Take the Long Way Home

by Judith Arnold

  Whenever his business had brought him to Seattle, he’d always come to see her at the Stonehouse Café. She would ask Lenny for a half-hour break, and if the weather was nice, she and Harry would sit at one of the outdoor tables on the patio, sipping coffee and munching on a few of her cookies. They’d talk about all kinds of things—his recent travels, whatever trouble Cookie had gotten into lately, his social life, hers. Their conversations would roam, touching on politics, movies, the wistful solitude he felt as a childless widower and the wistful solitude she felt living three thousand miles from where she’d grown up, where her father still lived.

  The discussion that threaded through her mind as she sat at the bar, clutching her glass of Zinfandel while her father crowed to strangers about her new store, was the first time Harry had told her he thought she should return to Brogan’s Point.

  “That’s not home,” she’d argued. “That’s just a place where I got hurt.”

  Harry had broken off a piece of his honey-sesame cookie—one of his favorites—and nibbled on it. Then he’d said, “When you get hurt, you get scars.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  “The thing about scar tissue,” he’d continued, “is that it’s tougher than regular tissue. You know how body builders get their strength? Their weight-lifting causes little tears in their muscles. Then those tears heal, and the scar tissue is stronger than the original muscle. All those little tears, all those scars—that’s what makes them so strong.”

  “Really? The muscles tear? I guess that’s why we say people who work out are ripped.”

  Harry had chuckled. “You may not realize it, Maeve, but every hurt you’ve suffered has created a scar that makes you stronger. Someday you’ll be strong enough to go home.”

  “Someday, maybe.” She’d sighed. “That day is a long way off.”

  A long way, but she’d made it home. Her father’s beaming, bursting pride in her, his affection, his effusive hugs—it all convinced her she’d done the right thing in returning to Brogan’s Point. She’d developed some tough scar tissue from the wounds he’d inflicted on her, and she was strong enough now to forgive him, to come to him when she needed someone. She was strong enough to lean on him when she felt weak.

  Quinn had torn her heart by not showing up at the store today, and he tore it again by arriving at the tavern in the company of his magnificent girlfriend. Those tears might form scars, too, and make her stronger. But right now the tears were raw, bleeding. Agonizing.

  A group of people rose from their table and offered it to Quinn’s party, confirming her conviction that if anyone was the star of the day, it was Quinn. The people relinquishing their table to him and his entourage weren’t doting fathers, giving their exhausted daughter a desperately needed seat. They were adoring fans, shaking Quinn’s hand, slapping his back, raising their glasses and mugs to him in a toast. He looked disconcerted and a little bemused as he nodded and glanced around. His smile appeared uncertain, almost pained.

  Then his gaze collided with hers and he froze.

  And his smile suddenly appeared genuine.

  Really? He was happy to see her? After sleeping with her last night and blowing her off today, and showing up at a local bar for a drink with his long-time sweetheart? Really?

  Anger flared inside Maeve. Anger, resentment, and something as keen and devastating as the grief she’d felt when she’d lost her mother. She’d never actually had Quinn—although last night, she’d allowed herself to believe he was hers. Losing what she’d never actually had shouldn’t hurt this badly, but it did.

  He pushed away from the table, extricated himself from his posse, and worked his way across the room toward her. She defiantly lifted her wine glass and took a slug. A nice Zin ought to be savored, but right now all she could think of was guzzling the wine so she wouldn’t be tempted to toss it into Quinn’s face.

  More admirers stopped him en route. They tugged at the sleeve of his dark leather jacket. They planted themselves directly in front of him. They slung their arms over his shoulders. A few snapped selfies with him. He paused to chat, courteous and friendly, but his gaze kept veering to Maeve, as if to make certain she was waiting for him.

  The hell with that. She wasn’t going to wait for him to run the gantlet of his devotees just to favor her with his radiant presence. She drained her glass of wine, realized she couldn’t get from her stool to the tavern’s exit without crossing paths with him, and asked Gus, “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  Gus was mixing two drinks at once, pouring vodka into one glass and something pink and fizzy into another. She motioned with her head the way she had when she’d signaled to Maeve’s father that Maeve had entered the bar. Maeve followed Gus’s chin as if it were an arrow and spotted the door leading to the restrooms. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be back.” When Quinn is gone, she added silently, sliding off the stool and using the people thronging the bar as camouflage until she’d reached the alcove where the restrooms were located. She pushed open the ladies’ room door, stepped inside, and let the door swing shut behind her.

  Once again, her eyes welled with tears. At least there were sinks in here to wash her cheeks with, once she stopped crying.

  If she ever stopped crying.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The whole day had been surreal.

  The ceremony, for one thing. That freaking standing ovation—not just from the local folks but from the fans of Salem’s team who’d driven to Brogan’s Point for the game—had been bizarre. Coach Marshall’s recitation of Quinn’s achievements and records, his amplified voice resounding through the stadium, had gone on and on, and Quinn had experienced something akin to an out-of-body experience. A part of him kept thinking he couldn’t possibly have done all that. He couldn’t have been that good.

  But another part—the arrogant, self-satisfied part of himself that he’d been trying to vanquish for the past ten years—had thought, yeah, he had been that good, and he had done all that. The last-minute win against Gloucester, when he’d somersaulted over his blockers and landed in the end zone, the ball tucked tightly in his hand. The games played in the rain, when he’d managed not to lose his footing in the mud and kept the wet ball from slipping out of his grasp. The flea-flicker he’d pulled off with Gary Manzo that had led to a winning touchdown. The game when he’d passed for a hundred eighty-five yards and run for another forty-seven. The division championship game his senior year, when he’d gone sixteen for sixteen in pass attempts.

  The cheers had echoed through the stadium and bathed him. He’d wallowed in the sound, drowned in the vibe. He’d sucked it in, lapped it up. Relished it.

  Ashley had warned him he’d have to make a speech, but that had been last night at dinner, when all he’d been thinking about was meeting Maeve afterward. He hadn’t prepared a statement. When Coach Marshall had thrust the microphone into Quinn’s hand, he’d had no idea what to say to these people who were showering him with accolades and adulation.

  “Thanks,” he’d managed. “I’m speechless.” Which had been absolutely true.

  The attention had boggled his mind. At one time, this had been his life. He’d been so used to the applause, he’d hardly even heard it. He’d taken it for granted. He was hot, he was cool—he’d deserved all the glory.

  He’d been a conceited son of a bitch.

  He’d worked hard to leave that behind. It was an ugly part of him, the smug, egotistical part of him. In the years since he’d quit playing, he had come to value people whose talents could be applied to helping people, saving people, making their lives less painful. He’d forced himself through an academic grinder, learning humility, shedding hubris. He’d wanted to be a better person.

  But standing in that arena, with all those people hailing him like a conquering hero… Man, he’d forgotten how good it felt to be a hero.

  The entire thing had been much too heady. He’d been relieved when the game ended and he could leave. He’d wanted to esc
ape the strange, otherworldly glow that seemed to envelop him, and to reclaim who he was now: a doctor. A healer. Still learning. Still striving. Hoping to be a real hero someday, a hero to people with broken bones, damaged joints, crippling injuries.

  He’d wanted to break free from the whole hero-worship thing. More than that, he’d wanted a cookie. He’d wanted a woman who didn’t revere him, who liked him not for his athletic prowess but for himself.

  The ceremony at the homecoming game had been like fireworks, spectacular but evanescent. Last night with Maeve had been not fireworks but fire, something that could warm him. Something real, something lasting. Something burning hot.

  His fans wouldn’t let him escape, though. Merely leaving the stadium had been an ordeal. He’d been repeatedly stopped and congratulated. More people had wanted to pose for snapshots with him; they’d asked for his autograph as if he were a movie star. It had taken more than a half hour to walk from his seat to the exit gate, surrounded by Ashley, Coach Marshall, and a phalanx of Booster Club members.

  Outside the gate, he’d tried to explain that he needed to be somewhere. They wouldn’t hear of it. The Booster Club had planned a reception in his honor. He had to go.

  He’d phoned Cookie’s. Maeve’s assistant answered—calling the place Cookie’s and not Torelli’s, he’d been pleased to note. He’d barely been able to hear her over the rumble of voices in the background, though. She’d asked him if he could hold, and before he could answer, he’d heard a click. He’d listened to silence long enough to realize he’d been disconnected.

  He’d taken comfort in the thought that Maeve’s store was so busy. Through the phone connection, at least, her grand opening had sounded grand. He’d wished he could be there, to savor some of the grandness and to stand aside and watch someone else receiving all the applause. But Ashley and Coach Marshall had ushered him directly to the high school cafeteria, which had been festooned with balloons and banners celebrating not just the homecoming game but him.

  The reception had dragged on. He’d tried phoning Cookie’s a second time and received a busy signal. He’d started to text Maeve on her cell phone, but while he was tapping in a message, a group of fans had swarmed him and he’d had to tuck his phone away, the message unsent.

  He’d catch up with her later, he’d resolved. He’d flee from this circus and find her, and they’d have some quiet time together. They’d decompress. They’d walk on the beach, eat cookies, make love—not necessarily in that order.

  He’d get back to being the better Quinn, the Quinn he aspired to be.

  When Bart Sanchez had finished his post-game meeting with his team and joined the reception, he’d declared that they should all go somewhere for drinks. Because the reception had been in the school cafeteria, only soft drinks had been served. Sanchez had clearly desired something stronger.

  So Quinn had found himself swept along in a tide of people heading for the Faulk Street Tavern. Fine, he’d thought. They’d all have drinks, and he’d duck into the men’s room, pull out his cell phone, and try to reach Maeve.

  As it turned out, his cell phone wouldn’t be necessary. She, too, was at the Faulk Street Tavern. He spotted her at once, as if he was a heat-seeking missile and she was the heat he was seeking. She sat at the bar with her father, the tall, sturdy cop, and she looked thin and pale with fatigue.

  Quinn wanted nothing more than to race to her side, to give her a hug, a kiss, whatever strength he could impart to her. He suspected her father wouldn’t take too kindly to his doing that, though. Quinn might be ten years out of high school, but he still found the idea of being in a relationship with a cop’s daughter a little intimidating.

  Not intimidating enough to keep him from rushing to her side. But he couldn’t rush. He was waylaid by so many people that by the time he reached the bar, Maeve was no longer with her father.

  He forgot about being intimidated. He was Quinn Connor, after all. The big shot. The superstar. “Mr. Nolan?” he said, extending his right hand.

  Maeve’s father raised his eyebrows and shook his hand. “I know who you are,” he said. “Quinn Connor, the best quarterback ever to walk the halls of Brogan’s Point High. I understand this was your big day over at the homecoming game.”

  Quinn shrugged. “It was a big game for the school. They won.”

  “And you got your number retired. A couple of the patrolmen were over at the game. We always like to have a police presence there. Unfortunately, they don’t pick old guys like me for the fun assignments.”

  “I think you’re too important to patrol a high school football game, Mr. Nolan,” Quinn pointed out. “Aren’t you pretty high up in the department? A detective, right?”

  Nolan frowned. “I know why I know you, but I don’t know why you know me. I don’t recall ever arresting you.”

  Quinn smiled. “I’m a friend of your daughter’s,” he said.

  Nolan’s eyebrows arched again, pleating the skin of his forehead. “I didn’t know she had any friends in town.”

  “She does.” Quinn glanced around. “She was sitting here just a minute ago. Where did she go? I want to congratulate her on her store’s opening.”

  “She’s in the ladies’ room,” the tall, red-haired bartender informed him as she set several draft beers on a tray for one of her waitresses. She gestured toward an alcove. Quinn nodded his thanks.

  It took him another ten minutes to reach his destination, because people kept stopping him to congratulate him along the way. He tried not to be ungrateful, but by the time he arrived at the alcove leading to the restrooms, he felt as if he’d swum the English Channel.

  He remained outside the door to the ladies’ room, waiting for Maeve.

  And waiting. And waiting.

  A couple of women entered the alcove, squeezing past him and shooting him flirtatious smiles. When one reached for the ladies’ room door, he said, “I’m waiting for someone who’s been in there a while. Can you tell her I’m here?”

  “Why wait for her?” one of the women asked. “Why not wait for me instead?”

  “For both of us,” the other added, and the two burst into shrill giggles. “Two for the price of one!”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just—could you tell her I’m out here?”

  “Maybe,” one of the women said before they both disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  Quinn was tempted to follow them inside, but he didn’t want to risk getting arrested. At least one representative of Brogan’s Point’s finest was seated at the bar, only a short distance away.

  He glanced out of the alcove, checking to see if anyone was searching for him. Loud music and raucous laughter bombarded him. Some ancient rock song was playing, clanging guitars and thumping drums.

  The music out in the bar faded from his mind, replaced by “Take the Long Way Home.” Just snippets of the song, lyrics floating through his skull. How they adore you… But he didn’t want them to adore him. He wanted only one person’s adoration: Maeve’s. He wanted her to adore him as much he adored her. Screw the fans, screw the ceremony. Who cared how much they adored him?

  Look through the years…if you’d had more time…

  He might need more time to become a better person, to shake off that celebrity skin and be the man he wanted to be. It took time. It took hard work.

  But he didn’t need more time to know one thing. Yanking open the ladies’ room door, he leaned in and shouted, “I love you, Maeve!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  She looked like hell. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy. So much for having a sink and a bunch of paper towels to undo the damage of all her crying.

  But Quinn had just said he loved her. Not just to her but in front of those two ladies giggling and gossiping and augmenting their make-up at the mirror. If the taller one added any more mascara to her lashes, her eyelids might fall off from the weight.

  The shorter one smiled at Maeve. “He’s hot,” she said. “If you don’t want him, we do.”
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  I want him, Maeve thought. She reminded herself that he hadn’t come to her shop, that he’d made love to her last night and then romped off to be a football star with his old girlfriend. Today had been a big day for her, too. He’d told her he would come, and he hadn’t.

  She hadn’t gone to his big day, either. Maybe he was as hurt as she was. Not that she could have gone, not that she could have left her store for a minute, let alone for the hours a football game would have taken.

  Football meant nothing to her. It had been so important to him, and she’d dismissed it. The thing that had defined his life ten years ago was as relevant to her as a mirror to a blind person.

  Yet despite that, he’d just said he loved her.

  She pushed past the ladies and stumbled out into the alcove.

  Into Quinn’s arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, just as he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Wait.” He pulled back. “What are you sorry for?”

  “Today was your big day, and all I could think about was that you left this morning, and I didn’t hear from you again. You just vanished. And it was all about me. I was so busy being hurt—”

  “Whoa. It’s okay.” He ran his hands over her hair, smoothing it, twining his fingers through the long, straight locks. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I really wanted to come to your store.”

  “You had more important things to do.”

  “Nothing was so important that you should have wound up hurt.”

  “I should have been understanding. I know you’re a superstar, people here worship you and—”

  “I don’t want their worship,” he said.

  She leaned back and peered up at him. His beautiful blue eyes were shadowed with worry. “What do you want?” she asked.