He set the basket on the coffee table and held out a hand. “Quinn Lockhart.”
She put her hand in his. “Abby Curtis, house-sitting for my aunt Reva. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Abby.” His fingers wrapped around hers, his grip strong but gentle, his palm callused but warm. Up close, blue eyes the color of new denim smiled into hers. His touch and his smile melted the crusty outer layer of her anxiety.
He let go of her hand. “Have a seat while I put on a shirt.”
Abby perched on the couch, crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She inhaled and blew out a deep breath to release another layer of anxiety. The room smelled of fresh paint, newly dyed fabric, and recently milled wood.
Georgia’s restless gaze tracked something outside the glass door. She whined, a worried furrow between her brows.
Abby leaned forward. “You see something out there?”
Quinn came into the room wearing a plain white T-shirt that wasn’t too tight but still somehow clung to every muscle. He sat beside her on the couch and slid the basket closer. “Hmmm.” He held up the bottle of cider. “This looks interesting.”
Abby was more of a wine girl herself, but after twisting and turning over the decision of what to bring, she’d settled on cider, in case the new neighbor didn’t drink anything containing alcohol. “I hope you like it.”
He set the two glasses on the coffee table and opened the bottle. “Anything I share with you will be better than a lonely beer by myself.”
Smooth talker. The sort she’d already fallen for once too often. “Please don’t feel obligated to share. I meant it as a gift, not an intrusion.” Her nervousness lifted her like an overfilled helium balloon. She half stood, then sat again.
Since she’d moved in with her aunt this spring, she had learned to handle hundreds of school kids along with their adult teachers and chaperones. But social situations requiring small talk still made her palms sweat. “I only came to welcome you to the neighborhood and apologize for Elijah’s rude behavior this morning. I’m very sorry about the whole thing.”
He poured cider into the two glasses and handed one to her. “Apology accepted, incident forgotten, starting over. Remember?”
* * *
Quinn smiled into Abby’s hazel eyes and tried to figure her out. Jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, Abby sat on the edge of the couch cushion. This morning, she’d been a stick-wielding force of nature. Tonight, she seemed sweet and genuine and endearingly nervous.
He lifted his glass. “To good neighbors.”
She clinked her glass to his. “To good neighbors.”
The cider was crisp and clean-tasting with a slight effervescent bite that lingered on his tongue.
“I hope you like the cider.” She turned the bottle toward him. “I picked it for the pretty label. I liked the wolf and dove looking so comfortable together under the tree. They should be enemies, but they’ve made the choice not to.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He lifted out the loaf wrapped in a dish towel. “What’s this?” He held it to his nose and sniffed. Vanilla and cinnamon, reminding him of his mom’s snickerdoodles. “It smells wonderful. Did you make it?”
“Yes. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, made with eggs from my aunt’s hens, honey from her bees, and butter from her cow. It’s great with coffee.”
“I’ll save it for the morning, then.” He set the loaf aside and unpacked the rest of the basket’s contents: several cheeses, a jar of olives, a box of fancy crackers. “I hadn’t thought about dinner yet, but this will be perfect.”
“You missed something.” She dug into the basket and handed over one last item—a granola bar.
“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Suppressing the odd compulsion to kiss her shiny pink lips, he went into the kitchen and gathered clean plates and silverware. He set everything out on the coffee table and handed her a plate.
While they filled their plates, a small silence expanded.
He sat back and put his glass on the side table. “You said the dog’s name is Georgia, right?” The little mutt had been eyeing him, her expression intense and watchful. “What kind of dog is she?”
Abby sipped her cider. “I think she’s a cattle dog/Jack Russell terrier mix.”
“Maybe a little beagle, too.” She looked it, with the copper and white markings and the brown patches around her eyes and ears. And even if he hadn’t seen her, he’d heard enough of her piercing, yodel-like bark to make an informed opinion. “She’s cute.”
Georgia growled softly. Probably knew what he was really thinking.
“Aunt Reva says Georgia doesn’t like to be called cute,” Abby said. “She would prefer to be praised for her intelligence and athletic ability.” Abby turned her attention to Georgia. “Wouldn’t you, girl?”
Georgia wagged her white-tipped tail and grinned, her lips drawing back to show the top row of her teeth.
“See what I mean? She wants everyone to know she’s more than just a pretty face.”
“Is she your aunt’s only dog? It sounds like you have a lot of pets over there.”
“They’re not pets.” Abby sliced the smoked Gouda. “I know it sounds corny to most people, but to us, animals are family.”
“Big family.” He popped a chunk of aged Asiago into his mouth. “Good cheese. Don’t tell me you bought all these for the pretty packages.”
“No. I know about cheese.”
He was percolating on a witty response—or at least one that didn’t sound idiotic—when she jumped in with a change of subject. “Are you new to Magnolia Bay?”
He gulped down his cider and poured another glass, wishing it were beer—or something stronger. He hadn’t expected the Spanish Inquisition (because nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition). “I’ve visited Magnolia Bay before because it’s my ex-wife’s hometown, but I moved here to be closer to my son.”
“Oh.” Abby held out her glass for a refill. “That’s…um, that’s great.”
He poured up. This conversation must be hard on her, too. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
“So, you’ve got a job here, I guess?”
“No, not yet.” He didn’t say the rest of it: Because I lost my job and my reputation when I trusted my business partner and got sold down the river. “I’m…between jobs right now. I was in the construction business in New Orleans with my best friend who’s a building contractor, but it didn’t work out. I’m hoping to start over here where I can be closer to my son.”
“Oh. Well. That sounds…” She looked uncomfortable for a second, then perked up. “I’m sure you’ll like the neighborhood. My aunt loves it here.”
“So your aunt… Is she traveling or something?”
Abby swallowed. “Yes. She’s doing a three-month internship at a wildlife refuge in south Florida. By the end of the summer, she’ll be able to keep bobcats, owls, hawks, deer, and all sorts of injured wildlife at the farm.”
“Great.” Just great. How he managed to luck into finding such great neighbors, he’d never know. “Sounds like she’s full up already. How many…um…animal family members do you have over there now? Aside from Georgia, I mean.”
Abby set her glass down, stared at the ceiling, and counted on her fingers. “Twelve cats, eight bunnies, two donkeys, two ponies, three sheep, five goats, one mini-zebu cow, one potbellied pig—they’re best friends. Two peacocks, five geese, six ducks, about eighteen chickens, one scarlet macaw, a pair of Amazons, six sun conures, a dozen parakeets, and a swarm of bees.” She dropped her hands into her lap and smiled.
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” he added.
“Not yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one showed up.” Her pink lips curled up at the edges, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corner
s. Her heart-shaped face and quiet features were pretty in an unvarnished way. She wore makeup, but it didn’t look as if her eyelashes were in danger of crawling away by themselves.
“Magnolia Bay doesn’t have an animal shelter,” she explained, “so people who know about Bayside Barn dump animals off all the time. Dogs, cats, chickens, even the potbellied pig.”
Again, just his luck to have an animal-hoarding neighbor with a hobo-friendly sign on the gate. “That must be—”
Georgia scrabbled at the sliding glass door and barked a high-pitched alarm.
Abby jumped to her feet, almost spilling her drink. “Something’s wrong.” She fumbled with the door latch. “Something’s out there.”
“Wait. I’ll come with you.” Quinn ran into the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight. The door screeched open, and Abby and Georgia rushed out.
“Fine,” he said to the empty room. “Don’t wait.”
The flashlight’s beam bounced as he ran, following the sounds of geese honking, chickens clucking, Georgia barking, and Abby yelling.
“Nooo.” Abby’s voice sounded anguished. “Bad dog. Drop it…”
The flashlight’s beam caught Abby chasing an enormous gray canine who galloped across the yard with a flapping, squawking chicken in its jaws. She threw an empty bucket, but it bounced harmlessly on the ground. Out of breath, panting, Abby lagged behind.
Georgia kept going; low to the ground, bullet-fast, and closing in.
The big dog looked back, halted stride.
Within snapping distance of the larger dog’s thick, plumy tail, Georgia stopped and sat.
The big dog turned and dropped the now-motionless chicken. Only paces apart, the two canines stared at each other.
The huge dog’s eyes glowed yellow. Its large rounded head, pointed ears, long snout, and thick shaggy coat made it appear more wolf than dog.
Abby reached out, knuckles presented. “Hey, buddy. Where did you come from? Are you hungry?”
Quinn sprang forward. “Abby, no.” If the thing lunged and bit, it could do serious damage.
The gray wolf dog broke into a scuttling run and streaked past, heading for the open gate.
Quinn grabbed Abby’s arm. “Are you crazy?” His heart hadn’t figured out that the danger was past; it hammered overtime, flooding him with adrenaline. “That big dog could have torn you apart.”
“He wouldn’t have. He was just hungry.” Abby picked up the dead chicken and cradled it gently. “I’m sorry, Biddle.”
Quinn shone the light on the chicken’s limp form. “Is it dead?”
Dry-eyed, Abby nodded. “It’s my fault. I left the gate open when I went to visit you. I should have closed the chicken coops, but some chickens were still out. I should have called them in and put them up.”
Quinn turned off the flashlight and patted Abby’s back in an awkward gesture of consolation. “Sometimes these things happen.”
“No. Their coop is safe if I close the door. If I don’t close the door, it’s a predator buffet.” Something stirred between them, and Abby gasped. “Turn on the flashlight.”
He did. The not-quite-dead bird fluttered in Abby’s arms.
“Biddle, you’re okay.” She stroked the bird’s feathers.
“Amazing. She looked for sure dead.”
“My aunt says that animals do that sometimes if they’ve suffered a big shock. Their spirits fly away and don’t come back until the danger has passed.”
“Interesting concept.” So Abby’s aunt was straight-up crazy, and Abby had drunk the Kool-Aid.
Georgia stood up on her hind legs and whined.
Abby reached down to pet the dog’s head. “Let’s go inside and make sure Biddle doesn’t have any injuries.”
Abby walked across the neatly mown lawn, and though he walked behind, Quinn shone the light in front of her. “Do you mind if I come? I might be able to help.” And he wanted to see inside the house next door. He told himself his curiosity was based purely on the resale value of his own property.
“Oh, thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
Picture windows across the back of the house gleamed darkly, reflecting solar lights around the pool’s patio. Abby opened the sliding glass door and flicked on the lights, and they stepped into a homey, country kitchen. The frosted-glass globe under a wide copper dome gave a warm honey color to butcher-block countertops and polished oak cabinets. Cabinet doors of opaque bubble-glass reflected copper-bottomed cookware hung above a central island.
Abby set the chicken down on the oak table and combed through its honey-brown feathers.
The damn chicken matched the damn kitchen.
An enormous gray tabby cat leaped onto the table to survey the proceedings. Georgia hopped onto one of the ladder-backed chairs and propped her chin on the table, watching.
Chickens, cats, and dogs, apparently all felt free to dance on the dining-room table. Quinn reminded himself never to eat over here without offering to wipe down the table beforehand.
“I don’t see a scratch on her,” Abby said. “Do you?”
“Not yet.” He moved the flashlight, following Abby’s gentle fingers as she turned the chicken on its side and lifted one of its wings, revealing sparsely feathered white skin. She repeated the process on the other side, then held the bird like a baby with its yellow claws in the air. The chicken struggled to break free, and Abby adjusted her grip. “Can you check her belly?”
Quinn held the light with one hand and sifted through the bird’s feathers with the other. “Not a mark on her.”
Abby sighed. “Thanks be. I’ll go put her back in the coop.”
Back outside, Quinn led the way to the chicken coop with the flashlight. Georgia jumped into an opening in the side of the coop, sniffed around, then hopped out again, tail wagging.
“Everybody there?” Abby checked on the other chickens and closed the coop door. “Yep, everybody’s there.”
She patted the closed door. “Sorry for the scare, everyone. I’ll be more careful from now on.”
Turning to Quinn, Abby wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a totally unselfconscious hug. “Thank you for everything.”
A zing of awareness flooded his body, reminding him how many months he’d been celibate—nine, exactly. But a brief period of postdivorce promiscuity had convinced him that he’d rather be alone than indulge in meaningless hookups that left him feeling even more unsatisfied.
Abby released him and stepped back, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. “It means a lot to know that my aunt has a good neighbor she can count on.”
He patted her shoulder. “Good neighbors,” he repeated inanely. He could have corrected her assumption that he planned to live next door. But that would have been awkward, and anyway, what did he owe her? She wasn’t his actual neighbor, in any case. Her aunt would figure out his plans to sell the estate next door when he put the new For Sale sign out front. He needed to keep a friendly distance from these new neighbors. Abby was sweet and attractive, sure. But her aunt’s unconventional home-based business might stand between him and the high-dollar sale of the property on which he had gambled everything. And if that wasn’t reason enough, he had Melissa to remind him of the dangers of falling for a pretty face.
* * *
Wolf hid in the shadow of the frog-pool’s house. Guilt and longing swirled with the burning acid in his empty belly. Algae-green water couldn’t keep him alive, and neither could the frogs and bugs and worms he ate when the last three rabbits he chased outran him. Over the last few weeks, he had lost muscle, strength, and stamina.
Georgia, once she recognized him, let him have the chicken he had caught so easily. But the woman, Abby, said no, and her attitude about sharing sustenance with Wolf was clear in the way she secured all the animals behind locked doors and closed gates. Why didn’t people want him to
eat? Did he not deserve to live, too?
Head on his paws, he closed his eyes and ignored the clenching fist of hunger that squeezed a little harder each day.
He had hoped his people would come back. But he couldn’t redeem himself if he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. And because he couldn’t redeem himself, his family wouldn’t come.
No one would.
* * *
That night, limp with exhaustion and relief, Abby settled under the covers and petted Georgia and the cats that hopped up and curled beside them. She checked her text messages and found another one from Reva:
Sorry I didn’t call last night. We were told at orientation that we’ll be way too busy to chat with folks back home. Plus, weak cell service, and only one old-fashioned landline phone on each floor of the dorm—with a curly cord attached to the receiver! We just got done for the day, and already there’s a line of young people (I’m realizing that I’m OLD!) standing halfway down the hall waiting for the phone right now. I guess we’ll be doing a lot of texting. How are things at the farm? Fine, I hope. If you need me for anything important, you will have to call the office here and leave a message at the desk. I’ll send that contact info separately. (Photo of a tiny dorm room with two fold-down single beds.)
Abby replied: All is well here. (No reason to confess her lapse in not making the new kitten’s appointment at the vet.) Nice digs. Seen any roaches yet?
She also decided not to tell Reva about the chicken incident or the new neighbor, including Elijah’s kerfuffle with the guy. Biddle would be okay. Elijah hadn’t seriously injured Quinn, who turned out to be nice, cute, and handy with a flashlight. If Abby hadn’t sworn off men after barely escaping the last one, she might be tempted.
But she had, so she wasn’t. Maybe Reva would; Reva was a young fiftysomething wise woman while Abby felt like a washed-up thirty-three-year-old failure. Reva seemed to have some supernatural knack for floating above life’s traumas and dramas. Even when everything was going well, Abby found it difficult to drag herself out of bed each morning.
Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay Page 6