“In the Jenkins library,” she went on, “there were a few families like yours—past and present service members. The present ones were just noted as currently serving in whatever branch. We left space to be filled later.” And Clairy was also eager to move on, so she opened Micah’s box, then Tanner’s, deciding everything they’d sent could be used. She set aside those boxes with the file folder before motioning to the rest of the boxes.
“So all of this is your dad’s?”
“It is,” Quinn confirmed.
“Then we can do a bigger display of his things.”
“Sounds good.” Quinn seemed relieved to be talking about his father rather than hers, and the change in topic also helped Clairy emerge from some of her own resurrected negative feelings.
Part of what she loved about this job was learning the unique stories of each veteran and that was what came to the surface as they began to tackle the boxes of Reese Camden’s memorabilia. Her first surprise with Quinn’s father was that he was in the US Air Force, when she’d assumed he’d been a marine, like her father and like Quinn and his brothers.
As the evening wore on, Clairy laid out everything, and she and Quinn debated what should and shouldn’t be included. Clairy had experience dealing with vets and their families who believed everything was golden and should be put on display. When it came to his father, Quinn fell into that category. Fortunately, Clairy had success finessing him through the process, pointing out why certain things only detracted from his father’s greatest accomplishments, negotiating with him when he stood his ground on a few things until they’d agreed on what would be used and what wouldn’t.
Then they repacked the boxes—one with the items Clairy would keep, the rest with what Quinn would take with him when he left.
Which it was clearly time for him to do once the purpose for them getting together had wrapped up.
But despite her earlier bad reaction to the White House event, despite having passed nearly three hours in each other’s company, the fact that Clairy had tried to resist it, she wasn’t eager to usher out Quinn.
She should have been. But she wasn’t. And before she’d figured out why, she said, “One more glass of tea?”
As if you aren’t doing something you know you shouldn’t do just because you’re sticking with tea, she silently sneered at herself.
“I think I’m good, thanks.”
“Would you rather have a beer? A glass of wine...now that we’re done with work?”
She wanted to kick herself.
What’s wrong with you?
But she knew what was wrong with her whether she wanted to admit it or not—she didn’t want to see him go yet.
“No, thanks, I really am good,” he repeated.
Maybe she didn’t want him to go yet because she still had more questions about his father.
“I keep wondering why, with your dad being in the air force and you and your brothers wanting to follow in his footsteps, you all went into the marines,” she said.
It was a last-ditch effort, but also something she had been wondering about and hadn’t found an opportunity to ask.
It did the trick, because Quinn sat down on the sofa—and not just a perch on the edge to give her a quick answer. He sat at one end, his right elbow on the arm, his left arm resting along the top of the couch’s back and his left calf propped on top of the opposite knee, all as if the offer of more to drink was an invitation to stay.
Which, of course, it had been.
Clairy sat in the other corner of the sofa to hear his answer, feeling a ridiculous amount of gladness that he’d accepted the veiled invitation and reassuring herself that what she’d just done was purely in the interest of getting to know each other.
Why else would the entire length of the sofa be separating them?
It couldn’t be more innocent...
“I know. You’d think we all—or at least one of us—would have gone into the air force, wouldn’t you?” Quinn said. “But none of us were interested in flying. I don’t know whether Dad dying in a plane crash factored in for my brothers, but it did for me.”
There had been no indication in any of the memorabilia that Reese Camden had died in a plane crash, so this was news to Clairy. Hearing it now, she assumed it was while he was in the service, so she said, “Was it wartime or peacetime when the plane crash happened?”
“He was a civilian when he died—he’d left the air force,” Quinn said, as if he thought she knew. “He was in the air force from 1978 to 1986, but alive and well when he resigned—just after being awarded the Meritorious Service Medal that I brought you. He died two years later from a mechanical failure flying a private plane for the other branch of the Camden family—the Colorado Camdens. My great-grandfather Hector was H. J. Camden’s brother.”
“I knew there was some connection between your family and the Camden-Superstores Camdens. I just didn’t know how.”
“That’s how. When my mom found out she was having triplets—with three-month-old Micah already on her hands—Dad decided he had to be around more than he could be if he stayed in the military. But he still needed a job and flying was what he wanted to do, so he became the other Camdens’ private pilot. And ultimately that was how he went—at twenty-eight—flying a Camden plane,” Quinn said, some sadness echoing in his voice.
“How old were you?”
“Not quite two. Micah was barely three—”
“You were two years old?” Clairy said, surprised. She recalled Quinn’s comment the night before about not having a dad and her own curiosity about what he’d meant. Now that she thought more concretely about it, she realized that she didn’t have an exact timetable for Quinn’s family history. She’d been just a child herself and hadn’t thought about the parents of other kids—she’d just assumed they had them. Including Quinn.
Trying to understand how she’d been so off base, she said, “I remember thinking that Ben was your dad until I was about eleven or twelve—I was throwing a fit about you being around so much and asked Mim why you didn’t stay with your own father instead of always coming around after Mac. She told me Ben was your grandfather, that your dad had died. But I didn’t realize it had been so long before that. I took it as something that had just happened—”
“When I was thirteen or fourteen? Hardly.”
“I remember trying to be a little nicer about you coming around for a while because I felt sorry for you—”
“I know that didn’t last,” Quinn said with a laugh.
“Well, no,” she admitted somewhat contritely. “I figured you still had your grandfather around all the time, so you shouldn’t be taking what little time I had with my father when he was here on leave...”
Clairy shook her head at her own cluelessness, readjusting her thinking to incorporate this new information. “I’ve always thought your dad was career military who died while he was in the service when you were older—definitely not when you were two...”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Quinn said with a shrug at her misconceptions. “But you were just a kid—younger than me—and it wasn’t as if you were ever at my house, or that I ever told you about my family or who was who. I can see where you could have thought Big Ben was my dad—for all intents and purposes, he was.”
“So you didn’t really ever even know your father,” Clairy observed, putting some pieces together.
“I don’t have any memory of him, no. Not even Micah does. When Dad died, we came here from Denver to live with Big Ben—”
“I also just assumed you were born in Merritt. I guess because you were here when I got here I thought you’d always been here.”
“Nope. Dalton, Tanner and I were born in Colorado. My mom lived on base there when my dad was in the air force, and Denver is where the other Camdens were, too. When he resigned and went to work as their privat
e pilot, we stayed there, in a suburb outside of the city.”
“I really had it wrong.”
“I guess you did,” Quinn said, as if it didn’t have any relevance to him.
“So no wonder you were hungry for a father figure.”
He grimaced at that. “That makes it sound like Big Ben dropped the ball somehow, and after all he did for us, all he’s been to us in place of a father, he definitely didn’t do that,” Quinn said, clearly making sure credit was given where credit was due.
But when he went on, it was in a confidential tone. “But for me...yeah, I guess I did want more than what my grandfather was. I love Big Ben. I’m grateful to him. I’d lay down my life for him. There’s no better man. But he’s a quiet, gentle guy. He was the sensitive influence in our lives—”
“Your mother wasn’t the sensitive influence in your life?”
Quinn laughed. “No way!” he said, as if the idea of that was laughable. He didn’t expand on it, though, but went on talking about his grandfather. “Big Ben was more our philosopher, our moral compass. And it was lucky we had him, believe me. But... I don’t know... Maybe I had something to prove. I wanted a tough taskmaster to show that I could meet harder challenges, to mold me into something stronger, maybe. I’m not sure what the drive was. I just know that your old man fit the bill, that when I could meet his standards, I felt like I could do anything, like nothing could beat me, and that was the way I wanted to feel.”
Clairy thought there was so much more in what he was saying that it opened her eyes to a view of a scared kid who had lost his father before he’d even known him, who had grown up with a sense of vulnerability that had probably come out of that loss even if he hadn’t realized it. A scared kid who had believed that if he could make himself tough enough, he could truly feel safe. Just a kid who probably also wanted to shine especially bright for that father who wasn’t there.
And it broke her heart. It made her realize all the more that little-boy Quinn wasn’t at fault for her father ignoring her, that the blame for letting her down rested solely on Mac.
And it gave her a flush of guilt for resenting Quinn so much, even if that resentment had come out of her own family issues.
It also complicated things for her when Quinn seemed less a villain and more just another child with his own needs for a parent. When she saw things through his eyes and felt compassion for him.
Especially since that compassion opened the door for other emotions to come through. Emotions that weren’t all negative. That softened the way she felt about him suddenly.
Not that she had feelings for him.
“I didn’t understand then,” she said quietly. “I just thought you were...greedy. That you were sucking up the time my father should have been spending with me, when you had your own father—or grandfather—to spend time with.” She took a turn at shrugging. “So I was a jerk to you, too.”
“Well, you weren’t nice to me, that’s for sure,” he said without any real injury in his tone, as if he was merely cashing in on whatever culpability she was owning up to.
“I’m sorry?” she said in the form of a question, because she wasn’t admitting she’d done anything wrong, just that she’d misconstrued some things in her own innocence.
“Is that supposed to be an apology?” he goaded, obviously unaware of the empathy he’d generated in her.
Clairy thought that was probably for the best, because she couldn’t imagine that this man, of all men, would appreciate being felt sorry for. Even if it did put him in a better light with her.
“I was just a kid. And you were as obnoxious and mean to me as you could possibly have been,” she reminded him. “So of the two of us, I’d say you still come out as the bigger jerk.”
“Man, I can’t catch a break with you no matter what,” he lamented.
But the tone between them was light, teasing, when she muttered, “Let’s just say it might get you a little closer to a break.”
“Really...” he said, as if he saw possibilities in that, his own voice laced with interest.
“Not too close,” she returned, not wanting to admit to too much.
“I’ll have to keep working on it,” he promised in a quieter, more intimate tone.
Their gazes stayed steadily connected for a moment before Quinn broke the connection.
“I should go. It’s getting late,” he said, standing.
Clairy didn’t argue this time. She just stood up, too, taking the box nearest to her that held items she’d rejected. “I’ll help you get some of this out,” she said, even though he was leaving with less than he’d carried in and didn’t need the help. But she told herself the same thing she’d told herself the previous evening—that she could use the fresh air.
Quinn put the two remaining boxes on top of each other and carried them under one arm so he still had a free hand to open her front door, then the screen door, and hold it for her.
“So,” she said as she stepped onto the porch with him and they headed for his truck, “have you heard yet that your old friend Brad Nelan asked my friend Marabeth Hawn to marry him?”
“Brad and I usually see each other when I’m here, but we don’t keep up in between. I didn’t even know he was seeing Marabeth until he and I had breakfast this morning and he told me.”
“Well, we can’t get into the library again tomorrow because of the raccoons—apparently, there are more of them than the cleaning crew saw and they’re a wily bunch—so I thought I’d use the day to put together an engagement barbecue for tomorrow night... Did Brad tell you that?”
“He did.”
“Did he invite you?”
“He did. Is that all right?”
“Sure. That’s why I’m asking, because if he didn’t, I would.” Not for any reason except that he was Brad Nelan’s friend, Clairy told herself.
“Then it’s okay if I come?” Quinn asked when they reached his truck and he set his two boxes on the passenger seat, turning to take the third box from her.
In doing that, his big hands brushed her forearms where they were wrapped around the box.
It was nothing. Brief, scant contact. And yet it sent a ripple of something charged through her, stealing her attention from his question.
And, apparently, her lack of reply caused him to think the lack of speed in answering meant she didn’t want him to come, because, before she said anything, he said, “I know that’s not library-memorial work. If my coming crosses a boundary—”
“No,” she said too quickly. She consciously cut back on her enthusiasm, then insisted, “Of course you should come. Like I said, I was about to invite you. You’re Brad’s friend.”
“Still...” Quinn allowed, giving her an out.
“Definitely come,” she responded, clasping her arms around herself to stop the lingering sensation of that brush of his hands.
He deposited that last box in the truck and closed the door, and when he turned back to her, he was somehow standing closer than she’d anticipated.
She considered taking a step back.
But she didn’t.
“Will you have a date?” he asked out of the blue.
That caused Clairy to laugh. “I don’t know who I would have a date with,” she said to the absurdity of the idea.
But then she sobered when it occurred to her that Quinn might be asking because he wanted to bring one.
“You can, if you want...”
Oh, there was no gusto at all in that offer.
But Quinn smiled a thoughtful smile, his eyes on hers, and said, “How about if we’re each other’s?”
Dates?
That seemed like a really bad idea.
And still, she replied, “Okay.”
He nodded, his expression satisfied and something else as he went on looking down at her. “Good,” he almost wh
ispered, as if it was a secret.
And something about that just-between-them hushed voice caused kissing to pop into Clairy’s mind for the second night in a row.
Which was silly, she told herself, because, of course, kissing wasn’t going to happen.
Until Quinn leaned forward just enough to make it happen. His mouth was suddenly on hers ever so lightly, his lips parted ever so slightly, extending an invitation of his own.
That she accepted by kissing him back.
With her eyes closed, her head tilted even more and her lips parted, too. Which encouraged him to deepen the kiss, to take away all tentativeness and make it real.
His big hands came to her upper arms to hold and caress them and send stronger, more vibrant currents all through her. She didn’t unclasp her arms from around her middle, using them to provide herself with a small sense that she still had some control.
His lips were smooth. His breath against her skin was warm. Even that sexy stubble was soft. And he was such a good kisser...
Good enough that she could have gone on kissing him all night long.
Which meant that even though it was a fairly lengthy kiss, it still seemed way too short when Quinn drew it to a close and straightened up.
His eyes came to hers again with what almost looked like awe in them.
He didn’t apologize, as she thought he might. He didn’t ask if it was all right that he’d kissed her. He just left that kiss between them, squeezed her arms once and took away his hands.
“Tomorrow night,” he said then. “I’m happy to come early and help if you can use me.”
An image of using him flashed through her mind at that offer, but Clairy dodged it in a hurry.
“It’s just a barbecue. It won’t be fancy,” she answered, finally taking a few steps backward, onto the lawn.
“Just let me know,” he said as he went around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel, turning on the engine while Clairy merely nodded in response.
All as if he hadn’t just kissed her.
The Major Gets it Right Page 9