by Lily Everett
“Or so says Ron. You know, Ingrid, we did fine without his help for the first twenty-nine years of our marriage.”
Ingrid glanced away. “Maybe for the first twenty-seven years. But the last few, since you retired … Paul, you can’t think we’ve been doing fine.”
The flat tone of her voice hit Paul like a dart to the heart. Bull’s-eye.
“It’s been an adjustment, I’ll admit,” he said with difficulty. “A tougher transition than I was expecting, but I thought we were getting through it. Together.”
“We still are. We just have a little help now, that’s all.”
Paul set his jaw. The kind of help Ron Burkey had been, Paul could do without. “I don’t see how it helps to add a third person standing in the middle of our marriage.”
“Oh, Paul.” Her fingers were white-knuckled around the spine of her journal. “You’re being ridiculous. Ron is an expert at helping couples reconnect—and now he’s weaving threads of communication between us, helping to translate for us.”
Words stuck in Paul’s throat like an unchewed bite of pancake. We don’t need a translator. We already speak the same language, he wanted to say. The language of our marriage, that we built together over decades of living and laughing and fighting and loving each other.
How could anyone else, anyone outside the two of them, be more fluent in that language than they were?
But Paul didn’t say it, because he didn’t want another fight. So he didn’t say anything at all. Instead, Ingrid drew in a breath and began to fill the silence between them with chatter about calling Ron and getting him up to speed.
Paul sat in the armchair closest to the cold fireplace and let the agitated babble wash over him. He said nothing, even when Ingrid said maybe they’d better hold on to the house for the time being, just until they could see Quinn and Marcus together and judge for themselves how serious it was. Paul was pleased that she was finally disregarding some of her guru’s advice, and Paul would rather cut out his tongue than say anything that might make her change her mind.
Maybe Ron was right. Maybe there was a breakdown in communication in their marriage—that was probably true. But that didn’t mean Ron Burkey, “Relationship Expert,” was the one to fix it.
If there was anything left to fix, anymore.
Chapter 4
As the only restaurant on Sanctuary Island, the Firefly Café was always crowded. But every Friday, the line of hungry customers waiting to be seated snaked out the door and into the parking lot. Friday was the only day they served fried chicken as a special. Apparently, that was a big deal.
Quinn’s eyebrows had shot up so far, they were practically kissing her hairline. “What do you mean, you’ve never been to Fried Chicken Friday?”
Marcus shrugged. “We didn’t go out to eat much as a family, when I was a kid.”
“But everyone goes to the Firefly.”
She appeared sincerely confused, an adorable crinkle between her brows. It reminded Marcus of his own confusion, and nameless guilt, when he asked his mother what time Dad was coming home or whether he’d be around to throw the ball that weekend.
“My father worked a lot,” Marcus said. “Both my parents did.” He got that now, the way he hadn’t when he was younger. All he’d understood then was that he was on his own a lot of the time while Dr. Beckett and Nurse Beckett worked their unpredictable shifts at Winter Harbor General.
They moved forward another few feet as the line finally moved. Marcus’s gaze dropped to the plush softness of Quinn’s lower lip where it was trapped between her teeth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t miss going out with them on the weekends. My mom was usually home then, at least, and she was a great cook.”
“She really was!” Quinn’s face went soft and bright at the same time, like the sun coming out on a snowy day. “I remember how everyone at town potlucks would watch for her to put down her casserole or whatever she’d brought, and as soon as she moved away from the table there’d be this stampede of hungry folks ready to load up their plates.”
Marcus felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“And she was so modest and pleased about it. She’d blush and wave her hands and refuse to accept any compliments, but did you know—the autumn harvest festival is always in October, close to my birthday, and your mother would always be sure to bring her famous six-layer lemon cake to that one. I think she knew it was my favorite, and at that one festival every year, she’d stand by the cake and cut the slices herself. And she always gave me the first piece. It made me feel so special. I used to wonder what it would be like to have a mom like that.”
The wistfulness in Quinn’s eyes made Marcus frown. He hadn’t paid a ton of attention to his family’s only neighbors. Quinn was still a little girl when he went off to college, but he’d always had the impression they were a nice family.
Catching his frown, Quinn rushed to say, “Oh, not that my mom is bad! She’s not the world’s best cook, though. And I kind of doubt she knows what my favorite birthday cake is. But still. She’s … well, she’s great. And I’m sure she’s going to love you.”
“Hey, I never promised to make your parents love me. That’s not part of the deal.” Marcus frowned. “I’m not exactly most parents’ dream prospect for their cherished daughter.”
“You don’t know my mother. She’s nothing like most moms.”
Marcus slanted her a sidelong look. “And your father? He’s going to welcome me with open arms, I guess.”
“Maybe not at first, but trust me, when it comes to my future? The bar is set low. Like barely an inch above the ground. At this point, Daddy would be willing to throw a parade in honor of anyone who could get me to settle down and fulfill my true potential. Whatever that means. Mother, on the other hand…”
Quinn sighed, and Marcus started to get the feeling that he knew at least one thing her parents fought about. Their daughter.
It was a heavy burden to put on anyone, the knowledge that your choices had strained your parents’ relationship. Marcus knew that better than most. But he also knew that whatever lay at the heart of Quinn’s parents’ troubles, it wasn’t Quinn’s fault. There had to be more to it than a disagreement over how their daughter should live her life.
He supposed he’d find out soon enough. Years of training and experience in reading people ought to help him get the lay of the land fairly quickly. If they ever made it inside.
Just as his stomach grumbled at the delay, several families in a row left the restaurant looking blissfully full of fried chicken, and the line finally moved forward. Marcus and Quinn were almost at the door when he caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.
Someone was approaching Quinn, coming up on her from behind, and Marcus didn’t stop to think. Training kicked in, and before he knew it, he had her tucked behind him with one arm held back to make her stay put while he squared off with the threat.
The threat … who turned out to be a slim, tanned woman in her early sixties with flowing wavy, gray-streaked hair artfully woven with feathers.
Damn.
“Mrs. Harper?” Marcus said resignedly, dropping his arm to let Quinn move.
She shoved her way past him. “What was that all about, you maniac? Mother, you look nice.”
Mrs. Harper laughed like bells tinkling, her wide eyes fixed on Marcus. “Oh, call me Ingrid. So good to see you again after all these years, Marcus. How is your father? We haven’t seen much of him since we got home, but it’s only been a few days.”
“Welcome back to Sanctuary Island,” Marcus said, smoothly sidestepping the issue of his father. “It’s a nice place to come home to. At least, it has been for me.”
Mrs. Harper—Ingrid—cast her eyes down, the smile slipping sideways into a grimace. “I’ve always loved Sanctuary Island. Paul grew up here, you know, and when we got married I couldn’t wait
to start our life here in this beautiful place. I can’t imagine leaving.”
“Then why are you even considering selling the house?” Quinn asked, throwing her hands up. “Mother, I just don’t get it.”
Instead of snapping back, Ingrid shook her head sadly. “I know you don’t, sweetie. But it wouldn’t be the same for me here, if your father and I…”
She trailed off and the silence that followed was full of a gut-twisting tension until Quinn broke it.
“There’s Daddy!” She waved at her father with false cheer. “Hey! We’re up here. Did you find the best parking spot? Daddy’s superpower is finding the best parking spot, no matter how crowded it is.”
“Not much of a superpower,” the trim, graying man said mildly as he held out his hand for Marcus to shake. “You certainly have grown up.”
Marcus was careful not to grip Paul Harper’s hand too hard. He had nothing to prove here. “Time will do that. But somehow Mrs. Harper looks exactly the same. Is that your superpower, ma’am?”
“Oh, go on.” Ingrid flushed with pleasure, but it was the expression on her husband’s face that interested Marcus.
Paul looked at his wife and said quietly, “It sure is her superpower. She’s as beautiful as the day I married her.”
If Ingrid glowed any brighter, she was going to start attracting moths. At Marcus’s side, Quinn slid a slender arm around his waist and murmured, “Who knew you could be such a charmer?”
He glanced down at her warningly at the touch, which wasn’t exactly PDA—but his involuntary reaction to Quinn’s nearness threatened to turn an innocent embrace into something a lot more X-rated.
Quinn gazed back at him with one brow arched, a blend of surprise, gratitude, and challenge on her pretty face. She hadn’t been sure he would really play along, Marcus realized. She thought he’d sabotage her somehow, or maybe just grunt antisocially at her parents until they stopped asking him questions. The thought stung, even as he admitted to himself that it wasn’t completely off base.
But Marcus could put on a show with the best of them. He didn’t like it, but he knew how to do it.
“I charmed you, didn’t I?” he murmured, unwinding her arm from his waist and bringing her hand to his lips. They tingled where they brushed her warm, soft skin. His tongue darted out automatically to catch the trace of her flavor, salt and honey, still clinging to his mouth. He dropped her hand and took a half step back, suddenly desperate for a little distance.
“You sure did.” Her breathy voice helped to sell the moment, Marcus thought, and Ingrid confirmed it with a happy sigh.
The screen door at the front of the restaurant banged open and a woman with a face like a crinkled paperback and a towering gray beehive stuck her head out. “Are there four of you? Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Paul Harper said, hurrying up the steps as if he were in a rush to get away from the sexual tension crackling between his daughter and Marcus. Ingrid followed him more slowly, waving at friends and stopping now and then to dispense patchouli-scented hugs to people she hadn’t seen in a few months. Marcus was starting to see where Quinn got her social nature, and the effortless sweetness that made her such a favorite in town.
“What are you doing flirting with my mother?” Quinn demanded in a playful hissed whisper as they lagged a few steps behind. The clink and clatter of dinnerware combined with the chatter of happily eating customers to mask their conversation from her parents. Still, Marcus wasn’t about to drop character. Never let down your guard. That’s how things turn to crap in the blink of an eye.
Besides, it wasn’t only her parents they were trying to convince. It was the whole town. And in his peripheral vision, Marcus could see several familiar faces turned in their direction, interested eyes tracking how close they were standing and the obvious intimacy of their whispered conversation. Marcus put on a smile that felt like it showed more teeth than was strictly necessary.
“I’m being a good boyfriend. Isn’t that what you wanted? For your parents to like me and be glad we’re dating?”
Quinn’s mouth twisted ruefully. Her gaze was self-aware and steady. “I guess I should have expected it. You have such a thing for older women! First Miss Patty, now my mother. What’s that all about, anyway?”
Inescapably, Marcus thought of the woman she hadn’t named because Quinn didn’t know anything about her.
Buttercup.
Grief was a funny thing, he’d found. After the first raw wound of it scabbed over, he could go days without thinking of his ex-boss. Weeks, sometimes. But then it would hit him out of the blue, a sucker punch from an unseen assailant, and he’d be right back in the first crushing grasp of it.
Quinn was staring at him expectantly. Marcus’s first instinct was to shut her down, hard enough to make sure she never asked about this again. But they were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. The people at the tables closest to them were starting to look up curiously, wondering why they’d paused. Marcus gritted his teeth.
“My last boss was…” Damn, how could he describe Buttercup? To the world, she’d been a charming, charismatic warrior for justice. She’d certainly dedicated her life to public service, to helping the most vulnerable and disadvantaged parts of society.
But to Marcus, she’d been a firecracker. A pain in the ass with no regard for her own safety. And later, a true friend.
“She was a complicated woman,” he finally settled on. “About Miss Patty’s age, or a little younger.”
Quinn’s round eyes were fixed on him now, every part of her straining closer. He was uncomfortably aware that this was the most he’d ever said about his life after leaving Sanctuary Island all those years ago. “And you respected her. Loved her?”
He shrugged, the question striking too close to the scabbed-over spot on his heart. “She used to say that after a certain age, women became invisible. People smiled, they said hello, but they kept their distance like they were afraid getting old was contagious. I don’t think that’s right—I mean, that’s not how it should be.”
“Everybody deserves to be seen,” Quinn agreed softly, staring up at him as if she were seeing him for the very first time.
“Maybe so.” He rolled the tension out of his shoulders and started moving again, leaving Quinn—and this too intense conversation—lagging behind. “But you might not always like what you see.”
*
Marcus Beckett had to be the most frustrating man who ever lived. Quinn fumed, her legs sticking to the vinyl bench of the booth seat. His thigh was a rock-hard length of heated muscle pressed against her and she couldn’t make herself unaware of it.
Every time she was ready to write him off as a cranky loner who hated all people, everywhere, he did something like this. He turned out to be besties with Miss Patty, or he made Quinn’s mother feel beautiful with a few well-chosen words.
When he let Quinn catch a glimpse of the man behind the scowling mask, it reminded her of that teenaged boy she’d idolized and dreamed about for so many years.
Of course, the mask dropped back down again almost instantly, leaving her feeling cold and alone on the other side—but with the tantalizing memory of having come close to touching the real Marcus Beckett.
“So you own a bar?” her father asked, politely enough, but the sharp glitter of his gray eyes warned Quinn that an interrogation was on its way.
“It’s more of a gathering place,” she interposed smoothly. “A place for folks to meet up, build community, share a few laughs…”
“And a few beers.” Daddy raised his bushy brows as if daring Marcus to contradict him.
“I serve beer, yes.” Marcus took a sip of his water, his eyes never leaving her father’s. “Also wine and liquor. It’s a bar.”
Biting her lip, Quinn shot a glance at her teetotaler dad, but instead of looking disapproving, there was a satisfied curl to his mouth as if he liked Marcus better for not backing down. Her mother, however, was another story.
“We don�
��t drink much. All those terrible toxins,” she was saying with no irony whatsoever, between bites of fried chicken and sips of intensely sugary sweet tea.
Personally, Quinn didn’t think there was anything better in the world than a lunch of fried chicken and sweet tea, but no one could argue that they were perfectly pure and healthy.
Blissfully unaware of her daughter’s judgment, Ingrid went on. “And alcohol leads to so many terrible things. Violence and bad decisions and people staggering drunkenly through the streets…”
“One bar isn’t going to turn Sanctuary Island into Bourbon Street,” Quinn said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a nice place, Mother. You should come see it sometime. I’ll make you a mocktail.”
“What’s that? It sounds strong,” Ingrid said worriedly.
“It’s not. It’s the weakest thing there is. It’s a cocktail with no alcohol. You’ll be fine. I used to make them for my friends in college, to keep them from doing something stupid at a frat party.”
“So that’s what you were doing when you should have been studying,” her father observed.
Quinn’s shoulders wanted to hunch, but she forced herself to smile brightly at him instead. “That’s right. And it turned out to be a very marketable skill, so maybe I was using my time better than you thought.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “A marketable skill—don’t tell me you’re working at this bar.”
Ouch. That was a bit of a sore spot, considering Marcus had fired her before she ever had a chance to start working. And dumped her at the same time.
“Quinn’s work with the therapeutic riding center doesn’t leave her a lot of time for being a cocktail waitress,” Marcus said, unexpectedly.
She shot him a look, but the expression on his face was blander than milk.
“Really? I thought it wasn’t a full-time job,” Dad said, brows lifting in that skeptical way that made Quinn feel about three inches tall.
“It’s not exactly full-time,” she admitted, looking down at her plate where her fingers were shredding her biscuit into flaky pieces. “But I really like it.”
