Homecoming

by Lacey Baker

  Parker shook his head. “I have to agree with Pres and Quinn. How did Gramma know to write in her will for all of us to take a puppy? From what Nikki told me earlier, those pups are only eight weeks old. Did she rewrite her will within the last eight weeks? And why was there no mention of the taxes owed on the property in the will? I guess we could ask Mr. Creed that question. Either way, I think it’s worth us looking into, just so we can have some closure.”

  “I agree,” Quinn said, even though he wasn’t a huge advocate of that “closure” philosophy. It had never worked for him. “I’ll find out who her doctor was and talk to him. Preston, you can talk to Mr. Creed. Raine and Parker, maybe you two can look around in her rooms to see if there are any clues there.”

  “I think I should be the one to clean out her rooms,” Michelle insisted.

  Quinn nodded. “Maybe all of the ladies can go through them.”

  Preston took another drink and put his now-empty glass down in front of him. “I’ll ask a few questions around town. You know secrets don’t last long here in Sweetland. And I’ll check into the back taxes to see what we can possibly do about some of the interest and penalties.”

  “I’m keeping my puppy,” Raine said abruptly and sternly. “Gramma wanted me to have her and I’m keeping her. And I have some money saved up. I’ll give every dime I have to save this house.”

  “Always the Goody Two-shoes,” Savannah huffed. “I swear you and Michelle run a race to see who can kiss up the fastest.”

  Quinn rubbed his temples because this was just how their old Sunday dinners used to progress. They all bickered over one thing or another. In fact, it reminded him of the last board meeting he’d attended. All of which was collectively working on his last nerve.

  “We’re all adults,” he started, his voice raised slightly. “We will make the decision that is best for us. That’s all anyone can be expected to do. Right, Michelle?”

  It was so obvious she didn’t agree. Her brows had furrowed, her lips clasping tight, but she took a deep breath and released it. The smile she gave was shaky, and it skipped Savannah entirely. But when she spoke, her voice was calm and clear.

  “You’re absolutely right, Quinn. As Gramma used to say, we all make our own beds and at some point we’ll have to lie in them … no matter what. So why don’t we say grace and have some dinner.”

  The agreement was silent as everybody at the table could most likely recall Gramma saying just that. Mary Janet Cantrell was full of sayings, some she made up as she went and others handed down to her by her mother or father. Still, Quinn thought after the grace when the buttered biscuits, steaming cream of crab soup, and Michelle’s crispy fried chicken were placed on the table, there were always one or two that would hit their mark.

  Quinn was afraid that along with her delicious food, Michelle had just served up the winning one.

  Chapter 6

  The next day Quinn was awake a lot earlier than was his norm. His residency hours at the hospital had been grueling: thirty-six-hour shifts, days without seeing sunlight or anyone other than patients and other humans in white coats or uniforms. When he’d moved to Seattle, the hours had gotten a lot better. As the chief medical oncologist he was in his office five days a week, seeing patients until two, then handling administrative duties until five or six in the evening. A couple of days out of the week he worked on his research, applying for grants and tracking the success of their innovative treatments. None of which required him to be up and out of bed before four in the morning.

  Sweet Dixi apparently had other ideas.

  She’d been barking persistently for about fifteen minutes now. Trying his level best to do right by Gramma’s will—at least for the time being—Quinn had retrieved a small carrying box from the basement and set it up in his room. The idea was to assume full responsibility for a puppy who couldn’t stand him. This was before he knew that full responsibility consisted of early-morning hours.

  Pushing the covers back, Quinn stepped out of the bed and headed over to the kennel.

  “What’s the problem, little lady?” he asked, switching on the lamp so he could see inside.

  Her moist nose was right at the bars and she stared at him with almond-shaped brown eyes. Everything about this dog was brown, from the rims of her eyes to the tips of her paws. She danced around the kennel in response.

  “Bathroom?” he asked, going on instinct. When there was no definitive answer—meaning one spoken in English, for which he was grateful—Quinn took the continued barking to mean he was correct.

  He found his slippers then unlatched the kennel. Dixi bolted out, her little feet carrying the rest of her weight to the door in a clumsy shuffle.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, following behind her then leaning down to pick her up. “You can’t wake up everyone in the house because you have to pee.”

  For a second she was still in his arms, her stomach heaving with all her barking exertions. Then she looked right at him and barked again.

  “Simple dog,” he mumbled and left the room.

  Early mornings in Sweetland were like a page out of a storybook. At least that’s how Quinn began feeling once he was outside. He groaned at the realization that even the sun was still basking in the night hours. The sky was a dusky shade of black, as if it weren’t entirely sure it wanted to be totally dark, but didn’t have much choice. He went out the front door because the stairs led to the foyer that pointed in that direction. Of course he could have circled back and gone through the parlor to the kitchen and out the back, but hell, he was too tired to think of that.

  The screened door closed behind him—yes, Gramma still had a screened door so that she could keep the front door open in the summer months. Quinn figured they didn’t do that often since summers in Sweetland were very hot, like hundred-degree-plus weather with humidity that could choke a cow. Dixi squirmed in his arms, desperate to get down. He was reluctant even though he knew the purpose in bringing her out here was to do something he definitely did not want done in his arms or on any other part of his body, again. He took the steps two at a time, loving the sound of his shoes on the old-fashioned wood, when others who had done any sort of remodeling would have definitely used cement.

  That was just one element of the charm of The Silver Spoon. The expertly landscaped yard with pristinely kept shrubs that wrapped completely around the house was another. The portion of the property that faced the street was surrounded by a three-foot-high black iron gate with spiking posts. In the front yard there was a huge maple tree that looked like a silhouette in the night. Speaking of which, Quinn cursed. He hurried back into the house, heading to the kitchen to search for … what? He found it in what he hoped was good timing. In seconds he was back outside with a bag in hand, for Dixi’s bathroom purposes.

  Of course by now he couldn’t see the puppy and was forced to call her name at a whisper he hoped she at least could hear. He was out of the front yard and heading down the sidewalk when he saw Dixi next to a lamppost. Grumbling and deciding the first thing he would do in the light of day would be to go and buy her a leash, Quinn headed toward her. It was then that he saw another shadow, a human one.

  The Silver Spoon sat on a chunk of land at the end of a dead-end street. There was a turnaround that would take unknowing cars into a swift circle and bring them back onto the street to get out. In the center of the turnaround was a flower garden that boasted some of the brightest and prettiest flowers Quinn had ever seen. Houses lined both sides of the street all the way down. Sycamore stretched the length of Sweetland, dropping off at Old Towne Square and picking up again on the other side of the pier. Michelle lived in a house almost two blocks down on the right-hand side.

  The shadowy figure was skulking around the house two doors down from The Silver Spoon, on the left-hand side. Quinn kept his eyes on the guy—he figured it was a guy based on his tall stature and squared shoulders. Another one of Gramma’s sayings was that if you were out past two AM, which was the
time all good and decent bars closed, you were up to no good. Now, Quinn had an excuse: His dog apparently had an overactive bladder. But this other guy, he wasn’t so sure.

  When Dixi seemed to be finished, Quinn picked her up again. Of course she made noise; he should have known she would. Those were the two things this dog seemed to do very well—pee and bark. The shadow didn’t make a move to run or act as if he’d even heard her, which was so not a good sign. Quinn walked across the street, not bothering to look both ways because nobody in Sweetland would be driving around at this time.

  Now the guy had come all the way to the front of the house. He stood there looking up at the window. Quinn was able to walk right up behind him without the guy even hearing him or turning around.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Quinn said, tapping him on the back.

  Now the man did turn, and when he did it was with clenched fists raised and ready to swing. Quinn lifted his hands as if to show he was not a threat. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m just trying to help. Are you lost?” he asked.

  The man was wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt. On his feet were worn leather slippers; his hair was ruffled like he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “I’m going home. Going back to bed. I just got turned around,” he said, lowering his fists. He kept one hand raised and used it to scratch his head. “Went to pee and now my bedroom’s gone.”

  With a yipping Dixi tucked under one arm, Quinn reached for the guy’s elbow. “Okay, well, why don’t we just go inside my house for a minute and see what’s going on.”

  He was immediately thinking Alzheimer’s, a disease that chewed away at the brain and a person’s memory with ferocity. While working his residency at the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Quinn had seen his share of Alzheimer’s patients during his geriatric rotation. It wasn’t pleasant. Then again there wasn’t a whole lot of the medical practice that was, a fact that had been gnawing at him for some time now.

  “I don’t live at your house,” the man told him.

  “I know,” Quinn said, still leading the man toward the end of the block where The Silver Spoon stood majestically, arms open wide for all who were willing to come in.

  This morning it was going to a guest without reservations, but one who needed refuge as badly as anyone else. Probably more so.

  “Your dog’s pretty worked up,” the man said as they made it across the street and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, she’s a little hyper.”

  The man surprised Quinn by laughing. It was a hearty laugh, one that sounded like it was released often and enjoyed by many. One that made Quinn think of his father.

  “Those kinds are like that all the time. Had a sister with one of those … ah … they’re called … um, I know the name.”

  Quinn nodded as they headed up the walkway. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard about Labs, especially when they’re still puppies.”

  The man wouldn’t like Quinn blatantly correcting him, or giving him the answer he already figured he knew. Alzheimer’s patients tended to be a little on the moody side as well. Anyone dealing with them had to possess a phenomenal amount of patience and compassion. Quinn prided himself on both, especially after working with patients who had been given the ultimate death sentence. He’d had no other choice.

  “Yeah, my cousin had one of those. Pretty little pup, then they grow up and they’re knocking over everything you own.”

  He kept on chuckling and walking as if he were now 100 percent sure of where Quinn was taking him. They took the steps and headed inside to a house still quiet with sleep. Quinn helped the man take a seat on the couch and turned on one of the standing lamps in the corner.

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” he asked. The man looked to be contemplating his answer.

  “I think I like tea,” he replied finally.

  Quinn left Dixi in the living room. It seemed like the right thing to do, and surprisingly as soon as he put the dog down she plopped right onto her butt in front of the man, looking up at him expectantly. He leaned forward to pat her head, and she barked happily. Silly dog, loved attention.

  * * *

  If she had to choose a favorite time of day Nikki would say dawn every time. It wasn’t the gorgeous sunrises that lit up the Bay like a beacon, because some days were cloudy. And it wasn’t the sound of chirping birds already up and about for the day, because birds flew south for the winter. No, it would have to be the delicious scent of the seashore, the tinge of saltwater and fresh dew that crept through her window on summer mornings and whooshed into her door the minute she opened it in the winter. It was the quiet scenic town that she’d loved forever and the crisp air that blew in only from the Bay. It was her home.

  Maybe she’d like dawn in other states, with other scenery and other scents, but she doubted it would be the same. And one of her favorite things to do at dawn was swim. Crazy yes, because she didn’t swim in a pool. Still invigorating and one of the best forms of exercise she could think of living in Sweetland where there was no such thing as a fully equipped state-of-the-art gym like the ones she’d seen on television.

  Fitzgerald Park was the best place to swim in Sweetland, there was no question. But she didn’t have time to stop there and still make it to the B&B before the Cantrells awoke. She wanted to be there early, to start her new job as the manager on a good foot.

  As she climbed out of her car, parked in its usual spot in the back driveway of the B&B, she bypassed the back kitchen door where she normally entered and trotted right down to the river. Her flip-flops flipped and flopped as she moved over the damp grass, dew tickling her hot-pink-painted toes. Energy buzzed through her system like a chain saw, and she picked up her pace. At the border of the grass she flipped the flops off and dropped her huge bag, which carried everything she needed for the duration of the day. An almost cool breeze blew when she took her shirt off. As she moved down the small hill of rocks where medium waves of water reached up to greet her, the shorts came down.

  She was under the water in seconds, absolutely loving the freedom of swimming right alongside crabs, fish, and whatever else was traveling about the Miles River. Coming up for air, she pushed her hair back out of her face and rubbed her hands over her eyes. She should have worn goggles but hated how dorky they made her look. Who cared if her eyes would be bloodshot for the rest of the day? Nobody would think she’d had a long night of drinking as Ms. Marabelle had once accused her. Nobody who mattered would think that anyway.

  It was still pretty quiet, though a few birds had come out to play as the sun began its blush-pink arrival.

  Until she screamed.

  Loud and long.

  Then he smiled and her mouth closed like a trap.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Quinn said, one hand in his pant pocket, the other rubbing along the line of his jaw.

  “Dammit!” she cursed because she didn’t know what else to do or say, for that matter.

  “Water cold?” he asked, still smiling, the idiot!

  “Spying is not attractive,” were the words she finally came up with.

  “I’m not spying. Or at least I wasn’t,” he had the decency to admit.

  She was already walking toward the bank as he continued to talk.

  “I was in the kitchen when you pulled up. When you didn’t come in right away I was concerned and I came outside to make sure everything was all right.”

  “Everything is fine,” she snapped and reached for her shorts.

  “From the looks of things I’d have to agree.”

  That’s when she remembered what she’d been swimming in. A bikini top that was two years too small and barely covered her nipples and a thong bottom that wasn’t originally a thong—but after she’d mistakenly washed it with her white clothes in steaming hot water and bleach, it had taken on its own new size. She had other bathing suits, pretty ones, sexy ones. Why the hell had she put this one on this morning?

  “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth, ha
ting the fact that her legs were so wet, her shorts were taking their own sweet time riding up her legs. She was shimmying into them as she continued to talk, feeling miles and miles of embarrassment mounting around her.

  “I. Am. Fine. You can go back into the house,” she told him, and dammit her teeth were chattering.

  As if this predicament weren’t already the worst she could possibly imagine, as she stepped up the hill of rocks—an act she’d done so many times she had probably memorized every stone here—she slipped.

  Quinn was right there to the rescue, wrapping one strong arm around her waist and lifting her off her feet. The arrogant bastard!

  “I’m fine,” she quipped when they were safely away from the rocks.

  “I already agreed to that,” he said his breath a warm whisper over her face.

  She wanted out of his grasp so she pushed against him. But that backfired. Of course it backfired, what else did she expect? What the action did was plaster her body closer to his because he held on to her so tightly. They were face-to-face, his arms wrapped around her, and he was so hard and so hot even first thing in the morning. She wanted to squirm, needed to so the tension building between her legs would somehow be released. No such luck.

  “Put me down,” she said slowly, refusing to move another inch. Because if she did, dear God she might actually combust.

  “Anything you want,” he told her in that slow, deep, alluring voice of his. She’d heard it before, but not speaking to her. It was different now to see what might be a hungry look in his eyes. To feel … what the hell? Was Quinn Cantrell aroused?

  Yeah, he picked that moment to let her go and to step away from her. She could no longer feel the rigid length of him against her leg. But she could look. And she did. And he was.

  “I’m making tea,” he told her, his brow furrowed.

  Then he was gone. Just like that he’d turned and walked away from her as if he hadn’t just seen her half naked—well, just about naked—and she hadn’t just been in his arms and he hadn’t just been hard as …