There's No Place Like Home (The MacQuire Women Book 2)

by Peggy Jaeger

  Settled, Quentin put the bucket of popcorn on his lap. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she knew he was reflecting on her words. As the house lights dimmed to darkness, he leaned in close and said, “You think I look like a god?”

  She rolled her eyes, punched his upper arm, and whispered, “Of my entire statement, that’s the part you zero in on? You’re useless.”

  A huge, devilish grin crossed his face as the coming attractions started playing on the screen.

  For the next ninety minutes Moira sat, glued to her seat, watching the blood and gore pass before her eyes. She had to admit, even for a boilerplate slasher script, the movie did have a few interesting plot points, one of which did include a carnival worker, just as Sally’d said.

  Moira’s love of the macabre had been instilled in her since childhood. She’d been an avid fan of the original Grimm Fairy tales, not the watered down versions portrayed in Disney movies and on television, but the blood, guts and fight for morality tales the storytellers had written. Raised in a household of males, and with Quentin and his brothers added to the mix, Moira realized early on it was easier not to appear to be frightened or repulsed by their war games and boyhood gruesome and grisly pastimes, than to squeal and carryon like a scared girl, which ultimately, was what they wanted her to be. The fact she hadn’t been, but was nearly as savage and aggressive a player as they were was the reason she’d been able to hold her own with all of them.

  Even though her brothers and the extended men in her realm knew she was a warrior, they still felt the overwhelming need to keep her safe and protected, even when she wielded swords and make believe knives along with them. She was usually cast as the kidnapped, in-danger princess when they staged their childhood battles. She’d always turned the tables on her captors, though, wielding a plastic sword or dagger like she’d been born to it, and gaining her freedom and the begrudging respect of the boys.

  At one point in the movie, during a particularly chilling series of decapitations and organ removals, one of the principal actors suddenly jumped out unexpectedly from a closet, wielding a medieval dagger. The way the scene had been choreographed, the actor appeared to be slicing at the person watching, namely the moviegoer. For a split second, Moira’s calm disappeared and she came up out of her seat and grabbed Quentin’s arm with both hands, throwing her body against his. She turned her face away from the screen and burrowed into his shoulder, instinctively seeking comfort and solace. Quentin disengaged his arm from her grip and threw it around her shoulders, pulling her even closer with his other hand.

  He turned slightly to her and kissed her temple. “I’m right here,” he whispered against her ear, his warm breath sending little shivers of expectation and awareness down her spine.

  Moira looked over at him. Past experience told her he would probably have the same self-satisfied smug smirk on his face her brother always had whenever she let her guard down and admitted to being scared. But the expression on Quentin’s face was the exact opposite of what she expected. His eyes were warm and moist, the light from the movie screen glistening through them; his smile was easy-going, and to her eyes, loving, a fact that almost stopped her from breathing. For a heartbeat, she wanted to stretch upward and kiss his lazy, sexy mouth to her heart’s content.

  But this was Quentin: almost her brother. There was no way she should want to kiss him.

  No way at all.

  In another second, the audience screamed and their attention was turned back to the action on display in front of them.

  Moira eased away from her tucked position in the crook of his arm, but she was quick to notice Quentin left his arm and hand dangle across her shoulders. It was just a casual gesture, one he’d made a thousand times before with her, nothing seductive about it. But for Moira, the feel of his arm, all warm and hard muscled, combined with the delicious way he smelled, was a completely erotic, sensual and alien experience for her. She shifted nervously in her seat, confused by the strange thoughts running through her head. Quentin squeezed her shoulder and upper arm.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking across at her.

  Moira blinked a few times and then nodded, unable to move her gaze from his face. He smiled, cuddled her shoulder again, and then turned back to the screen as a bloodcurdling screech echoed from the sound system above them.

  For the remainder of the movie they sat close, Moira’s arms crossed in front of her chest, Quentin’s slung easily around her shoulder.

  When the credits rolled and the house lights came up, he turned to her.

  “So what do you think? Classic, right?”

  She felt the unexpected desire to kiss the devilish grin off his face again. “I’ll admit,” she said, standing and gathering her things, “it wasn’t half bad. But I don’t have the other two to compare it to.”

  He laughed. “We’ll watch them this weekend. You’ll be hooked.”

  She tossed him a look and said, “How old are you again?”

  As they walked up the aisle, he threw his arm around her shoulder, and, hugging her tightly to his side said, “The same age you are, M. Twelve.”

  That made her laugh just as they came into the lobby to see Pat leaning against one of the theater walls.

  Moira’s smile was instantaneous, but she lost some of it when she saw the expression on his face. His mouth was drawn downward and his blue eyes were squinting, as if he were mad. Quentin removed his arm from around her and dropped his hands into his pockets.

  Moira gave her brother a hug and said, “How’s the calf?”

  “Mother and baby are fine,” he told her, his voice flat and inflectionless.

  Moira pulled back. Staring into his face, she asked, “What’s the matter with you?”

  When he finally dragged his gaze from his best friend to his sister, his eyes softened. “You look better,” he said, swiping a hand down the side of her hair.

  “You saw me this afternoon,” she said, cocking her head to one side. “What’s changed since then?”

  “Good question.” He turned his attention back to Quentin.

  Moira was confused, but before she could pounce on her brother any further, Quentin asked, “Who, besides me, is hungry?”

  At that moment her stomach rumbled. Loudly. Her hand flew to her waist and her cheeks went scarlet.

  Pat laughed out loud, his momentary moodiness gone, and said, “I guess you are. Come on. Let’s grab a table at Mike’s.”

  He wound a hand around her arm and pulled her from the theater.

  Chapter Eight

  “I can’t believe the volume you two eat,” Moira said, as she watched her brother finish his fifth slice of pizza.

  Wiping a napkin across the pizza sauce on his lips, Quentin responded, “You’ve known us since birth, M. When have we not eaten like this?”

  “It’s a wonder you both don’t waddle.”

  By the time they’d reached the pizzeria, it had been packed with after-movie diners and the usual Friday night date patrons.

  Mike’s Pizzeria had been a staple of their childhood and teen years, and not a week went by before they each left for college they hadn’t eaten there at least once, usually all three of them together.

  Moira picked at her food, eating slowly.

  “Speaking of waddling,” Pat said, reaching for another slice, “I happened to see Mary Jane Morton when I was at the bank this afternoon.”

  “Was she waddling?” Moira asked.

  “I don’t know how the poor thing could even walk,” Pat said with a chuckle. “She looks about twelve months pregnant, but I think she’s only seven.”

  “Get out,” Moira said. “I didn’t know she was married.”

  “She’s not,” both men said together.

  “And,” Pat continued, “nobody knows who the father is.”

  “Oh. My. God. Scandal in Carvan. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Oh there’s way more scandal than just hers,” Quentin said reaching for another
slice of pie as well.

  “Ooooo. Tell me,” she commanded.

  “Remember Alan Bixby? Front guard on the basketball team in our year?”

  “About eight feet tall and all pimples?” Moira squinted, as if trying to remember what he looked like.

  Quentin laughed as he wiped his mouth again. “You got him. Well, I heard from Connor, my vet tech, who heard from his girlfriend Lisa, who got it from her sister Paula, who works at the bank with Alan, that he got caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.”

  From the look of deep concentration on her face, Quentin realized she was trying to work out the connections he’d just told her. He knew the second she got it when she asked, “He stole from the bank?”

  “Connor said one of the bank managers found Alan going through a few of the safe deposit boxes. Seems he made copies of some customer keys.”

  “Isn’t that a federal offense?” Moira asked.

  It was her brother who answered. “Yup. The way I heard it no lawyer in town wants to defend him. It’s an open and shut case.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe I missed all this. I thought being on tour, meeting royalty, and dealing with demanding divas and egomaniacal conductors was exciting. But this is way more titillating. I should have come home sooner.”

  “Speaking of conductors,” Pat said. “Mom said you’re getting pressure to rejoin your tour.”

  “Not pressure.” Moira shook her head as she speared a thin slice of chicken with her fork. “The tour manager knows I don’t want to go to Asia but, apparently, I told him too late to hire another pianist.”

  Quentin noticed something he was sure Pat hadn’t when she mentioned the word conductor. Moira’s face lost some of its color and her eyes narrowed. Her lips had drawn together tightly and for a moment, he could see the pulse beating at her throat.

  Maybe whatever caused that reaction is what really made her leave the symphony. The stomach problems aside, maybe this was the reason, the real reason, she came home. He wanted to ask her but knew she wouldn’t answer him. Not now. According to Pat, she still hadn’t confided in anyone why she’d left the symphony. She was still too raw emotionally to try and get anything salient out of her. It was enough she was out with them, eating somewhat normally, and appeared to be less anxious than when she’d first arrived home, all things he was happy about.

  “She also told me,” Pat continued, “there’s some noise about you doing a solo classical CD.”

  “My agent in New York is pushing the project. I’m really not on board with the idea yet.”

  “Why not, M?” Quentin asked. “It sounds perfect for you.”

  She nibbled at her lettuce, her brows furrowing. “It’s a lot of work, first of all. There’s months of preparation and orchestration to get the right feel for the pieces. Then there’s the selection process. What do you include? They all have copyrights so you have to obtain legal permission and sometimes it can take forever.”

  “But you don’t do the legal part,” Pat asked, “right? There’s some kind of team responsible for the paperwork.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still such a long, protracted process. You really can’t begin to record until it’s all hashed out. Plus, I don’t know if it’s what I want to do right now.”

  “What do you want to do?” Quentin asked, his eyes noting the apprehension and indecision on her face.

  Moira blew out a breath and dropped her elbows onto the table. Laying her chin in her hands she said, “that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. I just don’t know.”

  Suddenly, and without warning, she doubled over onto the table.

  “Oh, God.” A gasp exploded from her. “Is this ever going to end?”

  Both men reached out to her across the table. Quentin was quicker. He grabbed one of Moira’s hands and began rubbing her wrist, telling her, “Breathe. Just breathe, Baby. Just breathe through it. It’ll pass.”

  Pat had taken her other hand in his and both of their gazes were zeroed in on her face. At that exact moment, Clarissa Rogers entered Mike’s.

  Pat chanced to look up and caught the doctor’s eye as she was walking to the take-out counter. She immediately turned and came toward their table.

  Coming to Moira’s side, she squatted next to her and rubbed her back. “Still cramping?” she asked without any preamble.

  Moira nodded, her cheeks and neck turning bright pink. “It’s starting to pass.” Her brow was glistening with a fine sheen of moisture and her hands were trembling.

  “Have you been taking the meds?” Clarissa asked, rising. With his free hand, Quentin pulled the empty chair at their table out for her to sit in.

  “Religiously,” Moira said. She leaned back and pulled her hands out of Quentin’s and her brother’s grips. With a sigh she said, “Guess I overdid it in the eating department tonight. I swear this hasn’t happened in a few days.”

  “Grilled chicken and lettuce shouldn’t make you react this way,” Clarissa said, glancing down at Moira’s half-eaten meal. “The cramps should be stopping with the meds. What else did you eat?”

  “A little popcorn and some soda at the movies,” she admitted.

  “The soda is probably the culprit,” the doctor said. Her eyes came up to rest on Pat’s face.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was delivering a calf.”

  “This is my fault,” Quentin said. “I didn’t even think, just ordered what we always get. I’m so sorry, Moira.”

  “You didn’t force me to drink it. Relax.” She turned her attention back to the other female at the table. “So soda and I’m assuming anything carbonated is a no-no for now. Anything else?”

  “Spicy foods.”

  “She doesn’t eat spicy foods,” both men said at once.

  When Clarissa’s lips lifted, Moira said, “I have no secrets from these two goons. But they’re right. I hate spicy foods.”

  “Listen, what are your plans for tomorrow morning?” Clarissa asked as she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.

  Moira bit her bottom lip. “Nothing I know of. Nothing until tomorrow night, really.”

  “I’m on call this weekend and I’ve got office hours. Why don’t you stop by around…elevenish,” she said, flipping through her schedule. “I’ll give you a list of things to avoid.”

  “If you’re sure it’s no bother,” Moira said.

  “I wouldn’t offer if it was,” Clarissa said. She put her cell away and raked her gaze across the three of them. “So, what did you guys see tonight?”

  “Slasher 3,” Quentin told her.

  “I hear it’s a new classic.” Her name was called from the counter and she rose from her chair. “1 and 2 were pretty good. I’ll have to check 3 out when I’m free. Tomorrow,” she pointed at Moira. “No excuses.”

  “She’ll be there,” Quentin said.

  Moira threw him a peeved looked. To the young doctor, she replied, “I’ll be there.”

  With a final smile for each of them, Clarissa said, “Have a good night.”

  The trio watched as she picked up her pizza, paid and then left without another glance at them.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Moira told Quentin, throwing her napkin at him. “You know, I am a grownup,” she added.

  “Really?” His eyes opened wide as he placed the fallen napkin back onto the table.

  When she stuck out her tongue in the next instant, leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of her again, he said, “Sure you are.” He turned to Pat. “She likes slasher flicks.”

  He nodded. “I caught that.”

  Quentin laughed. “I can hear those gears turning.”

  “Shut up, Q. Want me to go with you tomorrow,” he said to his sister. “Oh, no wait. I’ve got hours until one. Damn.”

  Moira squinted at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not as concerned about me as you are with just seeing her again?”

  “Don’t be insulting. Of cou
rse I’m worried about you.”

  “Mmmm,” Moira said, crossing her arms on the table.

  “I am.”

  Before she could reply, Quentin’s phone pinged. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and quickly read the text.

  “The clinic?” Pat asked.

  “Buddy Jamison. Problem with the new mother. Since I’m on call they paged me.”

  “I’ll go,” Pat said, wiping his mouth and gulping the rest of his drink.

  “P, I don’t mind.”

  “No, it’s okay. I should be the one to go since I delivered her. Jamison likes me since his daughter’s married off now. Make sure this one gets home,” he added, kissing Moira’s head.

  “No, he’s gonna leave me to hitch it back,” Moira told him.

  “It would serve you right,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “Why do the two of you treat me like I’m four?” she asked Quentin. “I happen to be an adult and have gotten along very nicely all these years without either of you paving the way or protecting me.”

  Quentin gathered up their plates and rose, Moira following. “Maybe because you’re so easy to tease,” he told her, tossing the plates into the garbage, the bottles into the recycling bucket.

  He held the door open for her as she shrugged into her sweater.

  “You two always treat me like I’m a fragile piece of glass that’s gonna shatter into a million pieces if anything bad comes along. I’ve been on my own for a long time and doing okay without your protection.”

  They stepped out onto the street.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she’d been doing so well on her own, why, then, had she come home broken and shattered. He kept the question to himself, not wanting to further irritate her.

  The night had turned chilly and they had a few block’s walk to his truck. As he had in the theater, Quentin casually tossed an arm around her shoulders, happy when she didn’t pull away.

  Silently, they strolled back to the parking lot.

  Chapter Nine

  Moira loved the town she’d grown up in, missing it when she’d been away. The safe and easy way you could walk down the main streets without worrying about crime; the way the townspeople supported their local businesses, restaurants, and shops. She had many happy memories of visiting the local bakery on Sunday mornings with her father as she accompanied him on his farm rounds; of Saturday afternoon movie matinees and pizza dinners at Mike’s; of watching her brothers play baseball in the local park, or pickup basketball games.