Emily giggled, but stopped twirling. As she and Carter went to the railing to look down onto the beach, Quinn spoke to Mark.
“Ethan really could’ve come, too. You and Samantha could’ve had a grown-up dinner alone.”
“Carter offered the same thing, but Em vetoed it. She’s thrilled about having the two of you to herself. She almost burst with happiness when she found out Carter was coming, too. She made it clear she wasn’t sharing either of you with her brother.”
Quinn thought of Ethan. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s dark hair and soft-brown eyes. “Emily’s entitled. I’m sure she’s had to give up some of the spotlight.”
Mark’s tone grew serious. “I’m sorry about this. I know you’d planned to take her into Charleston, but—”
“I understand,” she assured him. She looked around the space, taking in the scent of the cool, briny sea air and the sounds of the waves breaking below. “And this is a pretty perfect substitute.”
The doors opened, and a white-coated server entered, rolling in a cart with several trays covered with sterling-silver lids.
“I’ll let you get to it,” Mark said. “I took the liberty of starting you off with appetizers—including a few vegetarian choices, now that I’m clued in. The lowcountry purist in me revolted a bit, though.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re sure you don’t want to join us?”
“I don’t think Emily wants me here, either. Besides, it’s been a long day. I’m looking forward to getting out of this suit and being at home.” He peered somberly at Carter, who was still engaged in conversation with Emily. “He doesn’t look too worse for wear right now. If he’s up to it, why don’t you two stay for a bit when you bring Emily home? You and Samantha can have coffee. I need to talk to Carter about that envelope you dropped off today.”
She gave a nod. As Mark exited, she turned back to Carter and Emily. After Shelley’s death, Emily had stopped speaking. Hearing her niece’s happy voice now, a sound that for so long had been silenced, her heart filled.
She had surprised herself today when she had asked Carter to come with them in Nora’s absence. Now, he was seated near the fireplace, laughing at a silly joke Emily told, completely at ease with her. In that moment, he seemed remarkably normal. Quinn had to look away to reorient herself.
If it wasn’t for his famous profile silhouetted by the firelight, it would be almost possible to forget the entire world adored him and awaited his return.
* * *
“I figured you hadn’t looked at the papers yet,” Carter said as he stood on the bungalow’s covered porch with Mark, who had ushered him outside so they could talk alone.
“Well, I did. Right before you got to the hotel. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone.”
His face serious, Mark indicated the pair of rocking chairs across from the rattan porch swing. Repressing a sigh, Carter leaned his cane against the wall and sat in one of the rockers, Mark taking the one beside him.
“Want to tell me what this is about?” Mark asked.
“The document my attorney drew up is pretty explanatory. I want to give you and Mercer my share in the hotel.”
He waited as Mark looked out over the neat lawn with its circular drive and Bermuda grass. Farther out, sand dunes were visible against the darkened night, their sea oats waving in the evening breeze.
“I’m worried you’re depressed, Carter.” Mark’s concern was visible as he looked at him in the filmy glow emanating from the porch light. “Giving away your belongings is a classic sign of—”
“I’m not suicidal,” Carter interjected. “I’m of sound mind, if not body, at least.”
Mark frowned at the comment. “Then why would you do this?”
“Because I have more money than I’ll ever need.” He tipped the rocker slowly back and forth. “Because the St. Clair means more to you than any of us. You’ve put your whole life into this place, Mark. I also want to be sure Mercer’s well taken care of. Jonathan’s a lot older than her.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m thrown by this,” Mark said.
Carter rose and went to stand at the porch railing. Hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched against the chill as he stared into darkness, he spoke quietly. “All this wealth and fame—a few years ago, I would’ve sold my soul for it. But now…” Lips pursed, he shook his head. “I guess my perspective’s changed. Now I just keep wondering what’s the point of all this excess.”
He felt Mark’s presence as he came to stand beside him. Carter’s mind turned to the barely controlled chaos that had been his life before the attack. He had done four movies in just over two years—two of them bona fide blockbusters—and had been preparing for a fifth. Add in the promotional obligations and there were times when he’d awakened not knowing what city, what country, he was in.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. I know how lucky I am. And I’m sorry if I worried you. I’m just trying to figure things out.”
Stillness settled between them, until Mark spoke. “When you were in the ICU and they’d just taken you off the ventilator, do you remember what you said to me?”
Carter looked at him.
“I didn’t think so. You were pretty drugged. But you grabbed my hand, and there were tears in your eyes.” Mark’s voice roughened. “You said you talked to Dad. That he said you had to come back to us. That it wasn’t your time.”
Carter swallowed. He wondered what synapses had been misfiring in his brain to make him say that. Had it been the drugs talking, or something more?
“You’ve been through a lot these past few months,” Mark conceded. “I can see how it might call for some serious self-reflection. But you have a gift, Carter. All of us have always known that. I’m just saying it’d be a shame not to use it. If you feel guilty about the excesses, then do something about it.”
He clasped Carter’s uninjured shoulder. “You’ve changed, little brother. I remember you wanting to sell this place for profit not long ago.”
“I was wrong,” Carter admitted, regretful.
“And just like I said no to selling back then, I’m saying no to you on this.” Despite Mark’s authoritative tone, his eyes were soft. “I appreciate the gesture. It’s a big one. But you’re keeping your share of the hotel. I’m speaking for Mercer here, too—I know she’d be with me on this. The three of us are connected by blood and by this place. It’s going to stay that way.”
Clearing his throat, Mark pounded his fist on the porch railing like a gavel. “The eldest St. Clair has spoken.” Then, with feigned disapproval, he tugged at Carter’s facial hair. “What’s up with the hipster look? You’re about a week away from going full lumberjack.”
Carter ran a hand over his lightly bearded jaw. It had been a while since he’d shaved. “It’s not that bad.”
Mark rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Then, “You’re cold. Let’s go back inside.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Conversation and children’s laughter floated outward as Mark opened the door and stepped inside. Carter turned up his coat collar. It had been a long day, and fatigue made him feel sluggish. Still, he had enjoyed the dinner he had shared with Quinn and Emily, the three of them tucked under the stars, the sea air invigorating. He and Quinn had exchanged amused glances at Emily’s nonstop conversation. But they had shared another look, as well, and it was one that remained on his mind. Their gazes had held in the firelight, more serious this time, until Quinn had shyly lowered her eyes and focused again on Emily.
The phone in his coat pocket chimed, indicating he had received a text. Taking the device out, he looked at the screen.
Coming, little brother?
Smiling softly, Carter stared out over the resort property once more before heading inside. It felt strange to be home again, and yet, also perfectly natural. Here, he wasn’t famous.
He could just be himself.
Chapter Seven
teen
“Their son was the one caught up in that embezzlement scandal,” Nora recounted to Quinn as they entered the B&B, having returned from Sunday-night church service. “You remember him—Charlie? I believe he graduated a couple of years before you.”
“He was a couple of years ahead of Shelley, actually,” Quinn corrected, sliding out of her coat. The house was quiet, the weeklong guests having departed that morning, and she could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer as she placed the garment in the closet, which smelled faintly of mothballs. She took her mother’s coat and hung it there, too.
“He’s serving six years in federal prison for stealing nearly half a million dollars from his clients.” Nora shook her head as Quinn trailed her into the kitchen. “I don’t know what happens to some of these kids when they leave here. It’s like they lose all their morals.”
She began removing items from the refrigerator for dinner. “Let me tell you, it took Peggy down a notch or two. She was so proud of her stockbroker son with his big job on Wall Street. Always bragging about him—Charlie this and Charlie that. They had to get a second mortgage on their house to help pay his legal costs. It’s true what the Bible says—pride goeth before a fall.”
Uncomfortable with the piety in her mother’s voice, Quinn changed the subject. “What can I do to help with dinner?”
“Just put out plates and silverware. Everything’s ready, mostly. I made the lasagna this afternoon while you were out.” Nora took the bakeware covered in tinfoil from the fridge. “It’s spinach—no sausage or ground beef—so you can’t turn up your nose at it. I just need to reheat it in the oven while I put the salad together.”
Quinn had the weekend off from therapy. She had gone for a run on the beach that morning, then traveled into the quaint downtown that afternoon, where she had done some shopping for clothes in a small women’s boutique and then web-surfed on her iPad at the Coffee Cabana. She checked her wristwatch, her stomach knotting as she thought of the football game taking place in San Francisco. It was probably close to being over by now.
“Quinn, are you listening to me?”
Her mother was speaking again. “I’m sorry. What?”
Nora appeared contrite. “Thank you for going to church with me tonight, honey. I know things have been tense between us because of that dinner with Emily. I’ve thought about it, and I will try to do better. You’re right, Emily is Shelley’s daughter. She’s as much Reese as she is St. Clair, and I need to make sure she remembers that. I’ll call Mark this week and see about taking her out for a hot chocolate.”
“That’d be great, Mom.”
As Quinn finished setting the dinner table, Nora said, “Tell you what else you could do. The garden club is having a garage sale, and I cleaned out the upstairs closets looking for things to donate. There’re a few boxes in my bedroom. Could you bring them down? My bursitis is acting up, and those stairs are a bit much sometimes.”
“Sure,” Quinn said.
“No need to do it right now. It can wait until morning.”
“No, I’ll take care of it now.”
As Nora turned on the radio beside the coffeemaker and began chopping lettuce for the salad, Quinn went upstairs. She located three cardboard boxes on Nora’s bed. Curious, she shuffled through the items her mother was planning to contribute to the sale. The first box held old bedding linens and a Christmas tree skirt Quinn fondly recalled as a child, although the snowman depicted on it had yellowed with age and lost the gold braiding from its felt hat. While the second box contained mostly bric-a-brac—a crochet tissue box cover, old perfume bottles, a decorative cloisonné plate—the third held men’s clothing. Items her father had apparently left behind and Nora was finally letting go of. Quinn hoped it was a healthy sign.
One of her father’s cardigans lay on top. She picked it up, sniffing it to see if she could catch the bergamot scent of his cologne that lingered in her memory, but nothing remained. Returning the sweater to the box, she looked through the other garments before uncovering several silk dress ties and a leather belt. Quinn flashed on an image of herself, nude, helpless, lying on the large bed she had shared with Jake, her wrists and ankles bound to its carved-wood posters using his designer ties. Jake stood over her, his face shadowed, the buckle end of the belt wrapped around his fist as he trailed the strap over her breasts.
She shoved the mental picture away, her face hot.
Burying the ties and belt under other clothing, Quinn picked up the box. But as she passed the upstairs den, her steps slowed. Hesitantly, she entered, then put the box down and picked up the television remote from the coffee table. Taking a tight breath, she clicked it on.
The playoff game had started at one p.m. Pacific Time. It was already after seven here. Her mouth dry, Quinn located the game on channel four. It was still daylight in San Francisco, the sky a cerulean blue. A female journalist held up a microphone as a perspiring Dion Washington, the Breakers’s quarterback, talked about the merits of the defensive team. Confetti swirled in the air as the stadium crowd roared. A celebration had overtaken the field, with members of the Breakers back-slapping and chest-bumping one another in the background. Quinn tensed as she saw Jake from behind, the number forty-four visible on his jersey. He appeared even more imposing with his shoulder pads, his helmet off and dark hair wet.
She recognized jersey number thirty-six, as well. Built like a bull, Mike Buczek strutted beside Jake, pounding him on the back. A cold sickness spread through her.
Despite the buzzing in her ears, she heard Nora call up to her from the downstairs.
“Quinn? Did you hear? It was just on the radio—the Breakers are going to the Super Bowl!”
Chapter Eighteen
Three Weeks Later
“Easy.” Quinn heard his faint hiss of pain, and she reached for the dumbbell in Carter’s right hand, helping support its weight as he lowered it again to shoulder height. He sat on a bench in the workout room, performing overhead presses with five-pound weights. They had been working together for a month now, and Quinn had gradually increased the exercise intensity. At the same time, Carter’s care team had begun to taper down the pain medication.
“Let’s make that your last one. You’re tired, and you’re starting to compromise your form.”
He shook his head. “I’m finishing this set.”
Quinn pressed her lips together, having become acquainted with Carter’s competitive side, even against himself. “Arms at shoulder height and a forty-five-degree angle,” she reminded. She supervised him through the remaining reps, then took the weights. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“We can ask to re-up your meds a little. We may have been too aggressive—”
“No.” He tested his shoulder. “I’m tired of the fuzziness.”
They had already done their morning cardio—indoors on the treadmill since the February day had brought with it a chilly rain.
Once he rested, Carter stood and pulled his T-shirt over his head, his movements a bit less restricted now, but still slow and careful. Walking to where Quinn waited, already warming the oil in her palms, he sat on the massage table. Moving behind him, she began the slow, deep glide of her fingers, applying pressure and stretching the scar on his shoulder. With his shirt off, Quinn believed she could see some evidence of the several pounds he had gained back.
Carter looked out through the window as she worked. “Typical lowcountry winter,” he said on a sigh.
“The rain’s supposed to be with us for a while.” Quinn was disappointed, too. She looked forward to their walks along the shore with Doug.
“As long as you’re back there, can you hit me in those spots?”
As she often did for patients, Quinn performed body massage, since it released endorphins and helped to naturally manage pain. Once she finished with the scar on his shoulder, she rubbed the tight muscles in the back of his neck, a smile touching her lips as she heard his low grunt of pleasure. A short time lat
er, she moved her focus to beneath his left shoulder blade, where a stubborn knot had taken up residence for the past several days. As she massaged, Quinn studied his hair, which remained untrimmed. It was thick and carelessly tousled, the color of dark honey, and curled at his nape.
“Elliott needs a decision on the script,” he said once the knot began to ease. “He can’t put the studios off much longer.”
That would explain the tension he carried. “What’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Filming will most likely start in September.”
Quinn had read the compelling script at Carter’s invitation. It wasn’t an action movie, but would still be physically demanding. He had told her shooting on a film could sometimes go fifteen to sixteen hours a day. Once she finished the work on his neck and back, she returned to stand in front of him, and Carter held out his right hand to her.
“Fall is still a long time away.” She applied the oil and put pressure over the scar on his palm, rubbing in a circular motion. “You’ve been working hard. Your endurance is improving, and you’re using the cane less all the time. If you keep working like you have, I think you’ll be up to the challenge by then.”
“What if I’m not sure I’m ready to go back?”
Quinn looked up from what she was doing, her eyes meeting his. Inside them, she saw uncertainty that went beyond his physical condition. She had seen firsthand the pressure being put on him—countless phone calls from his agent, his publicist, the studios—all inquiring as to his health but also letting him know, both subtly and not so subtly, that money and his brand were at stake. She had begun to see the stress that coiled beneath the movie-star façade.
“Don’t let them push you,” she urged, voice soft. “Do what feels right to you. If you pass on this film, there’ll be others.”
He seemed to consider what she said, his gaze somber and assessing. Then, “Have you heard from him, Quinn?”
She lowered her eyes to focus on his palm. It wasn’t the first time he had asked. The Breakers had won the Super Bowl on Sunday, four days ago. Jake had been named MVP. She shook her head, a tightness in her chest. “No. Maybe he’s finally accepted it’s over.”
Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two Page 13
