trunk of his car and unearthed an old metal baseball bat from the shed.
“What are you doing?” Quinn whispered when she saw him carrying the tire iron in one hand and the bat in the other.
Walker didn’t look at her as he passed. “She’s afraid. I’m going to keep her safe.”
From what? Her father?
“This is ridiculous,” Quinn said, following him.
Walker wheeled on her. “You saw her. She’s scared to death, Quinn. I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s something terribly wrong—and if your sister won’t tell us what it is, the least we can do is make sure Lucy’s okay.”
“Nora—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Walker stormed past. “Stop covering for your sister. Lucy is the one who needs our protection.”
They had hardly spoken the rest of the day. What was there to say? Walker wasn’t a violent person. As far as Quinn knew, he had never even been in a fistfight. If something actually happened—if someone came for Lucy—what would he do? But the whole situation still seemed ludicrous to Quinn. Impossible. This couldn’t be their lives. All the same, she agreed to go to her mother’s in the hope that Liz would be ready to join the cause. Whatever it was.
Quinn sighed and tried to give Lucy a reassuring smile. She squeezed her foot. “I’m going to tuck you in,” she said, “and when you wake up in the morning it will be as if I was never gone at all.”
“It’s not my bedtime.”
“It’s eight thirty,” Quinn said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “When I was your age I had to be in bed by seven thirty.” It was true, or at least close enough. Quinn still wasn’t exactly sure how old Lucy was. She had asked, but the number changed. Six? Seven? Was it common for children not to know their age? Quinn just wasn’t sure.
“I’m not tired.” But Lucy’s eyes were heavy, her arms loosening their grip on her skinny legs. She was clearly exhausted.
“I’ll carry you to bed . . . ?” It was an offer that Quinn wasn’t sure the girl would accept, but after a moment of consideration, Lucy held out her arms.
She didn’t weigh much. Or maybe she just held herself carefully. Either way, in one quick movement Lucy was pressed against Quinn. Her legs went around Quinn’s waist and her arms circled her neck. Quinn stood still for a heartbeat, two, as she held the girl close and breathed in the scent of her hair, her sun-warmed skin. It was impossible not to love a child, and Lucy’s innocence was an arrow that pierced Quinn. I think I love you, she thought, and I don’t even know you. The thought surprised her. And scared her.
Quinn carried Lucy to the bedroom and tucked her in, tugging the sheets up to her chin and offering her the stuffed fox that Walker had bought. Lucy took it and pulled it close, then rolled onto her side so that her back was to Quinn and the bedroom door. She cut such a sad silhouette that Quinn faltered, ready to break her promise to her mother and forget the whole evening out. But then she had an inspiration.
“Wait a sec,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Grabbing a pen and the handset of the telephone off the wall, she hurried back to Lucy. “Give me your hand, honey.”
Lucy rolled over, a skeptical look on her face. But she held out her hand anyway.
Writing carefully, Quinn traced her cell phone number onto the smooth skin of Lucy’s palm. “This is the number to my cell,” she said. Passing Lucy the handset she added, “And here’s the phone. If you need me for any reason at all, you call that number and I’ll be here so fast your head will spin.”
Lucy stared at the numbers, her face blank and unreadable. But then she curled her fingers over her palm as if protecting a precious secret. With her other hand she took the phone and hid it beneath her pillow. She settled back, wrapping herself tight in the covers.
Quinn watched the curve of her back for a moment, the rise and fall of her steady breath. “Do you want me to lock the door?” she asked, wondering what Lucy would say.
She nodded.
“Okay.” Quinn touched her shoulder and wished she dared to brush a kiss across the shallow divot of her temple. “Good night, Lucy.”
Quinn locked the door from the inside and pulled it shut behind her, hoping that the phone and the closed door made Lucy feel safe.
“Did you just lock that door?” Walker asked. He was standing in pajama pants, drying his unkempt hair with a towel. His narrow chest was bare and though it made Quinn’s stomach knot, she was thankful that Lucy hadn’t seen him half-dressed and lean, masculine and intimidating. Walker had the body of a runner, lithe and spare, but he was all man. I’m afraid of him, Lucy had said. And though Quinn had no idea who he was or what he looked like, she could ballpark a few generalities.
“Yes, I locked the door,” she said. “Lucy felt safer that way. There’s an ice pick in the utensil drawer if you need it. Just stick it in the hole in the center of the knob and it’ll pop open.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before. Is there anything you’d like to confess?”
“Just that I liked to borrow my sister’s clothes when I was a teenager. She locked her door; I broke in.”
“I like this side of you, Mrs. Cruz.” Walker arched an eyebrow, but it was a feeble attempt at flirtation.
Quinn looked away quickly, afraid that he could see the truth written across her face. That when they fought sometimes she wondered: Do we belong? Of course, she knew the answer to that question. Yes. Yes, forever. But sometimes . . . “Call me if you need anything,” she said, and was surprised by how her voice fell limp and weak between them.
Walker didn’t seem to notice. “I think I can hold down the fort for a couple of hours.”
“Just promise me you’ll let me know if she needs me.”
He slung the towel across his shoulders and put his hands on his hips. “Be careful,” he said.
“Yeah. You too.”
• • •
When Quinn pulled up to her mother’s house, the cul-de-sac was full of cars. The vehicles stretched around the circle and down both sides of the street, but no one had dared to park in Liz Sanford’s stamped concrete driveway. Well, Quinn had no problem doing so. She pulled in and turned off the car, then sat behind the steering wheel for a minute, watching the sun set in her rearview mirror.
How many times had she lingered on this driveway, wishing she didn’t have to go in? The tension between Nora and her parents was often thick and suffocating and JJ’s superiority was unbearable. Quinn had longed for happiness, for peace. For banter around the supper table and maybe the odd family movie night with popcorn and laughter. But the Sanfords had always spun just a little off-center, the wobble imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t on the inside. Weren’t they lovely in Christmas cards? Attractive and smiling? Weren’t they sociable and accomplished and model students and citizens of Key Lake? Well, for the most part.
Sighing, Quinn finally stepped out of the car and made her way to the back of the house. Her dress swished against her hips, her hair loose and wavy across her shoulders. She had spent an inordinate amount of time getting ready, making sure that she would leave Walker wanting when she walked out the door. Now she realized that her mother’s backyard was filled with strangers, people she didn’t know or acquaintances she had all but forgotten about in her five-year exile. Quinn felt their eyes on her, their attention direct because they were tipsy. Each gaze was a brushstroke against her skin, an almost tangible thing. All at once she felt conspicuous, exposed.
“Quinn!” Liz broke away from a group of people near the small fountain that flanked a rose garden and swayed toward her daughter, arms spread wide. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, gathering her daughter into a loose hug. Then, a whisper: “You’re late.”
“I’m here,” Quinn said. “Can we—”
“Hi, Quinn.” Amelia appeared at Quinn’s elbow and put a stiff arm around her sister-in-law. Her belly was so huge they couldn’t properly hug, and she gave up, resorting to rubbing her tummy absentmindedly.
“You look beautiful,” Quinn told her, and though she meant it, there was a thread of jealousy woven through her words. The truth was, Amelia looked like she belonged on the cover of Parenting magazine. She was diminutive, dark, and shapely, her lips full and her thick, shoulder-length hair held back with tortoiseshell clips. There was something indefinably wholesome about her, as if pregnancy had conferred a sort of purity on her that canceled out what Quinn knew of her sister-in-law’s partying days. Despite being five feet two and barely a hundred pounds—pre-pregnancy, of course—Amelia used to be able to shotgun a beer in three seconds flat. Now her tummy was almost exactly the size of a mini-keg, but instead of Bud Light it contained Quinn’s soon-to-be niece or nephew. Well, Quinn’s other niece or nephew. She swallowed. “How are you feeling?”
“Big, fat, tired . . .”
JJ came up behind Amelia and offered her a small plate filled with hors d’oeuvres. “Hungry,” he added. “Often, hangry. Hi, sis.”
Quinn didn’t move to hug him, but she forced a smile. JJ was dapper and charming as always, resembling a model in a Polo Ralph Lauren ad in a slim-fitting jean shirt and plaid shorts. He even had the quintessential cleft chin and dazzlingly white smile—never mind the prep school attitude. Quinn often longed to remind him that he had been born in the provincial backwater town of Key Lake, Minnesota, not upstate New York. She suspected that he’d be genuinely surprised at this news. “It’s good to see you guys,” she said, grasping at normalcy. “We haven’t gotten together much this summer.”
It was true. JJ and Amelia had their own social circle, their own carefully constructed lives. JJ had taken over his father’s real estate business and Amelia worked as his secretary. Nepotism be damned. It was his company and he could do what he wanted with it. Besides, they made a pretty couple, and no one ever seemed to question things that were lovely.
“This is exactly why I decided to throw a party,” Liz interjected, slipping one arm around Quinn and the other around Amelia. “Here we are, all living in the same town, and we never see one another. It’s a tragedy.”
JJ and Amelia exchanged a look, one that clearly said less family time was hardly a tragedy in their books.
“I suppose I’m feeling a little nostalgic these days,” Liz admitted. “And you will never guess who I ran into yesterday.”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” JJ said, taking a pull on his beer and looking past his mother. He was clearly bored, and Amelia tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and pinched. Quinn could tell by the way he winced and gave his wife a sharp look.
But Liz seemed unaware of his disinterest. “I ran into Tiffany Barnes,” she said with relish.
It was a name that Quinn hadn’t heard in years. Nora’s high school best friend? So what? But the air between them was suddenly brittle, chilly. Amelia dropped JJ’s arm and looked away, the set of her jaw hard and angry. JJ moved to put his hand on the small of his wife’s back, but she shifted toward Quinn and his fingers brushed empty space.
“She was at Walmart,” Liz said, apparently oblivious to the effect of her words.
But studying her mother, Quinn realized that Liz knew exactly what she was doing. She had brought up Tiffany on purpose.
And then Quinn remembered. Another night. Another party like this. Nora was looking for Tiffany, asking everyone where her best friend had disappeared to. She eventually found her on the dock with JJ. Tiffany’s hair was mussed, her lips flushed pink from kissing, and when she chased after Nora to try to explain, Quinn could see that her shirt was buttoned wrong. JJ? It was inconceivable, the worst kind of betrayal, even to Quinn, who at fourteen knew very little about the rules of love and friendship.
It came to nothing, as far as Quinn knew. Tiffany chose Nora, or something like that, and her fling with JJ was nothing more than fuel for the gossip mill. It had all happened before Amelia, before they were of an age where they could make decisions that weren’t primarily based on hormones. A lifetime ago. What did it matter? And why would Amelia care now? She was clearly stunningly pregnant with JJ’s baby.
“Well.” Quinn clapped her hands together, suddenly eager to get away. What was she supposed to do? Pretend that she was close with JJ and Amelia? That this bizarre conversation made sense to her? Quinn was still angry at her mother for other reasons. She hadn’t forgiven Liz for bursting in on her the morning before and was downright livid at her casual disregard of the fact that she had a granddaughter. It was unnatural. They were too far apart and far too close all at the same time. Perpetually missing each other. “I, for one, would love a glass of wine.”
The proclamation was an excuse to leave, but it was also a bit of a jab at Amelia in her current state. And, if Quinn was perfectly honest with herself (why the hell not?), a challenge to her own womb and the life she hoped was taking root inside. A glass of wine would be a gauntlet thrown, an “I dare you” to her own broken body.
Quinn was suddenly, irrationally angry. At Walker, at her brother and his blossoming wife, at Nora and Liz, at her out-of-control life. Her mother was saying something to her, but it didn’t matter, Quinn was already gone. Off in the direction of the nearest table where she could see a profusion of bottles. Her mother always mixed a drink or two for these occasions, but guests usually came bearing wine or fine whiskey, sometimes cheap tequila with a bag of key limes. There was never a shortage of options.
But, apparently, there was sometimes a shortage of cups. There wasn’t a paper Dixie cup in sight, and Liz’s plastic reusable wineglasses (the ones she liked to stack in towers like champagne flutes) were clearly long gone. For a moment, Quinn stood at the table, contemplating whether she would stoop so low as to swig straight from the bottle of pinot grigio only inches from her fingertips. But before she could take the plunge, Quinn felt someone touch her elbow.
She turned from the spread before her, thirsty and irritated and vulnerable, her composure thin. It was the worst possible state for her to be in when she spun around to find Bennet Van Eps standing before her. Of course, she knew that he was coming, but his proximity was still a shock. Quinn hadn’t seen him in five years, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Same quirky smile, one cheek creased as if he were laughing at a private joke. Same ashy blond hair, cut marine close and perfectly edged, a striking complement to his broad features. He would have looked dangerously handsome in fatigues, but instead of joining the military like he always said he would, Quinn had heard years ago that he became a cop.
Bennet was tender and soft-spoken, skilled at long silences and careful listening. He had been quiet when Quinn was loud, steady when she was tossed in a troubled sea. Bennet was the opposite of Walker in so many ways that Quinn found it jarring to see him now, to be reminded of who he was and what he had been, when her life had taken such a different path.
“Bennet,” Quinn said, and wasn’t sure if she was surprised or happy or just a little bit heartbroken. He had always been so patient with her, so quick to forgive. Quinn wondered if he had forgiven her betrayal. No, she didn’t have to wonder. There was no excuse for what she had done.
“Hi, Quinn.”
There was no playbook for this, no rules she knew to follow. Should she shake his hand? Laugh? Cry? It was more than Quinn could handle, and the chaos of her life in that moment tipped her toward him. It was the slightest hint of movement, just a shift in his direction, but Bennet fell a little, too. For just a heartbeat the world seemed to pause in its orbit, a fraction of a second that spun back the clock to a time when this was all that had mattered. Them. Together.
When his arms went around her, the thought that wisped through Quinn’s mind quiet as a wish was: home.