Take the Long Way Home

by Judith Arnold

  “I don’t know.” She sighed, her breath floating over his skin. “Harry thought this was my home.”

  “Harry?”

  “My benefactor. The man who bequeathed Torelli’s to me in his will as a way of getting me back to Brogan’s Point. He thought I belonged here. But I don’t know if I’m actually home. This apartment—if Cookie wasn’t here, it would just be an apartment, a place to sleep. And after this evening, I know my father’s house isn’t my home.” A tremor passed through her, but he didn’t think this one had anything to do with arousal.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  She sighed again. “I was okay until I saw my bedroom. That room used to be my home. My refuge. But now it’s just a place where all the pain still lives. That can’t be my home.”

  “How about your store? You seem to know who you are when you’re there.”

  She propped herself up enough to peer into his face. To his surprise, she was smiling. “What are you, a shrink?”

  Her smile warmed him in an entirely different way. The sweet curve of her mouth, the glint of her white, even teeth, the faint lines pleating the skin at the outer corners of her eyes all worked as much magic on him as her cookies had—and as her body had, just minutes ago. She definitely needed to smile more. “I did a psych rotation in medical school,” he conceded, although that was hardly enough to turn him into a mental health expert.

  She settled back onto the bed, half beside him and half on top of him. He decided a single bed wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. “I have to wake up very early tomorrow,” she warned him. “But you’re welcome to stay ’til then. If you want,” she added. “You don’t have to.”

  He did have to—for his own sake, if not for hers. The thought of leaving her bed was depressing. “I’ll stay until you kick me out,” he said.

  “Okay.” She nestled closer against him, looping one leg over both of his, the limb as light as a blade of dune grass. She cushioned her head with his shoulder, relaxed her arm over him, and closed her eyes. Within a minute, her breathing had slowed to the steady tempo of sleep.

  He would have liked to sleep, too. But even after he closed his eyes, his mind remained keenly alert, aware of the soft contours of her skin, the delicate point of her chin, her hair. The weight of her against him—an emotional weight far heavier than her slender body.

  Home. What was it?

  Why did he feel more at home in this bed, with this woman he barely knew, than he’d ever felt before?

  Chapter Twelve

  Her phone pinged at four o’clock. She pushed herself to sit, and the pressure of her palm against Quinn’s chest woke him as well. He’d probably want to sleep longer, but she couldn’t leave him here at the apartment while she headed down to the store. For one thing, Cookie would not be pleased. For another…

  He was Quinn. The most handsome guy in Brogan’s Point, or at least in her class. No, not in her class. He was so out of her class.

  He mumbled something and blinked his eyes open. Sometime during the night, he’d pulled the blanket out from under their bodies and draped it over them. When she sat, the quilt slid down into a wrinkled heap around her waist.

  She’d never been an exhibitionist, yet she felt no shyness about her nudity, not even when Quinn’s eyes came into focus and he gave her an appreciative once-over. She was tempted to say, “Move along, folks—nothing to see here,” except that he did see something, and he clearly liked what he saw. If he remained in her life, she was going to have to get used to thinking of herself as something to see.

  The possibility unnerved her. It delighted her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed in a gentle motion so as not to knock him onto the floor. “I’ve got to bake.”

  “That’s all right.” He stretched, the muscles in his lean, strong chest rippling, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’ve got to drive down to Boston and get ready for this stupid thing at the homecoming game.”

  “It’s not stupid,” she said, gathering their scattered clothing from the floor and piling Quinn’s onto the bed. “It’s an honor.”

  He snorted. “I’d rather be at your store’s opening.”

  “You said you’d stop by after the game,” she told him.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  She ducked into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and wrapped a towel around herself. Returning to the bedroom, she handed Quinn a fresh towel and said, “It’s all yours.”

  By the time he’d emerged from the bathroom, she was dressed and in the kitchen, scooping Cookie’s litter clean. She poured some kibble into the cat’s bowl, cut a bit of cod into the bowl as a garnish, and filled the water dish. “There’s oatmeal,” she informed Quinn. “I can make some toast. I have oranges. And coffee.” She gestured toward the coffee maker, already gurgling as the pot filled with the fragrant brew.

  He closed the distance between them, circled his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug. “Good morning,” he murmured, his voice a deliciously low rumble.

  She leaned into him, feeling simultaneously weak and strong. She had been so looking forward to this day, to her shop’s gala opening—yet she couldn’t help wishing she didn’t have to go anywhere today, except back to bed with Quinn. Closing her eyes, she relived the sensation of his weight on top of her, his mouth warm and moist on her skin, his erection pressed hard between her thighs, his body deep inside hers. Heat billowed within her. Could she come just from a hug?

  Possibly, if the person hugging her was Quinn Connor.

  He kissed her brow, the tip of her nose, and then her mouth, his tongue stealing inside. Possibly switched to probably in her mind.

  But she couldn’t linger in her kitchen, kissing him. There was no time. “Let me get you something to eat,” she said, easing out of his embrace.

  With a rueful sigh, he released her. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “A cup of coffee is fine.”

  They sat facing each other at the small table in the room, its bright fluorescent light emphasizing the pre-dawn darkness on the other side of the window. Cookie nibbled a piece of kibble, her teeth crunching the crisp nugget. Quinn and Maeve sipped their coffee, saying little as they studied each other, separated by four feet of scratched maple table-top and an old salt shaker.

  Was he home for her? she wondered. Or was he the way home?

  She had no idea. All she knew was that if the song hadn’t played when they’d both been in the Faulk Street Tavern that afternoon, they wouldn’t be here now. She would never have spoken to him. She would never have spent more than an appreciative instant gazing at him.

  She couldn’t waste time pondering the puzzle he presented. She had cookies to bake, a door with a bell on it to open, and customers to satisfy. Later today, he would be one of those customers. That promise would have to satisfy her for now.

  ***

  Quinn drove back to his apartment in Boston, his head swimming and his body humming with arousal, a subtle white noise vibrating inside him. Far from washing away the memory of Maeve, his shower only seemed to soak her more deeply into his pores. The spray of hot water on his skin reminded him of her touch. The hiss of the showerhead reminded him of her ragged breath when she came.

  It wasn’t love. How could it be? Before this week, they’d never even spoken to each other.

  But damn, whatever was going on between them was making him happy and edgy and just this side of crazy.

  His apartment was empty, both his roommates on duty at Mass General. Grateful for the solitude, he took a nap, then scrambled himself some eggs and toasted two slices of wheat bread. He needed nourishment to power him until he could be with Maeve again. At her store, he’d eat cookies. Maybe not as healthy as eggs and toast, but ten times tastier.

  He shaved, dressed in fresh khakis and a tailored shirt, donned a jacket—not his old varsity jacket but the leather bomber jacket he’d splurged on when he’d graduated from medical school—and dr
ove north, back to Brogan’s Point. His car wanted to steer itself to a certain humble apartment abutting an alley on Atlantic Avenue, but he’d only find Maeve’s cat there, not an alluring woman with a shy, dazzling smile. He would have driven by her shop, but he didn’t have time for that detour, let alone the temptation being near Maeve would pose. Ashley and Coach Marshall had told him to meet them at the football field by noon. It was nearly noon now.

  He navigated to the high school. The lot was packed with cars, and hordes of football fans flocked across the soccer and field hockey fields that stretched between the lot and the football stadium. Homecoming game was a big deal in Brogan’s Point. Students, locals, and alums streamed across the playing fields like the faithful on a religious pilgrimage. Children chased each other. Teenagers tossed footballs and Frisbees. Stout older men wore Brogan’s Point caps and gathered in clutches to recall their own high school gridiron exploits. Cops occupied various strategic posts, scanning the crowds, searching for trouble.

  Quinn wondered if Maeve’s father was here, and if so, what the guy would think if he found out Quinn, the alleged man of the hour, had spent the night in his daughter’s bed.

  Not the whole night. Not nearly enough of the night. Next time, Quinn vowed to himself, he would arrive earlier and stay later. If she had to rise at some ungodly hour to bake cookies for her store, he’d get up with her—and he’d be ready for her once her day was done and she returned to that bed for another night in his arms.

  A pre-teen girl, all coltish legs and silver orthodonture, scampered toward him as he neared the snack shed beside the entry to the stands. “Don’t buy a snack here,” she chirped, stuffing a paper into his hands. “Eat a cookie from Cookie’s!” He glanced at the paper: an ad announcing the opening of Maeve’s store. He smiled, folded the paper neatly, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  He spotted Ashley and Coach Marshall by the gate. Ashley strode toward him and tucked her hand through his elbow, as if yesterday hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t told her that nothing more than a shared history existed between them and she hadn’t told him to perform an anatomically impossible act on himself. As if he hadn’t spent the night with another woman.

  Ashley wore a chic suede jacket, skinny jeans and tooled leather cowboy boots which Quinn found amusing, since he knew she’d never step anywhere near horse shit. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks a delicate pink. Her smile was hard and practiced.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured Maeve’s disheveled hair, her long-sleeved T-shirt, her wrinkled jeans and sneakers. Her smile, so fleeting yet so radiant. A spasm of lust tugged at his groin but he ignored it. He was at the football field, not in Maeve’s cramped little bed. Wrong time, wrong place.

  In fact, as they strode down the dirt path where the grass had been worn away by countless spectators passing through the gate and into the stadium for countless games, Maeve receded to a corner of his mind. Ten years had passed since he’d last stood on this field. He used to enter from the other end, down a walkway from the locker room. The team would sweep into the stadium, Quinn at the front of the pack because he’d been the first among equals. The cheerleaders would be waiting for them, forming two straight columns for them to pass between and waving their sparkly pompoms as he and his teammates jogged onto the field, their cleats drumming against the packed earth. The crowd would cheer. A few people would blow deafening horns. The team would line up along the benches in front of the home-side bleachers, their shoulder pads bumping, their grins cocky because they’d had such a spectacular season his senior year. They’d been unbeatable, practically untouchable. Quinn would end that season coronated the state’s offensive player of the year by the Boston Globe.

  Today, he entered the stadium through the public gate, because he would be watching the first half of the game from the stands. He was granted a privileged perch: Coach Marshall and Ashley led him to a seat several rows up on the fifty-yard line. Settling onto the bleacher, they flanked him like bodyguards, Ashley’s hand still wrapped possessively around his arm.

  He didn’t need their protection. No one recognized him.

  And then someone did. Two rows down, a couple of beefy middle-aged guys in faded Red Sox caps, their paunches overhanging their belts, stood and greeted the coach. “And here’s the man of the hour,” one of them said, reaching over the seats to shake Quinn’s hand. “Quinn Connor, greatest player ever to throw a touchdown in this arena.”

  “It’s an honor,” the other one said, vigorously pumping Quinn’s hand.

  Quinn wasn’t sure what to say. He was no longer used to being treated like a celebrity. His ego had been flattened pretty quickly in medical school. His fellow students had been so smart, so sharp. Thank god he’d known how to work hard, how to persevere, how to set his sights on his goal and keep going, one yard at a time, until he reached it. He would never have been able to keep up otherwise.

  “Thanks,” he said to the men in the Red Sox caps. Their voices had attracted the attention of more people. They eyed Quinn, curious to see who the men were fawning over. Several recognized him and climbed over the bleachers to shake his hand or slap his shoulder. A few reminisced about the seventy-yard touchdown pass he’d thrown in his first game as starting quarterback, when he’d been a sophomore. A few mentioned other spectacular plays, some of which Quinn himself didn’t remember.

  They remembered. He’d been that talented, that special. That revered by these folks from his hometown. Pride gusted through him—not the sort of pride he’d felt when he’d been handed his stethoscope at his med school graduation, but the pride he’d felt as a high school star, deified not just by his classmates but by every local football fan, and a few not-so-local ones. These people had worshiped him.

  Their admiration was seductive. It gave him a buzz.

  The game began, and the visiting team scored first. Quinn felt a pang for the hometown crowd and hoped the Brogan’s Point team would rebound quickly. But a part of him—a part he didn’t like—also felt a little smug. The teams he’d played on had been so much better than the school’s current team. They’d had so much more speed, so much tighter execution. They’d had him.

  Maybe he wouldn’t feel that way if people didn’t keep coming over to him, greeting him, bumping fists with him and reminiscing about those amazing seasons, a decade ago, when he’d led the team to victory after victory.

  Kids asked him to autograph pieces of paper. The mother of one of his teammates told him her son was now in the Marines, but she knew he’d be safe because he’d learned how to be strong and courageous from Quinn. Really? Quinn had taught Steve Kovic how to be strong and courageous?

  Through it all, Ashley remained by his side, beaming. Quite a few of the people who greeted Quinn seemed to remember her, too. “So nice to see you both here, still together after all these years,” the mother of another former teammate said, then smiled warmly at Ashley. “You’re just as pretty as ever.”

  Ashley responded with a bashful modesty Quinn knew was as false as the woman’s statement was true. Ashley was definitely as pretty as ever. Her hair was the color of sunshine, and it curved in all the right places, just like her body. Her lips were a muted ruby shade and her eyes looked even larger than they were, thanks to the skillful application of cosmetics Quinn knew must have cost a small fortune. Her fingernails were all even and glossy with polish. Her boots might be pretentious, but they sure looked good on her.

  Her hand, her shoulder, and her hips might have been glued to him with epoxy. She didn’t move an inch, didn’t allow a molecule of air to come between them. “I told you last night,” he reminded her once his former teammate’s mother had moved on. “We aren’t still together.”

  “I know,” Ashley said, smiling as if his words had glided past her on a gentle breeze, leaving nothing disturbed in its wake. “Today, people are remembering who you were. I’m a part of who you were, Quinn. Just roll with it, okay?”

  But he wasn’t the same person he’
d been then, was he? As he grinned and nodded and thanked people for acknowledging him, he found himself wondering just who the hell he was. In the school’s football stadium, at this game, he no longer felt like a newly minted doctor who’d been wrung out by years of rigorous coursework, strenuous labor, sleepless nights and stressful days. Ashley was right: today he was Quinn Connor the football star once more, the boy everyone looked up to in high school. The boy every other boy wished he could be, dating the girl every other girl wished she could be.

  When halftime arrived—with the score tied at fourteen, which improved the hometown crowd’s spirit somewhat—the Brogan’s Point High School marching band played a few vaguely recognizable pop tunes and then the high school song. If Ashley hadn’t sung it last night, Quinn wouldn’t have recognized it, nor would he have remembered that it was his cue to march down to the field. Coach Marshall poked him in the arm to remind him that show time had arrived, and he led Quinn him down the steps to the striped expanse of grass, where Sanchez, Kozlowski, and Mr. Kezerian, the high school principal, all stood on the fifty-yard line. The crowd cheered. Quinn seesawed between basking in the attention and wanting to flee.

  Coach Marshall gave a grand oration, listing all of Quinn’s feats. The records he’d set. The pivotal games he’d won. The pride and glory he’d brought to the school. Sanchez and Kozlowski held up a glass-fronted wooden case containing a jersey with Quinn’s number twelve on it—a jersey much too pristine to have ever been worn in a game, by Quinn or anyone else. Coach Marshall announced that Quinn’s number was being retired. More cheers.

  Quinn was handed a plaque and the microphone. He gazed at the stands. People were standing and applauding him. Hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. Not as many as used to pack the luxurious stadium at the University of Michigan. Not as many as Quinn had once dreamed of, back when a professional football career was arguably within his reach. But to his ears, so used to the hushed voices of medical professionals and the mechanical beeps of respirators and heart monitors, and the oldies soundtrack Dave Herschberg played while he was performing surgery, the cheers were deafening.