“Oh, you want a piece of me?” Bear stood to full height, hands on hips. He wore his usual leather pants, but his top looked like some sort of leather bondage contraption. “Just because I’m wearing lipstick don’t mean I can’t kick your ass.”
“Guys!” I hissed. “Stop. Now. And tell me what the hell is going on.”
They both looked up at me. “It’s Quinn,” Mick finally said. “She won’t get out of bed.”
“What?” Quinn normally rivaled me for earliest early bird. “Is she sick?”
Bear pulled a Sharpie from his back pocket and wrote Logan’s name on the bag, complete with a skull and crossbones to represent the O.
“It’s okay. I’ve got this covered. I can get Logan off to school.” Bear’s last word was drowned out by the roaring of the school bus as it blew past the house. “Motherfucker!”
“She’s . . . depressed,” Mick said, voice low and through closed lips, with a concerned glance at Logan, who was draining a glass of milk and seemingly unaware.
I signed good morning to him, before turning back to the two Mr. Mom rejects at the kitchen island. “Why is he shirtless? And who put all that product in his hair?”
“Apparently it’s school spirit day, and the only orange shirt he owned was in the wash. I’m trying to dry it now. Nikki Sixx over here went a little crazy with the hair gel.” Mick wagged an accusatory thumb toward his friend.
“I’m the guitarist, dude. Mick Mars. Same first name as you. Get a clue!” Bear glanced down at me. “Mötley Crüe tribute. We’re called Toast of the Town.”
“At eight in the morning?” I sputtered, pulling Logan’s damp shirt from the dryer housed in the old scullery room.
“We got hired by Shaded Glen nursing home for a lunchtime performance,” Bear explained. “Ladies of all ages love the Crüe.”
I inspected Logan’s lunch, wondering what was more disturbing: Bear’s last comment or his lunch bag artwork. At least the skull had a cheerful smile.
“Okay,” I said, taking charge. “Mick, swap out the pot de crème for something a little more portable. Like a Pop-Tart. Bear, throw a jacket over your bondage gear, a different shirt on Logan, and drive him to school. Just hold the orange tee out the window; it will be dry before you get there and he can swap it out.” I poured hot water into a mug and slapped a tea bag in. “I’m going to check on Quinn.”
Mick threw me a grateful smile before grabbing a coffeepot to provide refills for the guests.
“Send up reinforcements if I’m not back in an hour,” I murmured as he passed.
• • •
“Go away.” A small voice responded to my gentle knock and inquiry, but the doorknob gave way under my hand.
“Not until I make sure you’re okay,” I said softly, setting the tea on her bedside table and taking in Quinn’s quarters.
The twin canopy bed was a little unnerving, and the rest of the room looked like a shrine to her teenage years. Photos of prepubescent friends were jabbed into the corners of the vanity mirror, and school achievement ribbons were pinned to the wall next to it. A faded, dried rose corsage rested on the dresser next to a framed picture of Quinn in her prom gown, held by a stone-faced teenage boy posing formally behind her. A dusty set of candles flanked another gilt frame, this one containing a picture of her parents on their wedding day. The glass was broken, cracks spiderwebbing out from one corner.
The frilly curtains, with their balloon valance matching the eyelet on the canopy and bedspread, were drawn shut tight against walls covered with rosebud floral wallpaper. Certainly no testosterone party was happening in here. The room smelled like the half-used bottle of Clinique Happy on the shelf, combined with despair.
“Can we talk, sweetie?” I sat down at the edge of her bed, like Posy used to do for me when I was having a bad day.
Quinn rolled over and displayed a tear-stained face. “Nash always wins, he always lands on his feet, while I’m left to fall on my face! He comes back to town, captures the full attention, and the heart, of my child, and brings a full house of business to my inn. He basically accomplished what I’ve been struggling to do for ten years in one freakin’ month.”
“Logan loves you so much, Quinn. There’s enough to go around.” I pushed a hank of her hair back behind her ear. “And Nash hasn’t done it alone. Well, the fans coming are totally his fault. But I helped him fix the wall, and it was Bear who sanded the rust off the gate. And Lord knows, Nash can’t even butter his own toast. Where would we be without Mick’s amazing breakfasts?”
This seemed to upset her even more. “See? I’m not even needed. No one would even miss me.”
“Bullshit.” Her pity act didn’t fly with me. “I knew something was wrong the minute my foot hit the first floor. You’re the glue in this family, and yes . . . it’s a weird, patched-together little family, but you’re its glue, babe. Without you, this place would come unhinged.”
She gave a small snort through her tears, and rolled back over.
“Sometimes I wish this whole place burned to the ground,” she whispered. “So I could’ve walked away.”
“Oh, Quinn.”
She fingered her high school graduation tassel that hung from her bedside lamp. Above it was a black and orange Princeton Tigers team poster. “You know I got pregnant my last year at Princeton, right? Never finished.” She sat up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them with her arms. “The little girls in those pictures?” She nodded toward her vanity mirror. “They don’t even recognize me when I pass them in town. Or maybe they do but they don’t remember ever being friends, or playing with me. All those ribbons, all the awards . . . they were all to please my dad. I studied so much, I didn’t even miss having a social life. Until the prom. I had to go with my own brother, since no one else had bothered to ask.”
“That’s Bear?” I asked, incredulous. I hadn’t even recognized the clean-cut, straight-faced kid in the picture.
“My dad was a fan of the crew cut. And of kids being seen but not heard.”
No wonder Quinn was depressed. She was living in limbo between a missed childhood and her reality now. What she really probably could’ve used was a break from this place. Starting with leaving this room. I glanced around. A vacation might not be in the cards, but a mini-escape might do the trick.
“Throw on your robe and meet me in my room in ten minutes,” I said, grabbing the candles from the dresser. “And I want you to drink at least half your tea.”
She stared at me, but didn’t protest. I took that as a good sign.
Down in my room, I positioned the massage table far from the bed and the door, angling it near the corner of windows. After years of practice in whipping up a serene space out of chaos and on the fly, I knew I could do this. I pulled a fresh sheet from the closet and draped the table, then slid Nash’s heating pad in between. I set the ceiling fan on low, drew the curtains, and lit the candles. Then I ran the tub till steaming, and let several hand towels soak. Nash had nothing but noise on his iPod, except for the Shonnie Phillips album I had downloaded to annoy him when we first met. Perfect. I set it in the dock on a low volume.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Quinn was in the doorway, watching me ready my oils. She was in her robe, and carrying her tea.
“Do you have a preference?” I asked, gesturing to the array of bottles like a game show model. I removed Nash’s ring and slipped it into my pocket.
“What is this, Baskin-Robbins?” she asked flatly. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” I caught her by the shoulders of her robe and directed her toward the massage table. She plucked two of the tiny vials of essential oil without so much as looking at them and thrust them at me. “I’m going to step out of the room. You’re going to climb on the table and lie on your stomach, face in the cradle.” I was going to get he
r to relax, even if I had to tackle her.
She gave pause. “Do I . . .” She bit her lip and touched the belt of her bathrobe.
“Wear as much or as little as you’re comfortable with.”
“I don’t have pretty underwear,” she blurted.
“That’s the least of my worries,” I assured her.
I had never been a fan of the cucumbers-on-the-eyes, dripping-waterfall, rub-a-dub school of massage, but being able to offer it to someone as tightly wound as Quinn made me appreciate it a little more. She tensed as I slowly lowered another sheet on her bare back, and tucked it gently into her waistband of her panties. “It’s okay, it’s just to prevent the oil from staining them.”
“Like I said, they’re nothing special,” she mumbled.
I made a mental note to get out to the mall alone with her one of these days. Maybe dainty lingerie was superficial, but it was a start. “Believe me, they’re a world better than what some of these musicians climb up on the table with. Pretty sure the jeans Nash was wearing could’ve walked off on their own.”
I cringed as the words left my mouth, realizing the N word probably wouldn’t go far in relaxing her, but she chuckled. “How did you get into massaging rock stars, anyway?”
“Well,” I started, rolling the lotion between my palms and moving to stand behind her head. “I’m cursed with the people-pleaser gene.” Leaning over her, I laid my hands at her tailbone, and began to slide my way up toward her shoulders in long, sweeping strokes.
“Me, too.” She sighed as I feathered my way down her right side, fingers and palms in constant motion, warming the tissue. “That feels amazing. I’ve never had a massage before.”
“Never?”
“Not ever. Not even with . . . you know, with a guy, unprofessionally.” Her skin was pale and soft, and I had a feeling she didn’t display it often, to anyone. “The closest I’ve come to a day spa is visiting the Curl Up and Dye.”
We both got a laugh out of that. “Hardly counts. We should go to one together someday, and get facials. I love them even more than massages. The cleansing, the toning, the hot towels.” I felt warmth wash over me, just thinking about it. “I love the luxurious ritual of it.”
“I love rituals, too,” she breathed. “Like here, at the inn. I love the look of all the rooms when I’ve freshly made them up. Everything presented and in its place. People sleep, people eat, they go on their way and then it all gets a fresh start, all over again.”
I supposed we all had our rituals. I thought of Mick, in the bakery, and even Nash. The way he started and ended each show was sacred to him, no matter how unconventional of a ritual it was. I thought of how far out of his comfort zone he had traveled to be here.
Going through it. Not around it.
I warmed lotion between my palms and worked it into her dry, cracked hands. Bear was a laundry speed demon, but Quinn did the majority of the work at the Half Acre. “Have you ever had any help here?”
“When I was little, we did. But then my dad sent them away.”
I remembered Mick’s story about his mother, leaving town. And I pictured Quinn at his age, learning to help her own mother with the chores. My heart ached for all of them.
“You know, I like you, Dani,” Quinn said, the words traveling up and washing over me like a fluttering effleurage. “I didn’t want to at first. But I do.”
“I know,” I said, and left it at that. I was glad to hear it, but I wanted her to forget that it was me, Dani, above her. I just wanted her to enjoy the sensation of someone caring for her. I worked her left side in circulatory strokes, never breaking contact, then back up to her center, thumbs and knuckles applying friction. Using a petrissage sequence, I kneaded her upper trapezius muscles, reducing tension in her neck and shoulder muscles.
She began to really relax under my hands, and I worked in silence, save for the soft guitar tones and silky voice of my idol. I’d collected many maternal figures in my life, starting with Nana, moving to Bree and now, I even counted Sindy among them. But Shonnie was the constant force, before and after meeting her in real life, which had nurtured and empowered me. I hoped I could do that for people someday. Could I do that, if I kept running from town to town, breaking down and loading out with bands, night after night?
I shifted position and checked my own alignment, careful to employ good body mechanics. Spreading more oil with my palms, I then transitioned to the back of my hands, stretching out the extensors in my forearms and giving my flexors some needed rest. Massaging others was hard on the masseuse, too. Would there come a time where I couldn’t keep doing it, couldn’t keep running?
And then what? I heard Nash’s lone howl on the mountain. Then what?
And then Jax’s voice, close to my ear. Listen to that little voice inside your own head for once, will ya? WWDD?
What Would Dani Do?
I glanced at the bedside table. When you worked in blocks of time sessions, you got used to watching the clock. I wondered what it would be like to forget about time. Suspend it, like in Bear’s auto body shop. I pictured having my own spa, with real beds, and towel warmers. I could practically feel the hot, smooth massage stones under my hands. And could see Logan’s drawings hanging on the walls.
I reached for the other bottle of essential oil Quinn had selected and cracked it without even so much as a glance at the label.
The smell of cedar hit me, making my eyes water. But that wasn’t what stopped me in my tracks. It was a knock at the bedroom door.
“Hang on a second,” I said to Quinn. Opening the door a crack, I found Mick waiting, two plates in his hands.
“I figured Quinn was with you. And you two might be hungry,” he whispered, holding up what appeared to be quiche and fruit from breakfast. “Spa lunch?”
He smiled, and my heart swelled at the thought of this lovely, lovely man taking the time to consider such a thing. Sindy had indeed raised him well. His aunt had given him love in spades, and had taught him to share it as well.
“Thank you.” I gave his cheek a kiss, and relieved him of the plates. “We’ll be down soon.”
I resumed the massage after he left, but even the amazing food waiting for us couldn’t stop the aroma of cedar from invading my thoughts, nagging at me. It reminded me of the Montauk house, the day of the Davenport funeral. And how I had wanted to be there for a beautiful stranger like Jax. And how I had continued to be his rock.
Someday, Mick, I had said, but I wondered if I could ever let anyone chip away my stone and reveal all that was lurking so deep under there.
“Is that quiche I smell?” Quinn murmured. The proprietor had forgone the most important meal of the day; I heard her stomach growl.
“Spa lunch, courtesy of Mick Spencer,” I replied.
“He’s the best. I can see why . . . why you fell for him,” Quinn said. My hands froze along her shoulders.
“How—,” I stammered.
“I’ve known since the morning after you arrived. When I developed pictures from Logan’s party. Your eyes were locked on him in almost every shot, and the way he looked at you was like, well . . . like how Nash sometimes looks at me, when he thinks I’m not noticing,” she said shyly.
And here Nash thought Quinn would only warm up to him with me around, as a buffer. Turned out she knew more about him, and me, all along.
“It’s okay, Dani. Your secret is safe with me.”
Before I could reply, Nash burst into the room.
“What the fuck is going on in here?”
Quinn gasped, clutching the sheet to her body. “Get out!” she hollered. “You have no right—”
Nash cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Just the way you planned it, huh? No fucking rights at all. I know, Quinn. I know!”
Quinn grabbed her robe, frantically covering herself as Nash stormed closer. But he strode past her,
straight toward the closet and began throwing items into a suitcase. “We’re leaving, Dani. Now.”
“Nash . . . calm down,” I pleaded, grabbing his arm.
“Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not my fucking savior, Dani!” His elbow jerked, shaking me off. “You’re no better than a groupie in the end, minus the sexual favors.”
I reeled back into the massage table, knocking over the bottle of essential oil. Cedar permeated the air and I could barely breathe.
“You left me off the birth certificate!” The entire inn must’ve heard him holler. “Just a fucking John Doe, isn’t that right, Quinn?”
Quinn gave a wounded cry and made for the door. Nash pursued her.
“Get out of here,” he yelled at the gawkers who had assembled. “Fucking vultures, all of you! Leave! Now!”
I raced down the stairs after him, but Mick was already out the door and tackling Nash.
Mick
MOMENTS OF TRUTH
We hit the lawn hard, rolling, pushing, and swearing.
“What the fuck, Spencer! This isn’t your fight!”
“The hell it isn’t!” I was done taking his shit. And he was done taking from the people I cared about. “You want custody of Logan. That’s why you came back.” Dani had called hers an “unusual favor,” and I got that now. “And you needed Dani to do it. You used her. Like you used Quinn.” I had heard his shouts from the bedroom, telling Dani to pack, and about the birth certificate. “I won’t let you do this!”
“Mick! No!” Dani rushed to Nash’s side, as he clutched his hip. “Stop!”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kick his ass!” I pulled a fist back, watching him wince beneath me. “And give me one reason, Dani, why you care what happens to this scumbag.”
She pushed between us. “Please,” she pleaded.
My entire body felt like it had been doused in an ice bath. She was choosing him. Him over me.
“I get it,” I said, pulling myself off him.
Courtship of the Cake Page 31
