“He said that when he was hunting in a swamp one day, a water moccasin came after him and tried to bite him.”
They hadn’t been hunting so much as traipsing through the woods with the air rifles they’d gotten for Christmas. And when Jim saw the snake and decided that its skin would make a good hat band, all Quinn had been able to think at the time was that the poor snake was standing its ground in an effort to defend itself when fleeing didn’t work. “Any animal will fight back when you’re trying to kill it.”
“I get that,” Sean replied. “People want to kill what they fear, and any animal that’s being attacked has a right to defend itself.”
They drifted along with the current, and the serenity of the slow-moving water under the floating clouds seeped into the open pores of Quinn’s spirit. He realized that he could see himself as the snake, being attacked and forced to fight back. He could also see himself as a human driven by his internal fears to kill anything he couldn’t conquer. He wondered if Abby’s animal communication bullshit was getting to him; then he decided that if it was, that was okay with him.
After a half hour of silent paddling through the lush bayou, Sean spoke up. “Is Abby expecting us for dinner? It seems like feeding time for the barn critters.”
Abby had always used the term critters. That reminded Quinn too much of the steeped-in-the-South colloquialisms he’d spent a lifetime trying to escape. “She doesn’t need so much help since she had her cast removed.”
“But I miss the animals. And I miss Abby—especially her cooking.”
Quinn paddled around the corner of a spit of land, avoiding a fallen tree that stuck up out of the shallow water at the edge of the boggy island. “I miss her, too. But she doesn’t need our help anymore since her foot is better.” A couple of turtles plopped off a dead branch into the water. “I thought you and I would hang out, just the two of us, and work on the estate’s renovation this weekend.”
Sean paddled harder to catch up. “But I want to see Wolf before I go home.”
Go home. Those two words speared Quinn’s heart. His son’s home should be with him. But what he wanted more than having his son with him was having his son happy. “I’ll text Abby and see if she can use your help with the evening feed.”
“Yeah, sure. Text her now, so she’ll know we’re almost there.” They skimmed along the coastline of the boggy island, where the mingled scent of wild azaleas and honeysuckle filled the air. Sean paddled hard to pass Quinn and take the lead. “Maybe we can both do the evening feed and then have dinner with Abby like we’ve been doing. If she doesn’t feel like cooking, we could bring some takeout.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay next door and get ready for tomorrow’s project.” Quinn knew it’d be awkward between him and Abby until they’d had a chance to talk, and he didn’t want Sean to pick up on any angst. “But I’ll see if Abby can use your help.” Quinn dug his phone from the bungee net and sent a text to Abby: Sean wants to help with the evening feed.
A second later, he got an answer:
Sean is welcome to come to the farm anytime, and his help is much appreciated. I won’t mention anything about what’s going on between you and me. If he wants to stay for dinner, I’ll make spaghetti. Make any excuse you want about why you can’t come. I’ll send him home with a plate for you.
He texted back. Excuse made. Thanks for letting Sean come. It means a lot to him—and even more to me. I hope we can talk on Monday.
She didn’t respond at first, but after a while, a terse message pinged through. I’ll be busy till 7:00 p.m. on Monday. I guess you can come then.
Chapter 23
Early Monday morning while Abby was in the barn feeding critters, she heard Quinn’s motorcycle rev up and roar down the drive. The sound reverberated off the barn walls as if the motorcycle was inside the barn instead of on the patio next door. No wonder the animals always yelled whenever Quinn drove up on his annoying, loud Harley.
Too bad his hot bod in those motorcycle leathers—and also outside of them—had convinced her to let him into her bed. Too bad his attentiveness in bed—and also outside of it—had convinced her to let him into her life. Too bad he’d lured her into trusting him before she’d received convincing proof that he wasn’t trustworthy.
She knew from his early-morning text (which she’d ignored) that he was going into NOLA to measure a kitchen for a new custom cabinet project. He planned to come back in the afternoon and was looking forward to seeing her that evening.
But she didn’t care where he went or what he did or when he came back or what he was looking forward to, because she had vowed two days ago to cut him out of her life, and she meant to stick by her resolution. She would hear him out—because she had agreed to in a moment of weakness—but then she would show him the door.
Sean, on the other hand, would be welcome as long as he wanted to keep coming around and helping out at the farm. He loved the animals and seemed to need the nurturing they provided. Plus, he liked Abby’s cooking, and she enjoyed cooking for someone who enjoyed it.
In the barn’s open doorway, Georgia gave Wolf’s ears a thorough cleaning while he stretched out on the concrete in a patch of sunlight. When his ears were done, she moved on to give tender attention to the large, scabby wound in his side. “Get a room, you two,” Abby groused.
As usual, they ignored her.
She shoveled another load of steaming pony poop into the wheelbarrow and tried to hate Quinn and his loud, annoying Harley. And she knew that she should hate them both. But her downfall now, as before, had nothing to do with reality and everything to do with her stupid, unrealistic, romantic wishes of what could be, which always stopped her from seeing the undeniable, realistic, verifiable truth of what actually was.
Georgia leaped to her feet and barked at a battered pickup coming down the drive. Wolf fled for the safety of his den. Abby brushed her hands on the back pockets of her shorts and went out to greet Mack. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing good,” Mack grumbled, his voice deep and dark and disgusted. “I’ve come to give you a heads-up about something that’s brewing down at City Hall.”
Abby’s heart fluttered like a panicked chicken fleeing from a fox. She put a hand on her chest to calm its hectic beating. “What?”
Mack ran a hand through his short dark hair, making it stand on end. “Can we go inside?”
“Sure.” Abby led the way to the house. Inside, she took down two glasses and filled them with ice and water. “Let’s sit at the bar.”
“I’m kind of dusty,” he protested.
“These barstools can take it.” She set their water glasses on the counter. “I’m dusty, too, from shoveling stalls.”
Her nerves had calmed a bit from doing the small, homey chore of filling glasses for herself and her guest, but the second she sat at the bar, the panicked chicken in her chest started fluttering again. Mack perched his butt on the barstool next to hers and turned the water glass in his hands. He cleared his throat and gave her a mournful look full of pity and regret.
“Go ahead.” She sipped her water and swallowed to make it go down past the lump of fear in her throat. “Tell me.”
“The city council is all—pretty much all—on your aunt Reva’s side.” He cleared his throat again and took a sip of water. “The mayor, however, believes that the presence of farm animals in the city limits could present a health hazard for the citizens of Magnolia Bay.”
Abby scoffed. “That’s bullshit. First of all, the farm is inspected yearly by the USDA. Second, the only people who might possibly live near enough to care are the Grants next door, who signed the petition to allow us to keep the animals. And Quinn, who’s planning to sell out, but at least he signed the petition.”
Mack winced at the last part of Abby’s statement. “Well, here’s the thing…”
Abby’s neck prick
led. “What thing?”
“I did some digging around, trying to figure out how the petition to rescind got started.” He cleared his throat. Again.
“Are you coming down with something?” Abby snapped. “Drink some water and spit out whatever you came here to say.”
One side of Mack’s mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. “You sound just like your aunt Reva.”
“Out with it,” Abby repeated.
“It looks like Quinn complained to his real estate agent about the noise over here when y’all were still doing school field trips. He was worried that having a farm next door would impact the resale value of his property, so he told her to do whatever it took to fix the problem.”
Abby pursed her lips and nodded, her back teeth clenched against the angry words that wanted to spew out. “So Quinn started the petition.”
“Not directly. He complained to his real estate agent, and she talked to JP, giving him the idea of buying up the land around here and building that complex. JP took the ball and ran with it. Getting rid of Bayside Barn was the first step in his plan, step two being the quiet buyout of your elderly neighbors on the other side, step three being, of course, making Quinn an offer he’d be a fool to refuse.”
“And step four being that if Reva couldn’t keep the farm animals, she’d be forced to sell out and go somewhere else?”
“If she wanted to keep her farm animals, she’d have to move. And everyone knows Reva well enough to know that she wouldn’t rehome her animals. They mean more to her than the land.”
“Even though she loves this place and it has been in Grayson’s family for generations.”
Mack nodded. “Even so.”
“And I guess that once JP owned this block, he’d be able to force the owners of the bayside land to sell?”
“He wouldn’t have to force them. The old man isn’t long for this world, and his wife won’t let her shirttail hit her back before she sells everything they own. She hates it here.”
“So Reva’s the only one who needed a little extra nudge, and because of Quinn, JP knew exactly how to do that.”
“True. And if Edna hadn’t stood up at the town hall and made such a fuss, the mayor would’ve quietly pushed it through despite the council’s objections.”
“He can do that?”
“Yep. He can veto any decision the council makes. He would’ve preferred to do it without a lot of opposition from the townspeople, but you know what they say about money talking.”
“Well, shit.” Abby’s nervous heart had stopped fluttering; it seemed to have stopped beating entirely. “What can we do?”
Mack shook his head. “I wish I knew. I guess you’d better call Reva, though. Let her know all this is happening.”
Abby put her head in her hands. “I feel like this is all my fault.”
“Naw.” Mack patted her back. “Of course it isn’t. How could it be?”
She pulled her hair back off her face and let it fall again. “I let the donkeys get loose. I let the cat pee in Quinn’s toolbox. I let a bad kid climb over the fence during a field trip. Quinn complained about the noise when we had field trips, but I didn’t do anything to address his concerns.”
“What the hell could you have done? Tell sixty kids to be quiet all day long?”
She shrugged. “More like ninety kids most days, but yeah.”
“This is not your fault. The same thing would’ve happened if Reva had been here.”
“Maybe, but I still feel bad.” She didn’t elaborate on the main reason she felt bad—because she’d slept with the enemy.
* * *
Monday evening at 6:59 p.m., Quinn stood at Abby’s door wearing clean jeans and a crisply ironed shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, carrying a perfectly chilled bottle of expensive wine just waiting for the cork to pop. She’d had the entire weekend to fume, and he hoped that after a couple of glasses of wine, she’d be ready to listen to reason.
He tapped on the sliding glass door. Wolf came slinking around the corner of the house to sit beside him. Quinn reached down and caressed the dog’s head. “You need to let somebody give you a bath,” he advised the dog. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but you smell like a dog.”
Wolf grinned a canine grin while his long, plumy tail swished back and forth along the concrete patio. Quinn tapped on the door again, then peered inside. The living room and kitchen lights were off. A light shone from Abby’s bedroom, but the door was closed, which would explain why Georgia hadn’t rushed out the dog door to greet him.
“Maybe Abby’s in the bathtub,” he said to the grinning dog. “Maybe she’s still getting dressed.” But something about the lights being off in the main part of the house made Quinn’s skin shiver. He glanced at his watch; he wasn’t early. He was spot-on, exactly on time.
He thought about going inside; he even tried the door, but it was locked. He checked the text from Abby inviting him—well, okay, grudgingly giving him permission—to come today. Surely he hadn’t made a mistake on the timing.
A new text had come through. He read it, and everything behind his ribs—heart, lungs, everything—dropped through his rib cage and hit the concrete with a crash: Don’t come.
Abby’s incomprehensible message read the same way the second time he scanned the terse line. Don’t come.
He set the bottle down on the patio and texted back: Why not? Is everything okay? Are you okay?
He had enough sense to figure out the answers to those questions. But he hoped to God there was some other explanation. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she’d come down with a cold or something that she didn’t want him to catch. His immune system was working just fine, and he wasn’t afraid of catching whatever little bug she might have. Already imagining the scene in which he had to walk away from Abby with nothing but an uncorked bottle of wine in his hand, he knocked on the door, harder this time. And when nothing happened, he knocked on the laundry room door, the one with the dog door in the bottom, the one closest to the guest bedroom.
Georgia barked from the bedroom, her high-pitched alarm yodel. Something could really be wrong with Abby. Meningitis, food poisoning, a virulent flu—okay, it wasn’t flu season—but… Something could be wrong. He tried to convince himself that anything could be wrong.
Anything but the distinct and maybe unavoidable possibility that she was done with him.
He banged on the door. Georgia’s alarm yodel rose in frequency and tripled in volume. After a second, he heard a door slam and pounding footsteps coming his way before Abby yanked the door open. “Did you not get my text?”
“I got your text. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?” She didn’t look okay. Her eyelids were puffy and red-rimmed, her nose was pink, and her skin was flushed as if she’d been sleeping hot. Her wavy hair was even crazier than usual, the waves ending in little corkscrews on the ends. She wore a stretched-out slouchy tank top over Daffy Duck boxer shorts. “Are you coming down with something?”
She put a hand on her hip. “I’m coming down with a bad case of getting over your stupid, lying, betraying ass. That’s what I’m coming down with.”
“Oh.” So just as he’d feared, she wasn’t sick, just sick of him. He took a step back, into the haze of mosquitoes and gnats and all manner of flying bugs that circled around the porch lights. “Can I come in so we can talk?”
She took a step back and slammed the door in his face. Wolf whined and crouched low to the ground, but stayed by Quinn’s side. “Thanks for the backup, buddy,” he said, reaching down to stroke the dog’s ears. “I think I’m gonna need all the help I can get.”
He knocked on the door again. “Abby, please let me in,” he called through the closed door. “I understand that you’re mad at me. I think I understand why. But I know you’re not the kind of person who’d turn me away without giving me a chance to ex
plain.”
“You don’t know what kind of person I am,” she challenged in an angry, loud voice he heard easily. He was surprised it didn’t rattle the windows. “But if you keep standing there, you might just find out.”
“Just give me five minutes,” he pleaded. Wolf’s furry body pressed against his leg, giving comfort. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—”
She opened the door and speared him with a look so filled with hatred that he gasped.
“I know everything.” Her face was tight with anger, her voice filled with bitterness.
Shit. He should have confessed before, when they could have laughed—okay, maybe not laughed, but… “I know this looks bad, but—”
“I don’t care what you have to say.” She stepped forward and poked him in the chest with her finger. “You don’t get a chance to explain.” She poked him again, probably wishing that her finger was a gun driving a bullet into his heart. “Because of you…” She poked him again, pushing him back a step. “Because of you, my aunt is going to lose everything.”
She didn’t have to poke him again; this time, he stepped back, feeling her anger pour over him like a raging flood. “Because of you, my aunt will have to rehome her animals—which she won’t do—or sell the farm that she and her husband built together on the property that has been in his family for generations.”
“I’m sorry. I know I—”
She backed up and braced her hands on the doorframe. “I don’t need your excuses, Quinn. If you have anything to offer, anything at all, it had better be solutions, not excuses. If you can’t do something to reverse this disaster you created, I never want to see you again.”
She slammed the door, then turned the dead bolt with a decisive click. “Fix it,” she yelled through the closed door. “Fix it, or don’t ever step foot on this property again.”
Then all the porch lights went out, leaving Quinn alone in the darkness.
But not entirely alone, he realized. Wolf sat beside him, a stalwart companion emanating comfort and acceptance. The glow from the bedroom window gave Quinn just enough light to see the gleam of the wine bottle he’d left sitting on the patio. He picked up the bottle, then petted Wolf on his furry head. “I guess it’s just you and me and the wine now, buddy.”
Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay Page 29
