by Nora Roberts
“What naked women?”
She laughed, shook back her hair as she looked at him. “No one you know. It’s so good to have him home.”
“I told you he’d come back. Quinns always come back to the roost.”
“I guess you’re right.” She kissed him, one long, warm meeting of lips. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” She slid her hands down, gave his butt a suggestive squeeze. “And I’ll settle you down, too.”
TWO
“RISE AND SHINE, pal. This ain’t no flophouse.”
The voice, and the gleeful sadism behind it, had Seth groaning. He flopped onto his stomach, dragged the pillow over his head. “Go away. Go far, far away.”
“If you think you’re going to spend your days around here sleeping till the crack of noon, think again.” With relish, Cam yanked the pillow away. “Up.”
Seth opened one eye, rolled it until he focused on the bedside clock. It wasn’t yet seven. He turned his face back into the mattress and mumbled a rude suggestion in Italian.
“If you think I’ve lived with Spinelli all these years and don’t know that means ‘kiss my ass,’ you’re stupid as well as lazy.”
To solve the problem, Cam ripped the sheets away, snagged Seth’s ankles and dragged him to the floor.
“Shit. Shit!” Naked, his elbow singing where it had cracked the table, Seth glared up at his persecutor. “What the hell’s with you? This is my room, my bed, and I’m trying to sleep in it.”
“Put some clothes on. I’ve got something for you to do out back.”
“Goddamn it, you could give a guy twenty-four hours before you start on him.”
“Kid, I started on you when you were ten, and I’m not close to being finished. I’ve got work, so let’s get moving.”
“Cam.” Anna strode to the doorway, hands on hips. “I told you to wake him up, not knock him down.”
“Jesus.” Mortified, Seth tore the sheet out of Cam’s hands and clutched it around his waist. “Jesus, Anna, I’m naked here.”
“Then get dressed,” she suggested, and walked away.
“Out back,” Cam told him as he strode from the room. “Five minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Some things never changed, Seth thought as he yanked on jeans. He could be sixty living in this house, and Cam would still roust him out of bed like he was twelve.
He snagged what was left of a University of Maryland sweatshirt and dragged it over his head as he stalked from the room.
If there wasn’t coffee, hot and fresh, somebody was going to get their ass seriously kicked.
“Mom! I can’t find my shoes!”
Seth glanced toward Jake’s room as he headed for the stairs.
“They’re down here,” Anna called back. “In the middle of my kitchen floor, where they don’t belong.”
“Not those shoes. Jeez, Mom. The other shoes.”
“Try looking up your butt,” came the carefully modulated suggestion from Kevin’s room. “Your head’s already up there.”
“No problem finding your butt,” was the hissed response. “Since you wear it right on your shoulders.”
Such familiar family dynamics would have made Seth smile—if it hadn’t been shy of seven A.M. If his elbow hadn’t been throbbing like a bitch. If he had had a hit of caffeine.
“Neither one of you could find your butts with your own hands,” he grumbled as he sulked down the steps.
“What the hell’s up with Cam?” he demanded of Anna when he stalked into the kitchen. “Is there any coffee? Why does everybody wake up yelling around here?”
“Cam needs to see you outside. Yes, there’s a half pot left, and everyone wakes up yelling because it’s how we like to greet the day.” She poured coffee into a thick white mug. “You’re on your own for breakfast. I have an early meeting. Don’t pout, Seth. I’ll bring home ice cream.”
The day began to look marginally brighter. “Rocky Road?”
“Rocky Road. Jake! Get these shoes out of my kitchen before I feed them to the dog. Go outside, Seth, or you’ll spoil Cam’s sunny mood.”
“Yeah, he looked real chipper when he yanked me out of bed.” Stewing over it, Seth walked out the kitchen door.
There they were, almost as Seth had drawn them so many years before. Cam, thumbs in pockets, Phillip, slicked up in a suit, Ethan, with a faded gimme cap over his windblown hair.
Seth swallowed coffee, and the heart that had lodged in his throat. “This is what you dragged me out of bed for?”
“Same smart mouth.” Phillip caught him in a hug. His eyes, nearly the same tawny gold as his hair, skimmed over Seth’s ragged shirt and jeans. “Christ, kid, didn’t I teach you anything?” With a shake of his head, he fingered the dull-gray sleeve. “Italy was obviously wasted on you.”
“They’re just clothes, Phil. You put them on so you don’t get cold or arrested.”
With a pained wince, Phillip stepped back. “Where did I go wrong?”
“Looks okay to me. Still a little scrawny. What’s this?” Ethan tugged on Seth’s hair. “Long as a girl’s.”
“He had it in a pretty little ponytail last night,” Cam told him. “He looked real sweet.”
“Up yours,” Seth said, laughing.
“We’ll get you a nice pink ribbon,” Ethan said with a chuckle and grabbed Seth in a bear hug.
Phillip nipped the mug out of Seth’s hand, took a sip. “We figured we’d come by and get a look at you before Sunday.”
“It’s good to see you. Really good to see you.” Seth flicked a glance at Cam. “You could’ve said everyone was here instead of dumping me out of bed.”
“More fun that way. Well.” Cam rocked back on his heels.
“Well,” Phillip agreed, and set the mug on the porch rail.
“Well.” Ethan gave Seth’s hair another tug. Then got an iron grip on his arm.
“What?”
Cam only grinned and locked a hold on his other arm. Seth didn’t need the gleam in their eyes to understand.
“Come on. You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s got to be done.” Before Seth could begin to struggle, Phillip scooped his legs out from under him. “It’s not like you’ve got to worry about getting that snazzy outfit wet.”
“Cut it out.” Seth bucked, tried to kick as he was carried off the porch. “I mean it. That water’s fucking cold.”
“Probably sink like a stone,” Ethan said mildly as they muscled Seth toward the dock. “Looks like living in Europe turned him into a wimp.”
“Wimp, my ass.” He fought against their hold, fought not to laugh. “Takes three of you to take me out. Bunch of feeble old men,” he snarled. With grips, he thought, like steel.
That had Phillip’s brow quirking. “How far do you think we can throw him?”
“Let’s find out. One,” Cam announced as they stood swinging him between them on the dock.
“I’ll kill you.” Swearing, laughing, Seth wiggled like a fish.
“Two,” Phillip said with a grin. “Better save your breath, kid.”
“Three. Welcome home, Seth,” Ethan said as the three of them hurled him in the air.
He was right. The water was freezing. It stole the breath he hadn’t bothered to save, chilled him right down to the bone. When he surfaced, spitting it out, shoving at his hair, he heard his brothers howling with delight, saw them ranged together on the dock with the early sun showering down and the old white house behind them.
I’m Seth Quinn, he thought. And I’m home.
* * *
THE early-morning dip went a long way toward purging any jet lag. Since he was up, Seth decided he might as well get things done. He drove back to Baltimore, turned in the rental, and after some wheeling and dealing at a dealership, drove toward the Shore the proud owner o
f a muscular Jaguar convertible in saber silver.
He knew it shouted: Officer, may I have a speeding ticket please! But he couldn’t resist.
Selling his art was a two-edged sword. It sliced at his heart each time he parted with a painting. But he was selling very well and might as well reap some of the benefits.
His brothers, he thought smugly, were going to be green when they got a load of his new ride.
He cut back on his speed as he cruised into St. Chris. The little water town with its busy docks and quiet streets was another painting to him, one he’d re-created countless times, from countless angles.
Market Street with its shops and restaurants ran parallel to the dock, where crab pickers still set up tables on weekends to perform for the tourists. Watermen like Ethan would bring the day’s catch there.
The town spread back with its old Victorian houses, its saltboxes and clapboards shaded by leafy trees. Lawns would be tidy. Neat, quaint, historic drew in the tourists, who would browse in the shops, eat in the restaurants, cozy up in one of the B and B’s for a relaxing weekend at the Shore.
Locals learned to live with them, just as they learned to live with the gales that blew in from the Atlantic, and the droughts that sizzled their soybean fields. As they learned to live with the capricious Bay and her dwindling bounty.
He passed Crawford’s and thought of sloppy submarine sandwiches, dripping ice cream cones and town gossip.
He’d ridden his bike on these streets, racing with Danny and Will McLean. He’d cruised with them in the second-hand Chevy he and Cam had fixed up the summer he turned sixteen.
And he’d sat—man and boy—at one of the umbrella tables while the town bustled by, trying to capture what it was about this single spot on the planet that shone so bright for him.
He wasn’t sure he ever had, or ever would.
He eased into a parking space so he could walk down to the dock. He wanted to study the light, the shadows, the colors and shapes, and was already wishing he’d thought to bring a sketch pad.
It amazed him, constantly, how much beauty there was in the world. How it changed and it shifted even as he watched. The way the sun struck the water at one exact instant, how it spread or winked away behind a cloud.
Or there, he thought, the curve of that little girl’s cheek when she lifted her face to look at a gull. The way her laugh shaped her mouth, or the way her fingers threaded through her mother’s in absolute trust.
There was power in that.
He stood watching a white boat heel to in blue water, its sails snap full as they caught the wind.
He wanted to be out on the water again, he realized. Be part of it. Maybe he’d shanghai Aubrey for a few hours. He’d make a couple more stops, then swing by the boatyard and see if he could steal her.
Scanning the street, he started back for his car. A sign painted on a storefront caught his attention. Bud and Bloom, he read. Flower shop. That was new. He strolled closer, noting the festive pots hanging on either side of the glass.
The window itself was filled with plants and what he thought of as whatnots. Clever ones, though, Seth thought, finding himself amused by the spotted black-and-white cow with pansies flowing over its back.
In the lower right-hand corner of the window, written in the same ornate script, was: Drusilla Whitcomb Banks, Proprietor.
It wasn’t a name he recognized, and since the painted script informed him the shop had been established in September of the previous year, he imagined some fussy widow, on the elderly side. White hair, he decided, starched dress with a prim floral print to go with sensible shoes and the half-glasses she wore on a gold chain around her neck.
She and her husband had come to St. Chris for long weekends, and when he’d died, she’d had too much money and time on her hands. So she’d moved here and opened her little flower shop so that she could be somewhere they’d been carefree together while doing something she’d secretly longed to do for years.
The story line made him like Mrs. Whitcomb Banks and her snobby cat—she’d have to have a cat—named Ernestine.
He decided to make her, and the many women in his life, happy. With flowers on his mind, Seth opened the door to the musical tinkle of bells.
The proprietor, he thought, had an artistic eye. It wasn’t just the flowers—they were, after all, just the paint. She had daubed, splashed and streamed her paints very well. Flows of colors, a mix of shapes, a contrast of textures covered the canvas of her shop. It was tidy, just as he’d expected, but not regimented or formal.
He knew enough of flowers from the years of living with Anna to recognize how cleverly she’d paired hot-pink gerbera with rich blue delphiniums, snowy-white lilies with the elegance of red roses. Mixed in with those sweeps of color were the fans and spikes and tongues of green.
And the whimsy again, he noted, charmed. Cast-iron pigs, flute-playing frogs, wicked-faced gargoyles.
There were pots and vases, ribbons and lace, shallow dishes of herbs and thriving houseplants. He got the impression of cannily arranged clutter in a limited and well-used space.
Over it all were the fairy-tale notes of “Afternoon of a Faun.”
Nice going, Mrs. Whitcomb Banks, he decided and prepared to spend lavishly.
The woman who stepped out of the rear door behind the long service counter wasn’t Seth’s image of the talented widow, but she sure as hell belonged in a fanciful garden.
He gave his widow extra points for hiring help who brought faeries and spellbound princesses to a man’s mind.
“May I help you?”
“Oh yeah.” Seth crossed to the counter and just looked at her.
Long, slim and tidy as a rose, he thought. Her hair was true black, cut close to follow the lovely shape of her head while leaving the elegant stem of her neck exposed. It was a look, he thought, that took considerable female guts and self-confidence.
It left her face completely unframed so that the delicate ivory of her skin formed a perfect oval canvas. The gods had been in a fine mood the day they’d created her, and had drawn her a pair of long, almond-shaped eyes of moss green, then added a nimbus of amber around her pupils.
Her nose was small and straight, her mouth wide to go with the eyes, and very full. She’d tinted it a deep, seductive rose.
Her chin had the faintest cleft, as if her maker had given it a light finger brush of approval.
He would paint that face; there was no question about it. And the rest of her as well. He saw her lying on a bed of red rose petals, those faerie eyes glowing with sleepy power, those lips slightly curved, as if she’d just wakened from dreaming of a lover.
Her smile didn’t waver as he studied her, but the dark wings of her eyebrows lifted. “And just what can I help you with?”
The voice was good, he mused. Strong and smooth. Not a local, he decided.
“We can start with flowers,” he told her. “It’s a great shop.”
“Thanks. What sort of flowers did you have in mind today?”
“We’ll get to that.” He leaned on the counter. In St. Chris, there was always time for a little conversation. “Have you worked here long?”
“From the beginning. If you’re thinking ahead to Mother’s Day, I have some lovely—”
“No, I’ve got Mother’s Day handled. You’re not from around here. The accent,” he explained when those brows lifted again. “Not Shore. A little north, maybe.”
“Very good. D.C.”
“So, the name of the shop. Bud and Bloom. Is that from Whistler?”
Surprise, and speculation, flickered over her face. “As a matter of fact, it is. You’re the first to tag it.”
“One of my brothers is big on stuff like that. I can’t remember the quote exactly. Something about perfect in its bud as in its bloom.”
“ ‘The masterpiece should a
ppear as the flower to the painter—perfect in its bud as in its bloom.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s it. I probably recognized it because that’s what I do. I paint.”
“Really?” She reminded herself to be patient, to relax into the rhythm. Part of the package in the little town was slow, winding conversations with strangers. She’d already sized him up. His face was vaguely familiar, and his eyes, a very striking blue, were frank and direct in their interest. She wouldn’t stoop to flirtation, certainly not to make a sale, but she could be friendly.
She’d come to St. Chris to be friendly.
Because she imagined he painted houses, she sorted through her mind for an arrangement that would suit his budget. “Do you work locally?”
“I do now. I’ve been away. Do you work here alone?” He glanced around, calculating the amount of work that went into maintaining the garden she’d created. “Does the proprietor come in?”
“I work alone, for now. And I am the proprietor.”
He looked back at her and began to laugh. “Boy, I wasn’t even close. Nice to meet you, Drusilla Whitcomb Banks.” He held out a hand. “I’m Seth Quinn.”
Seth Quinn. She laid her hand in his automatically and did her own rapid readjustment. Not a face she’d seen around town, she realized, but one she’d seen in a magazine. No housepainter, despite the old jeans and faded shirt, but an artist. The local boy who’d become the toast of Europe.
“I admire your work,” she told him.
“Thanks. I admire yours. And I’m probably keeping you from it. I’m going to make it worth your while. I’ve got some ladies to impress. You can help me out.”
“Ladies? Plural?”
“Yeah. Three, no four,” he corrected, thinking of Aubrey.
“It’s a wonder you have time to paint, Mr. Quinn.”
“Seth. I manage.”
“I bet you do.” Certain types of men always managed. “Cut flowers, arrangements or plants?”
“Ah . . . cut flowers, in a nice box. More romantic, right? Let me think.” He calculated route and time, and decided he’d drop by to see Sybill first. “Number one is sophisticated, chic, intellectual and practical-minded, with a soft-gooey center. Roses, I guess.”