by Nora Roberts
“You didn’t think I’d leave you fumbling through this alone, did you?”
“But—” Cam shut his eyes. He was hallucinating, he realized. It was stress and fatigue, grief tossed in.
“I always tried to teach you that life’s full of surprises and miracles. I wanted you to open your mind not just to possibilities, Cam, but to impossibilities.”
“Ghosts? God!”
“Why not?” The idea seemed to cheer Ray immensely as he let loose with one of his deep, rumbling laughs. “Read your literature, son. It’s full of them.”
“Can’t be,” Cam mumbled to himself.
“I’m sitting right here, so it looks like it can. I left too many things unfinished around here. It’s up to you and your brothers now, but who says I can’t give you a little help now and again?”
“Help. Yeah, I’m going to need some serious help. Starting with a psychiatrist.” Before his legs gave out on him, Cam picked his way through the broken stairs and sat down on the edge of the porch.
“You’re not crazy, Cam, just confused.”
Cam took a steadying breath and turned his head to study the man who lazily rocked in the old wooden chair. The Mighty Quinn, he thought while the air whooshed out of his lungs. He looked solid and real. He looked, Cam decided, there.
“If you’re really here, tell me about the boy. Is he yours?”
“He’s yours now. Yours and Ethan’s and Phillip’s.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Of course it is. I’m counting on each of you. Ethan takes things as they come and makes the best of them. Phillip wraps his mind around details and ties them up. You push at everything until it works your way. The boy needs all three of you. Seth’s what’s important. You’re all what’s important.”
“I don’t know what to do with him,” Cam said impatiently. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Figure out one, you’ll figure out the other.”
“Damn it, tell me what happened. Tell me what’s going on.”
“That’s not why I’m here. I can’t tell you if I’ve seen Elvis either.” Ray grinned when Cam let out a short, helpless laugh. “I believe in you, Cam. Don’t give up on Seth. Don’t give up on yourself.”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Fix the steps,” Ray said with a wink. “It’s a start.”
“The hell with the steps,” Cam began, but he was alone again with the sound of singing birds and gently lapping water. “Losing my mind,” he murmured, rubbing an unsteady hand over his face. “Losing my goddamn mind.”
And rising, he went back to fix the steps.
Anna Spinelli had the radio blasting. Aretha Franklin was wailing out of her million-dollar pipes, demanding respect. Anna was wailing along with her, deliriously thrilled with her spanking-new car.
She’d worked her butt off, budgeted and juggled funds to afford the down payment and the monthly installments. And as far as she was concerned it would be worth every carton of yogurt she ate rather than a real meal.
Despite the chilly spring air, she’d have preferred to have the top down as she sped along the country roads. But it wouldn’t have looked professional to arrive windblown. Above all else, it was essential to appear and behave in a professional manner.
She’d chosen a plain and proper navy suit and white blouse for this home visit. What she wore under it was nobody’s business but her own. Her affection for silk strained her ever beleaguered budget, but life was for living, after all.
She’d fought her long, curling black hair into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. She thought it made her look a bit more mature and dignified. Too often when she wore her hair down she was dismissed as a hot number rather than a serious-minded social worker.
Her skin was pale gold, thanks to her Italian heritage. Her eyes, big and dark and almond-shaped. Her mouth was full, with a ripe bottom lip. The bones in her face were strong and prominent, her nose long and straight. She wore little makeup during business hours, wary of drawing the wrong kind of attention.
She was twenty-eight years old, devoted to her work, satisfied with the single life, and pleased that she’d been able to settle in the pretty town of Princess Anne.
She’d had enough of the city.
As she drove between long, flat fields of row crops with the scent of water a hint on the breeze through her window, she dreamed of one day moving to such a place. Country lanes and tractors. A view of the bay and boats.
She’d need to save up, to plan, but one day she hoped to manage to buy a little house outside of town. The commute wouldn’t be so hard, not when driving was one of her greatest personal pleasures.
The CD player shifted, the Queen of Soul to Beethoven. Anna began to hum the “Ode to Joy.”
She was glad the Quinn case had been assigned to her. It was so interesting. She only wished she’d had the chance to meet Raymond and Stella Quinn. It would take very special people to adopt three half-grown and troubled boys and make it work.
But they were gone, and now Seth DeLauter was her concern. Obviously the adoption proceedings couldn’t go forward. Three single men—one living in Baltimore, one in St. Chris, and the other wherever he chose to at the moment. Well, Anna mused, it didn’t appear to be the best environment for the child. In any case, it was doubtful they would want guardianship.
So Seth DeLauter would be absorbed back into the system. Anna intended to do her best by him.
When she spotted the house through the greening leaves, she stopped the car. Deliberately she turned the radio down to a dignified volume, then checked her face and hair in the rearview mirror. Shifting back into first, she drove the last few yards at a leisurely pace and turned slowly into the drive.
Her first thought was that it was a pretty house in a lovely setting. So quiet and peaceful, she mused. It could have used a fresh coat of paint, and the yard needed tending, but the slight air of disrepair only added to the hominess.
A boy would be happy here, she thought. Anyone would. It was a shame he’d have to be taken away from it. She sighed a little, knowing too well that fate had its whims. Taking her briefcase, she got out of the car.
She hitched her jacket to make certain it fell in line. She wore it a bit loose, so it wouldn’t showcase distracting curves. She started toward the front door, noting that the perennial beds flanking the steps were beginning to pop.
She really needed to learn more about flowers; she made a mental note to check out a few gardening books from the library.
She heard the hammering and hesitated, then in her practical low heels cut across the lawn toward the back of the house.
He was kneeling on the ground when she caught sight of him. A black T-shirt tucked into snug and faded denim. From a purely female outlook, it was impossible not to react and approve of him. Muscles—the long and lean sort—rippled as he pounded a nail into wood with enough anger, Anna mused, enough force, to send vibrations of both into the air to simmer.
Phillip Quinn? she wondered. The advertising executive. Highly doubtful.
Cameron Quinn, the globe-trotting risk-taker? Hardly.
So this must be Ethan, the waterman. She fixed a polite smile on her face and started forward. “Mr. Quinn.”
His head came up. With the hammer still gripped in his hand, he turned until she saw his face. Oh, yes, the anger was there, she realized, full-blown and lethal. And the face itself was more compelling and certainly tougher than she’d been prepared for.
Some Native American blood, perhaps, she decided, would account for those sharp bones and bronzed skin. His hair was a true black, untidy and long enough to fall over his collar. His eyes were anything but friendly, the color of bitter storms.
On a personal level, she found the package outrageously sexy. On a professional one, she knew the look of an alley brawler when she saw one, and decided on the spot that whichever Quinn this was, he was a man to be careful with.
He took his time stu
dying her. His first thought was that legs like that deserved a better showcase than a drab navy skirt and ugly black shoes. His second was that when a woman had eyes that big, that brown, that beautiful, she probably got whatever she wanted without saying a word.
He set the hammer down and rose. “I’m Quinn.”
“I’m Anna Spinelli.” She kept the smile in place as she walked forward, hand extended. “Which Quinn are you?”
“Cameron.” He’d expected a soft hand because of the eyes, because of the husky purr of her voice, but it was firm. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Seth DeLauter’s caseworker.”
His interest evaporated, and his spine stiffened. “Seth’s in school.”
“I’d hope so. I’d like to speak with you about the situation, Mr. Quinn.”
“My brother Phillip’s handling the legal details.”
She arched a brow, determined to keep the small polite smile in place. “Is he here?”
“No.”
“Well, then, if I could have a few moments of your time. I assume you’re living here, at least temporarily.”
“So what?”
She didn’t bother to sigh. Too many people saw a social worker as the enemy. She’d done so once herself. “My concern is Seth, Mr. Quinn. Now we can discuss this, or I can simply move forward with the procedure for his removal from this home and into approved foster care.”
“It’d be a mistake to try that, Miz Spinelli. Seth isn’t going anywhere.”
Her back went up at the way he drawled out her name. “Seth DeLauter is a minor. The private adoption your father was implementing wasn’t finalized, and there is some question about its validity. At this point, Mr. Quinn, you have no legal connection to him.”
“You don’t want me to tell you what you can do with your legal connection, do you, Miz Spinelli?” With some satisfaction he watched those big, dark eyes flash. “I didn’t think so. I can resist. Seth’s my brother.” The saying of it left him shaken. With a jerk of his shoulder, he turned. “I need a beer.”
She stood for a moment after the screen door slammed. When it came to her work, she simply didn’t permit herself to lose her temper. She breathed in, breathed out three times before climbing the half-repaired steps and going into the house.
“Mr. Quinn—”
“Still here?” He twisted the top off a Harp. “Want a beer?”
“No. Mr. Quinn—”
“I don’t like social workers.”
“You’re joking.” She allowed herself to flutter her lashes at him. “I never would have guessed.”
His lips twitched before he lifted the bottle to them. “Nothing personal.”
“Of course not. I don’t like rude, arrogant men. That’s nothing personal either. Now, are you ready to discuss Seth’s welfare, or should I simply come back with the proper paperwork and the cops?”
She would, Cam decided after another study. She might have been given a face suitable for painting, but she wasn’t a pushover. “You try that, and the kid’s going to bolt. You’d pick him up sooner or later, and he’d end up in juvie—then he’d end up in a cell. Your system isn’t going to help him, Miz Spinelli.”
“But you can?”
“Maybe.” He frowned into his beer. “My father would have.” When he looked up again, there were emotions storming in his eyes that pulled at her. “Do you believe in the sanctity of a deathbed promise?”
“Yes,” she said before she could stop herself.
“The day my father died I promised him—we promised him—that we’d keep Seth with us. Nothing and no one is going to make me break my word. Not you, not your system, not a dozen cops.”
The situation here wasn’t what she’d expected to find. So she would reevaluate. “I’d like to sit down,” Anna said after a moment.
“Go ahead.”
She pulled out a chair at the table. There were dishes in the sink, she noted, and the faint smell of whatever had been burnt for dinner the night before. But to her that only meant someone was trying to feed a young boy. “Do you intend to apply for legal guardianship?”
“We—”
“You, Mr. Quinn,” she interrupted. “I’m asking you if that is your intention.” She waited, watching the doubts and resistance sweep over his face.
“Then I guess it is. Yeah.” God help them all, he thought. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Do you intend to live in this house, with Seth, on a permanent basis?”
“Permanent?” It was perhaps the only truly frightening word in his life. “Now I have to sit down.” He did so, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger to relieve some of the pressure. “Christ. How about we use ‘for the foreseeable future’ instead of ‘permanent’?”
She folded her hands on the edge of the table. She didn’t doubt his sincerity, would have applauded him for his intentions. But . . . “You have no idea what you’re thinking of taking on.”
“You’re wrong. I do, and it scares the hell out of me.”
She nodded, considering the answer a point in his favor. “What makes you think you would be a better guardian for a ten-year-old boy, a boy I believe you’ve known for less than two weeks, than a screened and approved foster home?”
“Because I understand him. I’ve been him—or part of him. And because this is where he belongs.”
“Let me lay out some of the bigger obstacles to what you’re planning. You’re a single man with no permanent address and without a steady income.”
“I’ve got a house right here. I’ve got money.”
“Whose name is the house in, Mr. Quinn?” She only nodded when his brows knit. “I imagine you have no idea.”
“Phillip will.”
“Good for Phillip. And I’m sure you have some money, Mr. Quinn, but I’m speaking of steady employment. Going around the world racing various forms of transportation isn’t stable employment.”
“It pays just fine.”
“Have you considered the risk to life and limb of your chosen lifestyle when you propose to take on a responsibility like this? Believe me, the court will. What if something happens to you when you’re trying to break land and speed records?”
“I know what I’m doing. Besides, there are three of us.”
“Only one of you lives in this house where Seth will live.”
“So?”
“And the one who does isn’t a respected college professor with the experience of raising three sons.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t handle it.”
“No, Mr. Quinn,” she said patiently, “but it is a major obstacle to legal guardianship.”
“What if we all did?”
“Excuse me?”
“What if we all lived here? What if my brothers moved in?” What a damn mess, Cam thought, but he kept going. “What if I got a . . .” Now he had to take a deep swallow of beer, knowing the word would stick in his throat. “A job,” he managed.
She stared at him. “You’d be willing to change your life so dramatically?”
“Ray and Stella Quinn changed my life.”
Her face softened, making Cam blink in surprise as her generous mouth curved in a smile, as her eyes seemed to go darker and deeper. When her hand reached out, closed lightly over his, he stared down at it, surprised by a quick jolt of what was surely pure lust.
“When I was driving here, I was wishing I could have met them. I thought they must have been remarkable people. Now I’m sure of it.” Then she drew back. “I’ll need to speak with Seth, and with your brothers. What time does Seth get home from school?”
“What time?” Cam glanced at the kitchen clock without a clue. “It’s sort of . . . flexible.”
“You’ll want to do better than that if this gets as far as a formal home study. I’ll go by the school and see him. Your brother Ethan.” She rose. “Would I find him at home?”
“Not at this time of day. He’ll be bringing in his catch bef
ore five.”
She glanced at her watch, gauged her time. “All right, and I’ll contact your other brother in Baltimore.” From her briefcase she took a neat leather notebook. “Now, can you give me names and addresses of some neighbors. People who know you and Seth and who would stand for your character. The good side of your character, that is.”
“I could probably come up with a few.”
“That’s a start. I’ll do some research here, Mr. Quinn. If it’s in Seth’s best interest to remain in your home, under your care, I’ll do everything I can to help you.” She angled her head. “If I reach the opinion that it’s in his best interest to be taken out of your home, and out of your care, then I’ll fight you tooth and nail to make that happen.”
Cam rose as well. “Then I guess we understand each other.”
“Not by a long shot. But you’ve got to start somewhere.”
The minute she was out of the house, Cam was on the phone. By the time he’d been passed through a secretary and an assistant and reached Phillip, his temper had spilled over.
“There was a goddamn social worker here.”
“I told you to expect that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. You don’t listen. I’ve got a friend of mine—a lawyer—working on the guardianship. Seth’s mother took a hike; as far as we can tell, she’s not in Baltimore.”
“I don’t give a damn where the mother is. The social worker was making noises about taking Seth.”
“The lawyer’s putting through a temporary guardianship. It takes time, Cam.”
“We may not have time.” He shut his eyes, tried to think past the anger. “Or maybe I bought us some. Who owns the house now?”
“We do. Dad left it—well, everything—to the three of us.”
“Fine, good. Because you’re about to change locations. You’re going to need to pack up those designer suits of yours, pal, and get your butt down here. We’re going to be living together again.”
“Like hell.”
“And I’ve got to get a goddamn job. I’m going to expect you by seven tonight. Bring dinner. I’m sick to death of cooking.”
It gave him some satisfaction to hang up on Phillip’s vigorous cursing.
