Take the Long Way Home

by Judith Arnold

  Quinn fingered the microphone. He gazed out at the crowds giving him a standing ovation. Was this home? Was he home? Who the hell was he?

  For that one moment, he was no longer Dr. Connor, the guy who set bones and repaired torn ACL’s and worked absurd hours, without sleep or balanced meals. Or cookies.

  He was the star all those strangers believed him to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cookie’s stayed open until seven o’clock. Maeve hadn’t decided on an official closing time yet. Many bakeries closed by mid-afternoon, once they’d sold out their fresh inventory. They’d discount whatever was left and sell it the next day as day as day-old products. But cookies didn’t necessarily go stale the way bread did. Maeve thought that as people learned about the shop’s existence, they might want to stop by on their way home from work, to grab a special treat for dessert. That would require her to remain open later. She’d have to gauge the traffic.

  On opening day, the traffic continued into the early evening. Customers just kept trickling in.

  At certain times during the day, they hadn’t trickled. They’d flooded. Around four o’clock—right after the homecoming game ended—so many people had descended upon the shop on Seaview Avenue that the line had stretched outside the store and halfway down the block. She credited Joyce’s daughter and her friend for this. The fliers they’d distributed outside the football field had attracted an amazing amount of business.

  The buy-two-get-one-free discount had helped, too. Cookie’s would have made more money if Maeve had charged full price—but if she’d charged full price, fewer people might have come in. Crowds were always a good thing. Crowds equaled word-of-mouth. She’d learned a lot from Lenny at the Stonehouse Café, and from Harry, and from the research she’d done online. “The best marketing tool is a satisfied customer,” one of the sites she’d studied had taught her.

  Today, she’d sent a lot of satisfied customers out into the world. She hoped the word-of-mouth would bring her even more business.

  She’d dismissed Joyce an hour ago and taken care of the last stragglers herself. Joyce had been pretty punchy by the late afternoon. Maeve and her assistant had barely had a chance to sit down all day, and for several stretches, Joyce had worked solo at the counter while Maeve had run more batches of cookies through the ovens. The two of them had taken turns eating snacks of yogurt, crackers, fruit, and broken cookies to keep their energy level up, one of them sneaking into the back office to refuel while the other dealt with customers.

  Maeve’s father had been in twice, once by himself in the morning, when business had still been light, and a second time, accompanied by Gus Naukonen, shortly after lunch, when Cookie’s had been teeming with customers. The tall, lanky, bartender had tried one of the molasses-almond cookies and told Maeve’s father that Maeve was now her favorite Nolan. After his first visit, her father had passed out fliers to his colleagues on the police force, and cops had wandered in, singly or in pairs, throughout the day. “Who says cops only eat doughnuts?” one patrolman had joked. “I’m switching to cookies.”

  The food critic from the local newspaper had dropped by, too. She’d mooched several free cookies, insisting she had to taste more than one flavor in order to assess the enterprise fairly. But she’d rhapsodized about the cookies and promised a rave review in her next column.

  Maeve ought to be happy.

  She was happy. The opening was everything she could have dreamed. If only Harry were alive, she could tell him what she’d accomplished. It was entirely his doing, after all. He’d bought her the store. He’d pushed her to return to Brogan’s Point and start her own venture, and his bequest had made the whole thing possible. His wisdom and generosity, his friendship, his faith in her… She was more indebted to him than she could measure.

  A tear leaked from her eye, and she wiped it away with a Cookie’s napkin. In the past ten years, she’d hardly ever cried, and now, all of a sudden, she was turning into a veritable sob machine. First last night, and again today, she’d succumbed to weeping.

  She was exhausted. She missed Harry. As she twisted the lock in the door and silenced the bell, which had been serenading her with its festive jingling all day long, she told herself her crying was just a release. She’d been running non-stop since four a.m., and now her body was letting go.

  But her tears were more than just a result of weariness combined with jagged spikes of adrenaline. They were also a result of sadness. Of disappointment. Of…damn it, heartbreak.

  Quinn hadn’t come.

  When the crowds had surged into the store after the homecoming game, she’d tried not to watch for him. In truth, she was too busy serving customers and replenishing stock to glance at the door each time the bell tinkled announcing a new arrival. She knew the four o’clock deluge was due to the game’s ending, since many of those customers were chattering about this play and that score. Given how little Maeve understood football, they might as well have been speaking a foreign language. But she listened for a phrase she might recognize—specifically, the phrase “Quinn Connor.” She hadn’t heard it break through the din of “Three chocolate-chip cookies!” and “Can I have one of these and three of those—no, I mean, two of these, one of those, two of those…” and “Do you have any cocoa?”

  She should add cocoa to the menu. Maybe hot cider, too, on these brisk autumn days.

  But cocoa and cider weren’t important right now. What was important—far more painfully important than she wanted it to be—was that Quinn had promised to come, and he hadn’t.

  She’d been crazy to think he would. Who was she kidding? Last night was…whatever it was. A moment of need. A spasm of passion. A bout of insanity.

  He was King Quinn, the gorgeous hotshot who excelled at everything he tried, who’d once saved games and now saved lives—or at least saved fractured bones and torn tendons. She was Maeve Nolan, the weirdo who’d staggered through her adolescence trapped within a dark cage of pain and anger, and who’d cleared out of Brogan’s Point as soon as she could, hoping never to return.

  How could she think this town was her home?

  How could she think Quinn’s arms were home? Last night she’d believed they were. Last night…

  Last night she’d been an idiot. And now she was an idiot with tears streaking down her face.

  If she were still in Seattle, she could have chugged a bottle of wine with Lacey, the housemate she’d been closest to, and they could have cried together, cursing Quinn in particular and men in general. That had been their break-up ritual—Lacey had hooked up a lot more often than Maeve, and endured a lot more break-ups, but Maeve had always been happy to share wine and swearing with her.

  Last night hadn’t been just a hook-up, though, at least not to Maeve. She’d honestly believed something special had existed between her and Brogan’s Point’s golden boy, that they’d connected in a unique way. She’d felt she could trust him. Unlike Lacey, she wasn’t the sort of woman who made a habit of falling into bed with a man she’d known only a few days. But ever since that song had played at the Faulk Street Tavern, creating a mysterious, magical bond between her and Quinn…

  Oh, yeah. She’d fallen, all right.

  Undoubtedly, his hall-of-fame inauguration today, or whatever the hell the homecoming ceremony was, had reminded Quinn of his true identity. He was a master of the universe, not someone who hung out with cat ladies and loners and wounded souls. Just because Maeve could seduce him with a cookie—well, what did that signify? She’d practically seduced Gus Naukonen with a cookie, too. A couple of the cops who’d tried out her cookies had looked more than a little misty-eyed after the first bite. One little boy devoured a butterscotch blondie and asked if Maeve could be his mommy.

  There’s nothing more than cookies between me and Quinn, she told herself as she locked down the cash register and shut off the lights in the front room. She toured the kitchen to make sure everything was in place for tomorrow’s baking, then trudged to the ba
ck office to get her jacket. Quinn is just a fantasy, the guy every girl had a crush on. Just because Maeve hadn’t been a part of the high school’s cool clique—or any clique, for that matter—didn’t mean she’d been immune to his appeal. He’d been gorgeous then. He was gorgeous now. He’d been hot then. He was hot now. He’d been some kind of hero then, and now.

  And she, being a total fool, had gotten a crush on him, all over again. And made love with him. And been dumped by him.

  Tears continued to stream down her cheeks as she exited through the back door into the parking lot behind the shop. The single light on a high pole above the lot illuminated her car, sitting by itself on the cracked asphalt, looking as lonely and forlorn as she felt. She buckled herself in, started the engine, and wondered how she was going to survive the night. She needed to get some sleep so she’d have the energy to endure another long day tomorrow. She couldn’t lie awake for hours, sobbing and moping and beating herself up for having handed her heart to someone who, until barely a week ago, had never even smiled at her, let alone said hello.

  She could cuddle Cookie, if Cookie would let her. Cookie might not allow that, though. Cats could be moody.

  I can be moody, too, Maeve thought defiantly, wiping the moisture from her cheeks.

  She blinked to clear her vision, shifted the car into gear, and pulled out of the lot. The thought of driving home and spending the night alone and brooding didn’t sit well with her. She wished she had a friend like Lacey in Brogan’s Point, someone whose shoulder she could cry on.

  She didn’t have any friends here, but she did have family. That was why Harry had urged her to move back to Brogan’s Point. When he’d died before he could hand her the deed to the Torelli bakery building, he’d engineered the move from beyond the grave.

  He’d forced her to come back to Brogan’s Point, where she had family. She might have taken the long way, but she was home now.

  She drove directly to her father’s house. No lamps glowed through the windows, but the porch and driveway lights were on. She remembered the many nights in high school when she’d come home after having been out walking aimlessly or, when she got older, driving just as aimlessly, grieving and fending off black thoughts, only to find the house shrouded in gloom. Her father had never left a light on for her. He might be asleep or out drinking, but she’d been living in darkness back then, and she’d come home to a house that as dark as her spirit.

  She doubted her father had left the outdoor lights on for her, but she pretended he had. She pulled into the driveway, parked and raced up the front walk to the porch. She wasn’t sure what she would say to him, how she would explain her despair over Quinn’s failure to put in even a token appearance at her store. But she believed that, unlike ten years ago, this time her father would be here for her.

  I need a hug. Surely that would be enough of an explanation for now.

  She rang the doorbell. No answer.

  She rang it again. Silence.

  Leaning her hips against the wrought-iron porch railing, she blew her nose with the soggy napkin in her hand and waited for the cold night air to clear her mind. Where might her father be? Possibly at work, if he’d pulled a night shift, or if a crime had been committed that demanded his particular expertise. She didn’t want to march into the police station looking for him, though, not given the shape she was in. His colleagues had seen her bright-eyed and bustling during the day. She wanted them to continue thinking of her that way—a businesswoman, a baker. A successful entrepreneur, not a lovesick loser.

  If her father wasn’t at the station house, he could be at the Faulk Street Tavern with his lady friend. If Gus couldn’t join them for dinner last night because Friday night was a busy time at the bar, Saturday night would be busier. She’d be there. If Maeve’s father wasn’t, then Maeve would look to Gus for comfort. Bartenders were supposed to provide a sympathetic ear along with the booze, weren’t they?

  Atlantic Avenue was busier than usual, even for a Saturday night. Maeve wondered if people who’d traveled to town for the homecoming game were still here. Was there a homecoming dance at the school? House parties? She had no idea. She considered a high school football game a silly event to get so excited about, but evidently, a lot of people didn’t share her opinion.

  She felt her eyes filling with tears again, just thinking about that afternoon’s game and the man who had been at the center of the excitement, the man she’d stupidly thought might care enough about her to show his face at her own significant event. Another rough swipe at her face with the saturated Cookie’s napkin, and she wadded it up and tossed it onto the passenger seat. She wedged her car into a narrow parking space, squeezed through the open door without scratching the adjacent car, and entered the tavern.

  It was more crowded than Cookie’s had been at its peak that afternoon. Every table was occupied. Every person in the room seemed to be yammering at top volume, creating a cacophony of voices that blended with a song booming from the jukebox, something about a nervous breakdown. Maeve recognized the band—the Rolling Stones. One of Lacey’s boyfriends had been a fan of the Stones, and he’d played their music constantly while hanging out at the house.

  Dozens of people filled the square of parquet at the center of the room, dancing. Waitresses wove unerringly through the throngs, carrying trays loaded with drinks and snacks. The music, chattering voices, clinking bottles and clicking ice cubes, wove into a solid web of noise around Maeve’s head. She felt oddly protected by it. She might be by herself, but at least she wasn’t alone.

  She hovered for a moment just inside the entry, searching for her father. Then she spotted him, over at the bar. Navigating across the room wouldn’t be easy—she lacked the waitresses’ grace and balance—but by edging along the side of the room, she was able to avoid bumping into anyone.

  Gus noticed Maeve before her father did. She and another bartender worked their side of the bar as if they were actors in a film being run at an accelerated speed. They walked, poured, served, and talked briskly and fluidly, filling trays, filling orders.

  Without breaking stride, Gus caught Maeve’s father’s attention with a jerk of her chin and said, “Look who’s here.”

  He spun around on his stool and his face broke into a smile. “Maeve! The star of the day!” He nudged the guy on the stool next to his. “My daughter opened a new store today, on Seaview Avenue, where Torelli’s used to be. Cookie’s.”

  “Yeah?” His neighbor appeared intrigued.

  “Best cookies you’ll ever eat. Homemade and delicious. If Gus had to choose between marrying those cookies and marrying me, she’d choose the cookies.”

  He shot Gus a teasing look, who confirmed his statement with a nod. “You got that right.”

  Maeve’s father turned back to her. “I’m so proud of you, Maeve,” he said. “I can’t help bragging a little. You look wiped out, though. Here, take my seat.” He leaped off his stool and helped her onto it, then gave her a spontaneous hug.

  She hugged him back, hard. She wasn’t the star of the day—that titled belonged to Quinn—but she needed to know someone loved her. Her father’s joy at seeing her convinced her she did.

  Harry had been right. Family was essential.

  “Get her something to drink,” Maeve’s father asked Gus. “What do you want, honey?”

  “I don’t know.” She slumped on the stool, fighting off a wave of sadness. Yes, family was important, and she was grateful to have located her father. But in her dreams, she’d been celebrating the end of her shop’s first official day with Quinn. Fresh tears threatened, and she batted her eyes to keep them from leaking. “A glass of wine, I guess. Red or white—I don’t care.”

  “You wine snobs make me crazy,” Gus joked. “I just opened a nice bottle of Zin. How does that sound?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Maeve would have been satisfied with a glass of Two-Buck Chuck.

  Maybe coming here hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. The noise, the hubb
ub, the music—Elvis Presley, now, yodeling about dancing in prison—closed in on her. She wanted to be home, in her bed. With Quinn. She wanted to talk to him, to confide in him. To make love with him, and then talk some more. She wanted the intimacy she’d felt with him from the moment they’d heard “Take the Long Way Home” spill out of the jukebox in this very room, when she’d felt as if she and Quinn were the only two people in the universe.

  She wanted the impossible.

  Gus handed her a glass. She thanked Gus again, took a sip of the red wine, and felt it slide smoothly down her throat. Closing her eyes, she heard not the din of voices filling the tavern but her song, hers and Quinn’s. “Take the Long Way Home” hummed through her brain, her gray-matter snagging on snippets of lyrics she didn’t even know she knew.

  You’re part of the scenery…

  Lonely days…lonely nights…

  What might have been…

  A strong hand squeezed her shoulder. Her eyes shot open and she saw that the hand belonged to her father. He was boasting about her store to a guy standing near them, holding a sweating brown beer bottle and listening intently. “Unbelievable cookies,” her father was saying. “She’s got more talent in her little finger than I’ve got in my whole body.”

  What an exaggeration. His hyping of her store and her alleged talent was flattering but also embarrassing. She averted her gaze, and a flurry of activity near the entry to the tavern caught her attention. The door opened, admitting a jubilant group: three large, burly men, a gorgeous blond woman…and Quinn.

  Of course. The true star of the day, accompanied by Ashley Wright, his beautiful girlfriend. A sharp pain sheared through Maeve, and she gulped some wine, struggling not to choke on it.

  She swiveled toward the bar and closed her eyes again. This time she heard not the song but Harry’s voice. She pictured him, his sweet, weathered face, his genial smile, his clean hands and buffed nails, his neat, dapper apparel. Despite his polished grooming—and despite her inheritance—she still found it hard to believe he’d been a billionaire. He’d been so accessible, so friendly and frank.