The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “No, that’s Liam. I’m black licorice.” He made his voice growly.

  “Don’t like licrish.”

  “But I do.” He dove for her neck with his mouth. Recalling the delight Quinn took in his little girl—whether he invited it or not—a smile touched his lips. She got points for spunk. And pure good taste.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Given the guilt Rick had spooned on like sugar when it was really cayenne, Morgan took his little girl the next morning for a drive to Vera’s house. Quinn hadn’t requested any more help, and her truck wasn’t outside, though it could be in the garage, given the bitter weather. He jogged through windblown ice flecks from a sullen sky that ached to do worse. The truck was in there, so he fetched Livie and banged on the front door.

  He’d intentionally come when Rick and his family were otherwise occupied so they wouldn’t get ideas and feel freer with advice than they already were. His younger brother’s nudges irritated him, even when they sometimes happened to be right. Clearing out the house was a big job for one person.

  Quinn opened the door tentatively, then, seeing them, pulled it wide and spoke to his child. “Hi, you.” She gave Livie a puckish smile, then raised her gaze. “If you really don’t want people falling for her, you ought to keep her locked up.”

  “No use. She’d shine through the cracks.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “No doubt. So what did you want?”

  “Just seeing if you need help with cupboards or anything.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “I do know where you live.”

  And thanks to Rick, he now felt stupid, a feeling he had little acquaintance with and less affection for. “Any luck with your search?” He glanced into the dining room still heaped with paper. She’d made progress but not a whole lot.

  “The best I can say is I haven’t lost my mind.”

  Kind of endearing how committed she was to someone else’s cause. How would RaeAnne even know if she scooped the whole mess out with a bulldozer?

  She said, “I’m not bothering with the unopened mail. Anything else could be relevant.”

  “Sold any more cupboards?” He moved on to the kitchen.

  “As you see, we’re down to one hutch besides yours and a couple of tables. I’ll probably let the Salvation Army have the rest.”

  He eyed the pieces and agreed. “Let them.”

  “What are you doing for furniture?”

  “Getting some.” He set Livie down.

  “Mmm. Well, unless you want to dive with me into the dining room . . .”

  “Not happening.”

  “Yeah. If I don’t finish the stacks today I’m coming back with matches.”

  Again the amusement caught him. She wasn’t trying to be funny, she just was. “Any luck with keys?”

  “I told you, I haven’t—”

  He walked over to the box that surely held every size and shape of skeleton key made. Reaching in, he grabbed a handful and tried them one by one.

  She rolled onto the balls of her feet, eager in that childlike way she had, like Livie waiting for ice cream. “What are you going to do if it opens?”

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Show you the bottles you’re dying to see.”

  Hyperextending her fingers, she bounced the tops of her palms together, hardly containing her anticipation. He doubted the contents could be that exciting, but the ongoing experiment with Quinn was certainly entertaining.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Livie crouch and then creep under a rickety drop-leaf table. Bending, he saw the hole in the baseboard she was making a beeline for. Every speck and crevice fascinated her, which was why she picked up more lint and fuzz than a Swiffer mop. “Don’t go there, Livie.” He bent under the table, caught her by the waist, and hoisted her to the surface.

  Quinn squealed.

  “What!”

  “That’s it!”

  “It’s what?” He looked down at the gold thing clutched in Livie’s little fist.

  Quinn reached out and spoke sweetly. “May I have it?”

  He knew from experience it wouldn’t be that easy. But Livie floored him by dropping the item into Quinn’s hand.

  “It is it. I can’t believe it.” Her excitement animated each word. “I search every nook and cranny—”

  “Not every cranny.”

  “A mousehole? That’s diabolical.”

  “Unless you’re two. Then it’s irresistible.”

  Quinn squealed again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She kissed Livie’s cheek. “You’ve saved me from the dining room.”

  “She doesn’t comprehend the magnitude of that gift.” Morgan said, toting his daughter to the sink and washing her hands.

  “I can’t begin to express it.”

  “You gave it a pretty good shot.” Killing a laugh, he dried Livie’s and his own hands with paper towels. “Is the photo inside?”

  Quinn went still. “You know about the photo?”

  “RaeAnne told me. At length.” Especially how overwhelmed she was by Quinn’s willingness to search, and wasn’t she just the sweetest thing, bless her heart.

  Quinn stared at the locket. “I guess to be sure, I have to look.”

  “To be sure,” he said. She was dying to look. “Go ahead.”

  She pressed her nail into the seam, freeing the latch with her other thumb. The locket sprang open and revealed a photograph in one side, a lock of hair in the other.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “Do you think that’s her dad’s?” She pointed at the hair.

  “DNA would tell.”

  She looked up, her striking eyes making contact. “Morgan, she could actually know.”

  Emotion welled visibly in her over this thing she’d done for a practical stranger, something he and Livie had played a part in. A strong conspiratorial energy passed between them. They stood a long moment, basking in whatever this was; then he forced a neutral tone. “You should call, tell her you have it.”

  She drew a breath. “I will. Right now.” Clutching the locket to her chest, she pulled out her phone.

  As Morgan moved out of the kitchen with Livie, she called RaeAnne at work, laughing at the prolonged and muffled squeal. “Morgan’s little girl found it in a mousehole in the kitchen. A mousehole, RaeAnne. I’m sorry, but I would not have looked there.”

  “Are you sure it’s the one?”

  “It has a man’s photo.”

  RaeAnne breathed hard. “How does he look?”

  “I only glimpsed it to make sure he was there.”

  “Oh, I can’t take it. If he’s a horror I want to know.”

  “He’s not.” She laughed. “And there’s something else. A lock of hair.”

  “For real?”

  “Looks real. I’ll mail it—”

  “No! What if something happens in the mail?”

  “I package very securely. I can FedEx it overnight, if you want.”

  “Is that the one that crashed in that Tom Hanks movie Castaway?”

  Quinn scratched her jaw. She shipped items all the time, and yeah, things happened, but hardly ever. Still, with the possible DNA . . . “What do you want to do?”

  RaeAnne groaned. “I can’t take time off. Randy’s breathing down my neck—in a predatory way. If I don’t bring this project in on time . . .”

  “I’ll keep it safe until you decide.”

  “Oh, Quinn, what would you do?”

  “I’d say send it insured—except compensation won’t matter if it’s lost.”

  “Have you had things lost?”

  “A very tiny percentage, but yes, it happens. I’d hate for it to wash up on an island and be used for cooking oysters.”

  RaeAnne laughed, a hard nervous release. “Oh, Lord, what should I do?”

  She couldn’t say. But then she thought of Morgan and his resources. “Let me check something and get back to you.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It may
not pay off.”

  “I’m just so blessed you’d try.”

  A lump formed in her throat. It had been a long time since someone had considered her a blessing. “No problem.” Heading for the living room, she said, “Morgan,” then looking around, called, “Morgan?”

  It seemed he’d used up his words and left before he turned into a real boy. Luckily for her, she knew where he lived.

  Noelle joined Liam, who’d answered the door with greater eagerness than a butler and only slightly less noise than a watchdog. Surprised to see Quinn standing there, she smiled broadly and said, “Hi.”

  “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not at all. Come in.”

  Stepping inside, Quinn looked up and around the high-ceilinged space dominated by the huge stone fireplace with a half-log mantel. “Wow. Feels like a giant honeycomb.”

  Noelle scrutinized Rick’s handiwork. The pine log walls and ceiling were like a golden beehive, in spite of the colored throws and watercolors she’d used to soften it up and add color.

  “Do you play?” Quinn indicated the grand piano in the corner.

  “I do.” Music had been a huge part of her life, to a detrimental degree at one point, but now she rejoiced in the gift. “You’re welcome to join us Saturday evenings for praise and worship.” She didn’t know if Quinn shared the faith, but it never hurt to offer.

  “Mo-mmy.”

  When Liam gave her hand a tug, she said, “I’m making this one hot chocolate.”

  “With marshmallows!”

  “Would you like some?”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Sure. Thanks.”

  Noelle led her to the kitchen. “It’s great what you’re doing for Vera . . . well, RaeAnne. Cleaning that place out.”

  “It’s a win for me, too, a wealth of things for my online store.” At the puzzled glance, Quinn added, “I’m an eBay trader.”

  “Oh. I’ve heard of eBay but haven’t used it, I’m afraid.” She had charge accounts that her father funded with Neiman Marcus and Bloomingdales, and individual boutiques, even if she needed so much less than it once seemed in New York.

  “It’s like other online shopping sites, except an endless cyber auction.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s a business,” Quinn said. “I sell things I buy from estates like Vera’s. Though I have to say, I didn’t anticipate the escalation of that job.”

  Noelle handed her a mug as Liam made whirlpools in his with hard, pointed breaths. “Please sit.”

  Quinn took one of the high stools around the center counter, sitting diagonally from Liam, who perched as usual on his knees. He could reach just fine if he ever sat, but he’d been assembled with a rear wiggle button.

  She joined them without a mug of her own and answered the unasked question. “Punky stomach. I’m four months pregnant.”

  Quinn’s eyes lit. “Congratulations.”

  She formed a wan smile. “It’s a joy and a challenge. These first months anyway. The sight and smell of almost anything . . .” She shook her head, then ruffled her son’s hair. “Liam’s still considering the situation.” She eyed him indulgently, but he was busy trying to sink a marshmallow with his finger. “He’ll let me know when he approves.”

  Quinn said, “I’m not sure my sister ever did, but we were eleven years apart. Not likely to become best friends.”

  “That’s substantial. I’m an only child. After my mother died, my father raised me with fear and trembling. Tutors, dance, music, art, and equestrian training, with chauffeurs and a security detail to get me everywhere and back safely.”

  Quinn cast her a knowing look, as though she’d guessed as much. It must be more apparent than she knew, since Morgan had guessed the same at first glance.

  “It wasn’t easy for either of us. That’s why I feel so deeply for Morgan and Livie.” Love and fear were uneasy bedfellows.

  Quinn cradled her mug. “Can’t be easy single parenting in any circumstance.”

  Noelle nodded, unsure how much to say. Morgan had resented Rick’s nudge, yet he and Quinn seemed to have connected at Vera’s on their own, a conjoining of interests in the house, Quinn for RaeAnne and Morgan in his disconcerting decision to move there.

  “I was hoping he could help me with something.”

  “Well.” She’d obviously realized what everyone learned sooner or later. “Helping’s what Morgan does best.”

  “Is he here?”

  “His car’s here. Second cabin down.” After the first months, he’d moved there and insisted on paying the rental rate for a cabin plus expenses. Rick accepted the deal, saying Morgan had to do things his way.

  “Well, thanks for the cocoa.” Quinn gave Liam a wave and smiled when he said bye into his mug with marshmallow clinging to his upper lip.

  As she hurried through the early twilight, Quinn’s breath made a cloud that curled around her cheeks. The ranch nestled in a valley surrounded by pink granite crags dressed up with conifers and aspen. The log cabins seemed to grow out of the pale grasses and red gravel of the yard. Low airy foliage bore the remainder of red and orange leaves, dulled now by the passing light.

  The dry heads of wild flowers rustled as she neared the second of three cabins, larger than the first by maybe a bedroom, but not as large as the third, family-sized. One front window spilled light onto the porch. She’d approached him for help before, but not in his own place nor asking anything he hadn’t offered.

  Their interactions had run the gamut from playful to shuttered, so there was no way to anticipate her reception. She had to wonder why he’d gone without a word, after the excitement of finding the locket. Maybe Livie’d had an accident or . . . something he couldn’t mention with a quick good-bye. Maybe walking out and slamming doors was his typical departure, though he hadn’t slammed anything this time and the first could have been an accident of his injured hand.

  When she knocked, he called, “Come in.”

  Sure he didn’t realize the knock was hers, she said, “It’s Quinn.”

  After a pause, he said, “Door’s open.” He looked up from his laptop when she entered, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Sitting on the couch, dressed in a gray V-neck sweater and faded jeans, he could be any guy—but wasn’t.

  “I’m not stalking you.”

  One tiny muscle at the corner of his mouth flickered, but he’d apparently lost his former congeniality. His eyes had a blue blaze she hoped related to whatever he was working on, since the look had teeth.

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

  He didn’t say otherwise.

  “I would have done this at Vera’s but you left.” When he still didn’t answer, she drew a bolstering breath. “It’s about the locket. RaeAnne’s afraid it will be lost in the mail. She can’t come out for it. So I thought you might have a way . . . to . . .” do what regular people can’t. The words formed, but she couldn’t say them.

  “To . . .”

  “Accomplish it?”

  “Don’t you ship things all the time?”

  “Yes! I do. And I would, but there’s the Castaway thing.”

  He frowned.

  “Packages washing onto a beach, being used to open coconuts?”

  He said, “I’m sorry—how is this my problem?”

  She blinked, feeling beyond foolish. “It’s not. But I imagine you get things done in ways the rest of us—”

  “The rest of you?”

  “People who aren’t Morgan Spencer.”

  “Aha.” He sat back. “You’ve been busy.”

  “That first time we met. I wanted to know if your check would bounce, so I searched you.” How did he make his eyes so flat? “And found the business articles and stuff. You know. Your books and the . . . thing you do.” She sounded thirteen. Where was the conspiratorial connection, the easy parlance? Hadn’t they faced a spooky cellar and solved a mystery and—

  “Leave me the locket. I’ll get it to RaeAnne.�
��

  Deep freeze. “I was going to package it . . .”

  “Leave me the locket.”

  If helping was what he did best, he could work on his presentation. But then, who did she think she was, petitioning someone like him? He could swat her off like a fly, and basically had. She took out RaeAnne’s treasure and set it on the table where his feet rested. A little deeper and she’d make a full bow. She straightened and walked out.

  Morgan watched the door close behind her. Part of him recognized his rudeness, but the rest had felt her in his home like high noon on sunburned skin. He didn’t want to react to her. He’d realized that mistake at Vera’s and scrammed. Then there she was, invading his space, his privacy. She’d searched him? Thought he’d rip her off?

  And yeah she’d interrupted something. His assistant, Denise, had threatened resignation, claiming he could set up an automatic rejection on the corporate Web site if he continued to avoid the high-level consultations that required his on-site involvement. For most of two years, the recession had provided plenty of lower-level rescues he’d handed off to his second-string players, giving cyber support as needed.

  Nothing international or encompassing enough that he’d have to leave Livie. In addition he’d written the books. Turning in the last one had felt like an abdication, a transfer of power. Or was it simply a cop-out? How many would take what was on the pages and actualize it?

  His team called the books advertising. Even an instruction manual like the newest couldn’t infuse that something God had wired into him. He was no Steve Jobs, but in his little piece of the universe he seemed to be unique.

  And Denise had a point. It was what he did—in the life when any of that mattered. Still, her insistence grated. That on top of Consuela’s threatened defection suggested wholesale mutiny. And he hadn’t seen it coming. As he hadn’t anticipated Quinn’s impact. With creeping incrementalism, she’d invaded not only his thoughts and feelings, but now his environment.

  “Daddy. Eat a fishy.” Livie climbed onto the couch with him.

  He accepted the goldfish cracker Livie raised to his lips and thanked her. Lowering her sippy cup, she gave him a milky kiss. He pulled her in for a hug, certain she could sense his unease. Would it kill him to accept one request, make one physical foray into the field?