Quinn had gone by there yesterday, out of curiosity and sentimentality. A relatively new, modest lodge stood there now. He’d thought about knocking on the door and introducing himself, asking if he could walk the grounds around the sound for old times’ sake. There was no little pier behind the house, and the rest was so different, it hadn’t seemed worth the intrusion. He had his memories, and looking across the calm, smooth waters of the inlet brought them back as clearly as if he and his grandfather had set out on a sunset sail the evening before.
Gavin had been a fisherman by trade, operating a commercial vessel for work purposes, along with many other merchant vessels. Those days were long, hot, sweaty and reeking of fish stink, filled with some of the most demanding physical labor and extreme tests of Quinn’s patience the then fifteen-year-old boy had thought he could possibly endure. The former had taught him a lot about what kind of man he could be. The latter was the skill that would come in most handy for the man he had become.
Gavin Brannigan had lived to see his only grandson graduate from college, only the second, after Quinn’s father, in their branch of the family to do so. By the time Quinn had published his first book a few short years later, Gavin had already joined his beloved wife, Annie, in the “great and grand beyond,” as he’d called it, his rolling brogue always making it sound like the best adventure destination in the world. And perhaps it was.
Quinn thought about the summers he’d spent here, from the age of fifteen until just past his twentieth birthday. He’d worked the trawlers for the income, lending a hand where it was needed ... and because Quinn had come to understand that what his father had wanted most was more time alone. Even from him. Maybe especially from him. Quinn had never been entirely certain. Still wasn’t. As if the long, eighty-hour workweeks his father put in hadn’t isolated him enough. Quinn’s mother had died in a car accident just after his thirteenth birthday. His father had never been particularly geared to parenting, though he wasn’t openly averse to it. But Mary Elizabeth had been born to the role, and he’d gladly left her to it, taking on the traditional patriarchal role, which was providing for his family. A role Michael Brannigan had taken seriously. They didn’t live in the lap of luxury, but they’d never gone wanting.
His father had loved his wife, that much Quinn knew, if by nothing other than the depth of his father’s grief. He wasn’t a demonstrative man, even with her. Not that Quinn had seen, anyway. And Mary Elizabeth’s death had pushed him to some place he’d never quite come back from, even now. So that had to speak of a deep bond.
Quinn didn’t know for certain. It remained a subject that, to this day, he and his father didn’t speak of.
He shifted his thoughts purposefully back to the handful of summers he’d spent on Sugarberry. When he’d been younger, his grandparents had lived farther south, and he’d rarely spent time with them. It hadn’t been until their move to Georgia, and his mother’s death, that he’d been shuttled off to their care, at least for the summer breaks. He smiled, remembering coming in from the backbreakingly long days, thinking there was no way in hell he’d be able to rise again the next morning and do it all over again. That if he never touched or smelled, much less ate, another fish for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man.
Only to sit down to a solid hot meal, lovingly and always deliciously prepared by his Grams, and discover, to his absolute and continued amazement, that by the time the relaxed meal had been concluded, when his grandfather asked if he’d like to head out on a little sunset sail around the sound in the single keel, man against the sea and wind—rather than against what swam beneath it—Quinn had actually thought it sounded like a good idea. And it had been, every time. The leisurely loops around the inlet had provided opportunity for the two of them to talk, shooting the breeze and the bull. Workdays didn’t allow for conversation of any kind, and the young man Quinn had been looked forward to those long, rambling conversations as the favorite part of his day.
Quinn could hear his grandfather’s hearty chuckle as clearly as if he stood before him. He knew the pride that would have shone in his bright blue eyes upon hearing the news of his grandson’s accomplishments. Quinn’s smile spread to a grin. Along with it, the old man would have delivered a healthy dose of ribbing that his only grandchild had chosen to earn his keep making up stories rather than using his hands and back for what Granda Gav would deem an honest day’s work.
There weren’t too many Irishmen plying the southern shores back then, or likely now, for that matter. His grandparents and their families had come over from Doolin, a small fishing village on the west coast of Ireland, to build a fresh life in New England, where the hardier Brannigan souls continued to eke out a living fishing. It was only after he’d met and married his wife, the former Annie O’Sullivan, and they’d begun their small family that Gavin had pulled up stakes and moved south. The warmer climate was beneficial to Annie’s poor health. First to the shores of the Gulf, and only much, much later, after Quinn’s own father had grown up and gone on his own way, had they come to Sugarberry.
Quinn had never known, exactly, what had ailed her. He knew it to be something with her breathing, but Annie Brannigan was a proud woman and the very last to allow anyone to see that she might be running on less than full steam. It simply wasn’t discussed outside what was held private between her and her husband.
Quinn’s smile turned wistful as he thought about the two of them, how they’d been with one another. For all that his mother had been loving and warm, making him feel very loved, his parents’ relationship had always been somewhat austere and reserved. Given his mother’s predilection for hugs and kisses, Quinn had assumed she’d taken those cues from his father. Actually, he hadn’t thought much about it one way or the other—his parents were his parents—until his mom had passed and he’d come to stay with his Granda Gav and Grams. Theirs had been an entirely different sort of relationship, the likes of which he’d never known could exist.
They were always as happy to see each other as if they’d been apart ages rather than hours. They were truly the light in each other’s eyes, even when they were squabbling, which was done with more affection than anger. He’d come to know theirs had been a love story of epic proportions, one Quinn had never been able to come close to writing about. No one would quite buy just how inordinately and blissfully happy the two of them made each other.
It had been the best thing Quinn had ever learned about the capacity of the human heart, and one of the hardest, as well. Finding a partner who could be to him all that he’d witnessed them to be to each other had proven elusive. Quinn often wondered if he’d have been happy settling for less if he’d never known what could be. If he’d only observed his parents’ kind of love.
Of course, he liked to think if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be the writer he was, either. Although he couldn’t completely capture the depth and breadth of his grandparents’ love for one another on the pages of a book, the absolute knowledge that love like that existed was a large part of why Quinn wrote the kinds of stories he did. Not the murder, the grit, and the horror ... that was the grip, the grab, the thing that pulled his readers in. But what kept them in, what made them invest more than their curiosity, wondering how he was going to solve the crime, was his ability to make them care—and care deeply—about the people he put at risk. Would they triumph?
Of course. They had to triumph. And the why of that was always—always—love. Love was the foundation that motivated his protagonists to fight off the evil that other men do. It gave them the will and strength to do whatever it took to win out, and why, in the end, they always—always—did. To that end, the love affairs he wrote about were epic as well. Perhaps not in as grounded and real a way as his grandparents’ love—fiction demanded something of the tempestuous and fantastical—but his characters experienced love as deeply and fully as Quinn was capable of writing it.
Love was also the very reason he found himself at a crossroads. “What should I do, Gran
da Gav?” he murmured, looking out over the waters to the hazy blue horizon beyond, though his thoughts were much, much further away. “What would you do?”
On the surface, it seemed easy. Go with his heart. His grandfather would tell him that much, Quinn knew. On a certain level, he knew that was the right decision. Maybe even the only one he could make. But there were other considerations. Not the monetary ones. In fact, money was the least of it. It was more that he felt an obligation to his readers, to the ones who had made possible the life he was so fortunate to have, the career he so loved and enjoyed. He didn’t take lightly the idea that he would be potentially snubbing all that goodwill and trust. And for what? A self-indulgent choice that would possibly make only him happy?
His grandfather might not understand that specific commitment, the pact Quinn felt he’d made with each and every one of those readers who’d chosen to give him their loyalty and their hard-earned dollars. But he would have understood the emotion behind it. Commitment to the well-being and happiness of others, even at the detriment of your own success or happiness, was why Gavin relocated himself many hundreds of miles away from his own family and all they’d built on these shores. For the love of his wife, and her welfare, he’d started all over again. More than once. He’d never achieved a fraction of what he would have had he stayed north, where the strength and bond of their numbers alone had built a much sturdier trade.
His grandparents’ lifestyle could be described as simple, basic, but Quinn had absolutely not a single doubt that his grandfather would have done any differently, given another chance. Granda Gav would have made any sacrifice if it meant keeping his beloved wife happy and healthy. He would have even said it was a selfish choice, not a noble one. Because he’d been rewarded with her companionship and love for all the additional years the move south had awarded her. Them.
Quinn sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he felt the tension begin to creep in again. It seemed so ridiculous on some levels. Just write whatever damn book he wanted. It wasn’t life or death. Not like with his grandparents’ choice. But this was his life. In the absence of what his grandparents had, at the age of thirty-four, this was what fulfilled him and made him happy. This was what he invested his passion and energy in. This was what he stood for, what mattered. So, in that regard, it was a very big deal. To him.
He rubbed the same hand over his face, then raked his fingers through his hair ... and laughed. “Damn, Brannigan. Maybe you just need to think about getting a life.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the entire dock shook and rumbled under his feet, followed by what could only be described as an inhuman-sounding bellow.
He actually knew that bellow. One glance over his shoulder proved that he’d guessed right.
Barreling toward him, jowls flapping, was all one-hundred-and-God-knew-how-many pounds of Brutus.
Quinn stood frozen for a moment, stunned that the behemoth was capable of such speed. He had just enough time to glance skyward and murmur, “Sometimes you have a really twisted sense of humor,” before sidestepping out of the way, up onto the tips of his toes like a matador, so Brutus could skate right past him without taking them both into the water.
Unfortunately, with his intended quarry suddenly no longer in front of him, Brutus tried to scramble his huge, hulking frame back around with a skidding, surprisingly agile slide. But he didn’t quite make it, and off the end of the pier he sailed, making a huge splash in the water. The cascading fountain naturally sheeted back over the dock ... doing a decent job of soaking a good part of the front of Quinn’s polo shirt and khaki shorts.
“Brutus!”
Quinn felt more dock vibrations and turned to see the star of his cupcake fantasies running down the pier, blond curls bouncing. Well, more than just the blond curls, if he were honest. And it might have been the other bouncing things that distracted him momentarily from responding.
Yeah. Definitely need to get a life.
Of course, if he knew how, wouldn’t he already have one? Perhaps he should tell Finch to put it on the schedule. If anyone could figure it out, it would be his PA—Who was, for all practical purposes, more like his manager David’s PA—since Quinn didn’t work well with people actually underfoot. All he knew was, between the two of them, they expertly handled all the career and business stuff that didn’t involve actually writing the books. Maybe they could arrange a social life for him while they were at it.
“I’m so sorry!” Riley called out, huffing a little as she also skidded to a stop a few feet from his damp form. “I was putting my bags on the pier back there, only took my eyes off him for one second. He usually doesn’t go after anyone like that. I’m not even sure how he knew it was you, all the way down here.” She framed her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun, so she could smile up at him. “He likes you.”
She had dimples. How had he missed that the other day? Of course she had dimples. They suited her completely. They also made his body stir, which was nuts. Sunny freckles, apple cheeks, ringlets and now, dimples. Not remotely his speed. At the very least, she was definitely not the type of woman who might actually follow through on that fantasy he’d had in the shower. Much less the one he’d had later that night. Or the following morning in the shower. Again. Not because he wanted to have them, they just kept ... appearing. It was the other part of having a very vivid imagination. Sometimes it handed him things he didn’t ask for.
With this added detail, he had a strong suspicion his vivid imagination wasn’t done toying with his subconscious quite yet.
Yeah. Really bad idea, remembering the cupcake fantasies. The way that delectable dab of chocolate had clung to those ridiculously earthy lips she had, smack in the middle of that girl-next-door face. And there was the matter of that body. That body could fulfill dreams he hadn’t even thought up yet. As long as they didn’t try anything particularly acrobatic, he amended, recalling her less than graceful treadmill dismount and general banging about in the kitchen.
He shifted his stance and looked out across the water, to where Brutus was presently paddling around. “Is he going to be okay out there? Do we need some kind of doggie life preserver?”
“He’ll be fine. He’ll come back over and I’ll haul him up. The floating docks are good that way.”
Quinn slanted her a look. “You pull him up? How many times do you end up in the water with him?”
The dimples deepened when she laughed. “Pretty much as often as you think I do. But he doesn’t dive in often.” She glanced up at him. “What brings you down here? Did you get the notes I sent to your personal assistant? Mr. Fincher? He’s very nice, by the way. Super ... efficient.”
Quinn smiled. “Yes, Finch is definitely that.” He might have phrased it as anal-retentive perfectionist, but, as he directly benefited from Finch’s retentiveness, it didn’t much matter how it was described. “And yes, everything came through fine. I appreciate your getting the necessary approvals and whatnot, so that I could keep the contents of the house for the duration of my stay. And so quickly. I was able to move in day before yesterday, ahead of the weekend schedule.”
“Good. I’m glad it all went smoothly.”
“I also made sure Finch and my manager David mentioned to Lois how pleased I was with your work and your help. I didn’t realize you’d staged the house.”
She tilted her head slightly to one side, clearly bemused. “What did you think I did?”
He smiled. “You mean after I realized you were work-jogging?”
He watched her cheeks bloom, and thought she might be the first woman he’d met who couldn’t hide a single thing she was feeling. Her fair skin acted as a veritable bulletin board for her thoughts. She probably hated it. He found it rather tantalizing. And maybe a little adorable. She’d probably hate that last thought, too. Something about how she carried herself, the alertness that was always there in her eyes, and the bit of a shield she kept up, despite her sunny and outgoing nature,
told him her waters ran a lot deeper than the dimples and freckles, curls and cleavage combination that what likely led most people to believe.
She cleared her throat. “Um, yes, after that part.”
“Well—and don’t take this as an insult—but initially I thought maybe the super-efficient Finch had set up a maid service for me.”
She frowned. “Really. Before you even got there?”
Quinn flashed a grin. “He is amazingly efficient.” She wasn’t smiling. “Not that you looked like a maid! Anything but,” he hurried to say.
“I’ve got nothing against maids,” she said.
“It’s just, Finch is also something of a ... uh ... caretaker, constantly nagging me to get more life in my life, if you know what I mean. So ... at the time, it didn’t entirely surprise me that perhaps he’d set up something like that because you’re ... uh—” He stopped, somewhat mortified to realize the hole he’d somehow dug for himself. He was usually the observer, watching other people chatter on. He was never the guy talking. Always the guy watching. The guy watching never got in trouble for opening his big, fat mouth, and inserting his foot.
“I think I get where you’re going.” Her tone was more acerbic than insulted. “And, clearly, I wasn’t that.”
“Right.” He was relieved that she seemed to be taking his unintended slight with grace. “No, that I knew, obviously. Don’t worry. I just wasn’t sure what it was you did do.”
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