With Child

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The Howies were here, too, of course, Nancy looking much as she had at the wedding except for the sadness on her sweet, soft face, and for the tremor that affected not just her voice but her hands. Every time Quinn looked at her, she held them clasped together, as if one could control the other. Parkinson’s?

  George, in contrast, seemed to have aged ten years in one. A thick head of graying hair had turned white and fine, a dandelion puff instead of strong sod. His shoulders stooped, and his knuckles had become gnarled. Quinn had felt the difference, when they’d gripped hands in greeting and grief.

  Now the first clod of dirt was flung atop the casket. Quinn shuddered and felt Mindy do the same beside him. A cry escaped her lips. He laid a hand on her back and she gave him one wild look before turning back to the raw earth and shining cobalt-blue casket. Her mother had somehow managed to be standing on the other side of Sergeant Dickerson, who had been heavily paternal in response to her dabbing a tissue at the corner of her eye.

  As the crowd broke up, she turned immediately and took in her daughter’s ravaged face. Her own froze. Laying a hand on Dickerson’s massive arm, she turned toward the parking lot without waiting for Mindy. The Howies hesitated, then started on their own toward the cars.

  Quinn had no objection to hanging back, although he frowned at the few scattered rhododendrons rather than letting himself look again into the hole.

  Finally Mindy let out a deep sigh and turned in a confused way as if unsure where to go. He took her elbow, pointed her in the right direction, and they followed the stream of mourners returning to their cars. Unfortunately, they still had to face the reception to be held in a hall at the church, where everyone would want to say a few words.

  She lurched and almost went down. Quinn’s grip saved her. He hoisted her upright.

  “I’m sorry! My ankle turned.”

  He looked down at her spiky white heels.

  “You could have worn flat shoes.”

  “These are the only white ones I have,” she said, as if that was any kind of answer.

  “Black is traditional, you know.”

  “But Dean hated black. Didn’t you know that?”

  In fact Quinn, who wore black much of the time, hadn’t known that. The minute she pointed it out, though, he realized Dean had tended to wear bright colors and chinos rather than dark slacks.

  “He…” Her voice faltered. “He’d have rather seen me in white than black.”

  All right. So she meant well. Her appearance still wouldn’t play well with the older cops and much of the viewing public, who—thanks to the ever-present news cameras—would see a sprite who appeared to dress out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog weeping at graveside and flashing a hell of a lot of leg on tonight’s local news.

  But he forbore to tell her that.

  “You want to go by the house so you can, uh, touch up your makeup before we go back to the church?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.” She paused. “I suppose.”

  While he waited in the living room, she disappeared for about two minutes. When she came back, her face was still puffy but clean, and she’d renewed her mascara.

  “I’m ready.”

  He nodded and they let themselves out the front door. She sat in silence beside him as he drove. Not until they pulled into the parking lot did she let out a broken sigh.

  “Dean would have liked an Irish wake. A celebration, not…”

  She didn’t have to finish. He knew what she meant. Not a lament, a ceremony to share regrets.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe when we’re ready.”

  They exchanged a rare glance of accord before getting out of the car, standing side by side looking at the open door to the hall, and—in his case, at least—gathering composure.

  Her ankle turned in those damn silly shoes on the steps leading down to the daylight basement reception rooms. Once again, he grabbed her in the nick of time. Shaking his head, he led her in a meandering route among the mourners so she could accept their condolences. Her tears returned within minutes and the mascara began to run again.

  Half the Seattle police force was here, of course, but also plenty of people Quinn either didn’t know or had a feeling he’d met once or twice. Dean had had a lot of friends. Maybe some of them were casual golf buddies, but they’d cared enough to show up at his funeral, decked in dark suits and ties, on a sunny Saturday perfect for golfing.

  “You’re Quinn?” some of them said, shaking his hand. “He talked about you. Said he hoped you’d end up his partner in the security business someday.”

  Despite the spasm of pain he felt every time he thought of Dean, Quinn managed a crooked smile. “He knew I’d never quit the force, but he was too stubborn to take no for an answer.”

  One of them grinned. “Yeah, hell, he made us play thirty-six holes one day last September even though it was eighty-six degrees, because he couldn’t get a handle on his slice and he was too damn stubborn to quit.” The grin faded as the friend remembered he’d never watch Dean Fenton take a swing with his three wood again. “He bought us a round afterward.”

  Quinn made time to talk to the Howies, who reminded him about some of Dean’s more outlandish exploits when he was their foster son, then hugged Mindy, asked Quinn not to be a stranger and left. Frowning, he watched them go, George stooped like an old man and Nancy with the shakes she’d told him with one stern glance not to mention. Not today.

  Mindy, Quinn realized reluctantly, wasn’t the only obligation he’d just inherited. Dean had been, for all practical purposes, the Howies’ son, the one who remembered their fiftieth wedding anniversary and sent them for a weekend to the Empress in Victoria, the one who called unexpectedly, who made sure they were all right. He hadn’t mentioned Nancy’s tremors, maybe because he hadn’t thought Quinn would care.

  But, damn it, he did care, whether he wanted to or not. The thought made him uncomfortable. An obligation. That’s all he had to think of them as. Dean would expect him to step in.

  With no booze being served, the crowd trickled away fairly fast. Mindy, Quinn saw, looked skim-milk pale and on the verge of collapse as she thanked people for coming. He looked around for her mother but didn’t spot her.

  At Mindy’s side, he said, “I think we can leave now.”

  “Really?” Her gaze went past him and she gave a shaky smile at someone behind him. “Thank you so much for coming today.”

  The couple, who looked vaguely familiar to Quinn, said a few kind words about Dean and left.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Gone.” Again she looked past him, and her eyes filled with tears. “Selene! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Selene wore a sleeveless white sweater and a flowery skirt that swirled to her calves. Her wild dark curls were barely subdued by a barrette. He made a private bet that she was a college student.

  After the two women hugged, Mindy turned to him. “Quinn, this is my best friend, Selene Thomas. She’s a grad student at the UW.”

  He nodded and said by rote, “Thanks for coming today.”

  Big dark eyes filled with tears. “Dean was such a sweetie.”

  The two hugged and commiserated some more while Quinn shifted from foot to foot. He just wanted to get the hell out of here. Maybe take a run, or go to the gym. He wanted to work himself into mindless exhaustion. Maybe then he’d sleep tonight.

  “Selene is going to stay with me tonight,” Mindy told him. “So you’re off duty.”

  He felt a lurch of profound relief.

  “We can talk all night,” her friend promised.

  Personally, Quinn thought what Mindy needed was to sleep. She was looking frailer by the day, to the point where he’d had to set aside his cynicism. She wasn’t eating enough to keep a bird alive, and judging from the dark circles under her eyes wasn’t sleeping either. She seemed unable to think about practicalities.

  Dean’s will had left everything to her except a few mementos to Quinn.
She’d wept and refused to worry about where a safe-deposit key might be or whether bills might be coming due. Quinn had made himself keep his mouth shut. So far. It had only been a week. She hadn’t buried her husband yet. Even a nitwit like she was would start thinking about money and groceries and hiring a lawn service soon.

  He hoped.

  “Off duty?” Selene echoed, blinking at him.

  “Quinn’s been making me eat and mowing the lawn and returning phone calls.” Mindy’s huge, smudged eyes met his. “He doesn’t think I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  He knew she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. He was hoping like hell that the state was temporary. Being the long-term guardian of a twenty-six-year-old adolescent wasn’t his idea of a good time. Damn it, Dean, he asked for the thousandth time, why her?

  “You want to prove you can,” Quinn suggested, “why don’t you start eating more than a few bites at a time?”

  “Because…” Color touched her cheeks and her gaze slid from his. “Because I can’t eat when I’m upset.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t what she’d intended to say. He’d have liked to know what she’d been unwarily about to admit. But he only nodded and asked Selene if she had a car.

  Well, no; she’d ridden the bus.

  “I’ll drive you two home. If,” he added with courtesy to Mindy, “you’re ready?”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  Selene chattered during the drive. What a nice ceremony. Everybody really liked Dean, didn’t they? The house must seem so big without him!

  At the last, tears began to roll down Mindy’s face. Again. Quinn glared at the rearview mirror, but her friend was oblivious.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  Mindy swallowed hard. In a watery voice, she said, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought… Not yet…”

  Quinn pulled into the driveway. “Shall I come in?” Please, no, he begged.

  Mindy shook her head and gave him a shaky smile. “We’ll be fine. Thank you, Quinn.” To his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “I mean it.” Then she got out to join her friend on the sidewalk.

  “Nice to meet you!” Selene called, as he waved and put the car into reverse.

  He flexed his fingers. Mindy didn’t touch him if she could help it. He didn’t touch her, except recently when it was obvious somebody had to steer her to where she was supposed to be. They’d never been comfortable with each other. He’d seen that she was physically demonstrative with everyone else—with her youthful gaiety, she hugged, kissed, danced and even sat on laps without the slightest inhibition. He guessed he’d killed her spontaneity toward him the first time they met. Except for falling into his arms to sob the night he came to deliver the news, this was the first time she’d voluntarily touched him.

  His mouth twisted into a sour smile. He must have looked good in comparison with her charming mother.

  Quinn grabbed his gym bag and went to the health club. After changing into his usual gray T-shirt and old sweatpants, he snagged a basketball and went into the gym. Late afternoon on a Saturday, it was completely empty. He dribbled the ball, each bounce echoing sharply. Instead of the sound annoying him, he liked it. It seemed to accentuate his solitude.

  He warmed up with a few easy layups, then free throws, finally challenging himself with tougher and tougher shots, driving to the basket, spinning, shooting backward, shooting from damn near halfway down the court, from the corners. When he’d worked up a sweat, he dropped the basketball back in the bin and went to the weight room. He wasn’t quite alone here, but the few men who’d claimed a machine or a bench were preoccupied with their own rhythms.

  When Quinn’s muscles began to groan, he moved on to a treadmill, setting the timer for half an hour. By fifteen minutes, he was wearing down. He’d been too inactive this week, spent too much time holding the pitiful widow’s hand, figuratively rather than literally, of course.

  His shirt was soaked by the time he finished, his legs as shaky as a newborn colt’s. He wiped his face on a towel and went back to the gym to shoot some more baskets anyway, testing his control, his discipline, satisfied only when the ball dropped neatly through the hoop without ruffling the net.

  Finally, he showered, changed into swim trunks and dived into the pool. The cool water closed over him, sliding across his skin, insulating him for a few brief moments from the world. By the time he showered again, got dressed and slung his gym bag over his shoulder, he felt almost like himself.

  FOR THE ONE DAY, Mindy had actually liked Quinn. He’d been her rock. A silent chauffeur, a hand when she needed one, a steady gaze to help her ground herself. For all his composure, she’d felt the magma beneath, the hot, unsettling grief that matched her own, and she was grateful for that as well. Dean had been liked by many, but loved, she suspected, by only a few. The Howies, Quinn and her.

  Her gratitude and warmth of feeling didn’t last through the next day, never mind the next week.

  He wanted her to call people, to do whatever it was the attorney needed to start probate. He wanted her to make decisions.

  “What are you going to do about the business? Mindy, Mulligan says he’s left several messages and you haven’t called him back.”

  She’d spent the morning puking her guts up and had barely had time to force down a piece of dry toast and some juice. “I’ll call him.”

  “When?”

  “What are you, my conscience?” Didn’t he ever go to work anymore?

  “When people start coming to me because they can’t get answers from you, I figure a little prodding is due.”

  Anger flared, along with renewed nausea. “I said I’ll call!”

  He didn’t budge, just stood in front of her with his arms crossed and his expression unyielding. “And what will you say?”

  “I don’t know!” she all but shouted. “Why do I have to decide now?”

  “Because Fenton Security employs fourteen people and has a couple of hundred clients. The employees are waiting to find out whether they still have jobs. Without Dean, the clients are going to start dropping away. A business doesn’t run itself.”

  “Mick…”

  “Is a fine dispatcher. He can’t charm businessmen or handle billing. He might hire, but he’ll never fire anyone. Besides,” Quinn continued inexorably, “Dean didn’t work sixty-, seventy-hour weeks for fun. He did it because shit happened if he wasn’t around, because there are things he couldn’t delegate. And,” he paused, waiting until she defiantly met his eyes, “the business can’t afford to pay someone to do what Dean did. Mindy, you’ve got to look at the books. If you hire someone to replace Dean, you’re not going to be making a damn thing. And you’ll be trusting a stranger.”

  She felt as if he were trying to stuff her into a small closet. Dark, claustrophobic, the air thick and musty. She was grabbing for the door to prevent him closing it those last inches.

  “So what are you suggesting?” She heard the rasp of her breathing, as if she were asthmatic. “That I run it?”

  Worse than that idea was the slight curl of his lip and the pity in his eyes. Don’t be ridiculous, he might as well have said.

  “No. I’m suggesting you sell it.”

  She moved restlessly. “I don’t even know how…”

  “So you’re going to take another nap and refuse to think about it?” he asked with raw contempt.

  “No!” Her eyes filled with tears. Yes. He was stripping her bare, finding out how utterly incapable she was and holding up a mirror so she could be sure not to miss her own inadequacies. Clasping her arms around herself, she said, “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “Because I owe it to Dean to make sure you don’t lose everything he worked so hard for. He’d expect me to be sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m not all right!”

  His voice softened. “I know. But you still have to make decisions. That’s the way it is.”

  So, despi
te her nausea and the tears that kept flooding her eyes, Mindy sat down and pored over computer printouts. What salaries and taxes and benefits cost, the expense of keeping a fleet of Fenton Security pickups prowling dark corners of the city at night. She looked at income and outgo and Labor and Industry statistics, discovered how much Dean had been involuntarily contributing to build Safeco Field and the Seahawks Stadium. She saw personnel records and realized with dismay that the average security guard didn’t stay with the company more than eight or ten months. Dean had been hiring constantly, wasting money on training, then regularly having to let shirkers go.

  “How,” she whispered at last, “did he make any money?”

  “By cultivating clients and by making damn sure his guards were doing their job, not spending the night sipping coffee at a diner.”

  “Oh.” Exhausted, she sat back. “Will anybody want to buy the business?”

  “Sure. He’s in the black. Not many small businesses are.”

  “Do I advertise it?”

  Quinn frowned. “No. You might scare the clients.” He paused. Hesitated, she might have said, if it had been anyone but him. “Do you want me to ask around? There are plenty of cops with the same dream Dean had.”

  “Please,” she said, but without the gratitude she would have felt two hours ago. Why couldn’t he just have made this offer then?

  “All right.” He squared the pile of papers. “Now, the bills—”

  “No!” Despite her tiredness, Mindy shot to her feet. “Not now. Maybe tomorrow.”

  With scant sympathy, he said, “They’re piling up.”

  The attorney had left half a dozen messages, too, and she didn’t want to talk to him, either.

  “I did what you wanted. Now, will you just go?”

  “All right.” He nodded. “We’ve made a start.”

  A start, she thought hysterically.

  After he left, she took a nap. Then she made herself listen to phone messages. Mick had questions, the attorney had questions, several people had left condolences. A reporter from the P.I. was still hoping for comments. After deleting them all, she carried to the table the basket into which she’d been throwing correspondence. Quinn was right; the bills were piling up.