by Linda Warren
“Are you sure this is it, Ona?” Enzo asked. “It doesn’t look the same.”
“You don’t remember anything, Enzo. Of course this is it. Now let’s find Mr. Hotshot.”
“Are you two vampires who only come out at night?” Quinn asked, walking into the reception area.
“What he say?” Enzo asked with a giant-size frown.
“He said you’re a vampire,” Ona replied. “What’s that?”
“Think Dracula,” Ona told him.
Enzo’s frown welded into his wrinkled forehead. Clearly, he didn’t get it. Tonight he wore a baseball cap with the University of Texas logo on it, a heavy coat and pants two sizes too big for him. And he leaned heavily on a cane.
Ona wore a bright red knitted hat, a long gray coat and support shoes. In her hand was a large brown paper bag.
“Aren’t you two grounded?” he asked.
“We’ve come to get my gun,” Enzo said. “I had it since the war and I want it back.”
“Sorry. Mrs. Davis told me to throw it away.” It was still in Quinn’s safe, but no way was he giving it to Enzo.
“What? She had no right. That’s my gun.” Enzo sank into a chair in front of Denise’s desk. “Did you get any beer?”
Ona grunted. “He has the attention span of a child. I brought you something.” She held up the paper bag.
Quinn eyed it warily. “Is that a bomb?”
Ona laughed, a real laugh, and Quinn knew underneath her hellfire and fury she had a sense of humor. “Hear that, Enzo? We never thought of a bomb.”
“Yeah. Could have blown up the whole place, except I don’t know how to make a bomb.”
“Me, neither, but it’s a hell of an idea.”
“You know they lock people up for saying things like that.” Quinn knew they were harmless, and he wondered if they even realized the consequences of their actions.
“Yeah. Go figure.” She raised the bag again. “I made you a chocolate pie for saving my granddaughter’s life.”
“Ona makes good pies.” Enzo bobbed his head.
Quinn took the bag. “So I’m forgiven?”
“Hell, no,” Ona was quick to say. “But one good deed deserves another.”
Quinn didn’t think he was, but he thought he’d ask.
“Did you get any beer?” Enzo asked again. Loudly.
Quinn looked at the old man. “Are you even allowed to have beer?”
Enzo bristled. “Damn right. I can have anything I want. I’m ninety-two and not on any medication. What do you think about that, hotshot?”
“I think it’s great and I’m wondering why you don’t buy your own beer.”
“Because that sour-faced daughter of his won’t give him any money,” Ona said.
Enzo pointed his cane at her, his wrinkly face scrunched in anger. “Don’t talk about Frances.”
“I’ll talk about that whiney, lazy, no good cheapskate—”
“Time out,” Quinn shouted, knowing this was turning in to a full-blown argument. “How did you get here? And does Mrs. Davis know?”
“We came on the bus,” Ona answered tartly. “Carin doesn’t have a clue where we are. She’s sitting with a neighbor’s sick mother while they’re out for the evening. It’s their anniversary or something. Carin’s always a sucker for someone in need. She brought me in earlier so I could spend the night with my Britt, and get up early to cook dinner tomorrow. Enzo wanted to get his gun and I wanted to bring you that pie.” She pointed to the bag. “So here we are. Does that answer your nosy questions?”
He ignored the snarky attitude. “Does Britt know you’re here?”
Ona shook her head. “Nope. We’re over twenty-one and do whatever we please.”
“I figured that one out on my own.” He turned toward his office. “I’ll get my coat and take you home.”
“Did you get any beer?” Enzo asked again.
Quinn stopped in his tracks. “Enzo, I’ll buy you beer on the way home. How does that sound?”
The wrinkles on the old man’s face weaved into a smile. “Like the pearly gates are opening.”
“Hallelujah,” Ona said. “I drink beer, too.”
Great, Quinn thought as he slipped into his coat. He was getting two old people drunk. Well, then maybe they would stop trying to kill him.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER they were in Enzo’s room, the elderly man stretched back in his recliner, sucking on a Budweiser. Ona sat beside him in a chair, doing the same thing, her feet propped on a small coffee table. The TV blared full blast.
Quinn was about to leave when there was a knock at the door and Britt walked in. She stared at him, shock in her dark eyes, before her gaze swung to her grandmother, to Enzo and then back to him.
“Quinn, what are you doing here?”
“Your grandmother and Enzo paid me another visit and I brought them home.”
“What did they do?”
“We didn’t do nothing, my pretty.” Ona took a big swallow of beer. “Enzo wanted his gun back and I baked Mr. Hot shot a pie for saving your life.”
“You didn’t…” Britt whispered to him.
“No. I didn’t give him the gun,” he whispered back.
“She baked you a pie?”
He nodded. “It’s in my car. I wonder if it has strychnine in it?”
A smile curved her lips and his heart zoomed as if he’d stepped on a gas pedal.
“You look great,” he said, his eyes lingering on her face.
She wrinkled her nose. “I smell like margaritas. I’ve been serving them all evening.”
He leaned in closer and breathed deeply. “I love margaritas.”
“Hey, hotshot, we need two more beers,” Ona called.
Quinn groaned, but went to the compact refrigerator for the beer. Popping the tops, he handed the cans to them.
“See, Ona?” Enzo said, taking his. “He’s not a bad man.”
“Onnie, where did you get the beer?” Britt asked before he could say anything.
Ona thrust a thumb toward Quinn.
Britt gaped at him. “You bought my grandmother and my uncle beer?”
By the tone of her voice he surmised that wasn’t a good thing.
“Yes,” he replied. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“He’s ninety-two. She’s eighty-three. You figure it out.”
“Just because they’re older doesn’t mean they can’t still enjoy life.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Really? Enzo pees on himself if he has more than one beer and Onnie gets crazier than she already is.”
“Oh, sorry.” Quinn reached for his coat. “On that, I think I’ll leave.”
“Hey, hotshot,” Ona shouted. “Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow? I always cook plenty.”
“Thank you, Ona. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m visiting my family.”
“Just as well,” Ona muttered. “I’d probably try to poison you, anyway.”
“Hell, no, Ona,” Enzo yelled. “He buys us beer.”
Quinn shrugged into his coat and his eyes caught Britt’s. “I really am sorry.”
She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “It’s okay. You’re the only person I know who puts up with them, even after they tried to shoot you.”
“I think they’re all bark and no bite.”
“Don’t always count on that.”
“I won’t, believe me.” He stared into her eyes. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I will. Dillon will be home for the afternoon.”
“Good night,” Quinn said to her alone, his voice low. Then he called to Ona and Enzo, “’Night.”
“We need more beer,” Enzo shouted.
Oh, God, what had he done? Quinn hurried to the fridge and removed the last two beers, stuffing them into his coat pocket.
“Hey…” Ona protested.
“Party’s over.”
At the door he paused, staring into Br
itt’s eyes one more time. He needed the warmth he saw there to last him the rest of the weekend.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she murmured.
“You, too,” he replied, walking out the door and wondering how happy it would be without her.
For the first time he realized how deep his feelings were for Britt and how much they’d grown since he’d rescued her from the flood. He didn’t have to ask his sister how it felt to be in love.
He knew.
Chapter Fourteen
Peyton had outdone herself. The table was tastefully decorated with china, silver and crystal on a linen tablecloth that had been in their family for years. His sister couldn’t boil water before she’d married Wyatt, so the turkey, dressing and all the trimmings were like a miracle in his eyes. And the fact that it made Peyton happy was an even bigger miracle.
Wyatt occupied the head of the table, while Garland, Quinn and Peyton’s stepfather, took the chair at the other end. Maureen, their mother, and Mae, Wyatt’s mother, sat on one side, along with Jody, and he and Peyton were seated across from them. J.W. was tethered in his high chair between Wyatt and Peyton.
Jody said the blessing and ended it with, “God bless Elvis.” No one batted an eye because they knew Jody’s Gramma Mae loved Elvis and it was always part of the pray er in the Carson household.
Mae was as eccentric as Ona. They could even be friends. Quinn shook his head, knowing he was getting ahead of himself. He had no idea what the future held for him and Britt. The next four weeks would be crucial. Philip Sr. would make a move soon, and Quinn would have to make the biggest decision of his life.
Peyton was puzzled by the chocolate pie he’d brought, but everyone loved it, and he had to admit it was the best he’d ever eaten. Of course, he didn’t tell Peyton, but her pumpkin pie didn’t hold a candle to it. It was clear Ona was in a class all by herself in the cooking department. And a few other departments.
The conversation was lively, but Quinn’s mind kept wandering to Britt. He kept glancing at his watch. Had Dillon arrived at Britt’s? Was she happy?
“You’re very distant today,” his mother said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I just have an important case coming up.” He wasn’t talking about the Morris case.
Peyton shook a finger at him. “No work today, big broth er.”
He made a face at her.
Maureen straightened her napkin in her lap. “I want all of you to come to Dallas for Christmas.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Peyton said. “We want the kids home for Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Jody added. “Santa won’t be able to find us.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Maureen hastened to reassure her. “Santa will find you wherever you are.”
Jody glanced at her mother and Peyton was quick to say, “Sorry, Mom, but you and Garland are welcome to come here and watch the kids open their gifts.”
When Peyton was younger, she’d never stood up to their formidable mother. It did Quinn’s heart good to see her now guarding her happiness like a lioness. He admired that.
And just like that, he realized he loved his family, but this wasn’t where he wanted to be today. He laid his napkin beside his plate. “I hate to eat and run, but I have to get back to Austin.”
“What?” The protest echoed from his sister and his mother.
He stood and kissed Peyton’s cheek. “I really have to go,” he whispered in her ear.
“Oh. Okay.” She looked puzzled but didn’t try to stop him.
He said his goodbyes, kissed Jody and J.W., and headed for the entry to get his coat. His mother followed him, as he knew she would. She was tenacious, one of the reasons she was so good in politics.
“Quinn, honey, do you have to go?”
“Yes.” He slipped on his coat and looked into her concerned blue eyes. “I’m fine, really,” he added. In that moment he knew his mother loved him and worried about him. She had done the best she could with her marriage to Quinn’s father, and Quinn had no reason to harbor any resentment from his childhood. It only embittered him and he didn’t want that. But he had to say something before he could completely let go of the resentment. He hadn’t even known it was there until Britt had brought it up when they were waiting to be rescued.
He hugged his mother tightly and she hugged him back. “I forgive you,” he murmured.
She went completely still, but didn’t ask what he was for giving her for. She knew. “I loved your father, but we grew so far apart we could never find our way back to what we once had.”
“I know. Dad was hard to live with.”
“I tried.”
“I know,” he said again. “And you don’t have to explain anything to me.”
She drew back and looked into his face. “What brought this on?”
“I’m finding out what real love is, and I don’t want to hold any animosity in my heart that will tarnish it.”
She held a hand to her breast. “Oh, Quinn.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”
“Thank you, son.” She paused, eyeing him. “Who…?”
Smiling, he opened the door and ran to his car. He wasn’t answering that question.
Driving toward Austin, he could think of only one person.
Britt.
BRITT WAS HAVING A LATE lunch. Since Dillon didn’t get there until one, she wanted him to play for a while before he ate. He was fussy today, wanting to be held. The separation was taking its toll on both of them.
She told her mother the whole story about what had happened last night, and Carin was aghast.
“What am I going to do with Mama?” she asked while Onnie was in the bathroom.
“Quinn said something about letting her enjoy life.”
“But she tries to destroy more than enjoy, and what was Quinn thinking, buying them beer?”
“You know how Uncle Enzo is.” Britt sliced an apple for fruit salad. “He’s always asking for beer.”
“But it’s not allowed in the home.” Carin shoved the sweet potatoes in the oven. “I’ll probably be getting a call from Frances.” She cocked her head. “Yeah. I hope Frances does call me. I’d like to know why she can’t ever have her father for the holidays.”
“He’s happier with us,” Britt commented. “He and Onnie grew up like sister and brother and they’re kindred spirits.”
Her mother groaned and Britt laughed.
TWO HOURS LATER THEY SAT at the kitchen table replenished from a meal mostly prepared by Onnie. Dillon had eaten and then started whining to get out of his chair. He fell asleep against Britt and she worried he was coming down with something. He wasn’t his usual happy self.
“Every time I think about this custody thing I just get angry,” Carin said, watching Dillon.
“We should have killed that bastard Phil instead of the hotshot attorney,” Ona replied.
“Mama, I do not want to hear that kind of talk.” Carin got up and carried dishes to the sink, her shoulders stiff.
Britt was about to go to her when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. Three-thirty. It couldn’t be the nanny. She walked to the door with Dillon cradled against her.
Looking through the peephole, she smiled and opened the door.
“Come in,” she said to Quinn, taking in his lean physique, his dark slacks, white shirt and dress coat. A manly, fresh scent reached her and her stomach quivered. He was so tempting.
“Ona invited me and I thought I’d—”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Ross?” her mother asked over Britt’s shoulder. Her angry Onnie-type voice was so unlike her.
“Mom…”
“I’d prefer if he wasn’t here.”
“Hey, Mr. Hotshot!” Onnie called from the kitchen. “Come on in. I’ll make you a plate.”
“Did you bring any beer?” Enzo asked.
“No, Enzo,” Quinn answered, gingerly walking into the kitchen. “I’m not buying you any more
beer. That got me in trouble.”
“Sucker. The women got to you.”
“See what he causes…”
Britt took her mother’s arm and pulled her aside, still cradling Dillon in the other. “What’s wrong with you? You’re being rude.”
“I’m just so afraid we’re going to lose…” Her mother’s voice cracked and she stopped.
Britt hugged her with her free arm. “Mom, let me handle this. Please.”
“But he’s…” Carin glanced at Quinn.
Dillon stirred against Britt and she thought it was time to get her mother’s mind on something else. “Look. Dilly bear’s awake.”
Carin reached for her grandson and carried him into the living room. Dillon looked back at Britt, but didn’t cry. She saw that Onnie was stuffing Quinn with pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Like her mother, Britt wondered what Quinn was doing here. But unlike Carin, she was happy to see him. She couldn’t seem to get it through her head that she should hate him.
“They’re fattening me up for something,” Quinn said when he saw her. His voice was soothing and affable, washing away her doubts. “And I don’t think it’s for something good.”
“You’ll never know, hotshot.” Onnie piled more whipped cream on the pie.
Her mother settled down and Dillon started playing with his toys, carrying the NERF ball to Quinn, as if he remembered. Football was on the TV and Britt sat on the floor with Dillon, and Quinn joined them. The toddler climbed all over him, slobbering on his clothes, and he didn’t seem to mind. Her mother watched them closely. That didn’t escape Britt.
Uncle Enzo fell asleep in a chair and Onnie snoozed on the sofa. The afternoon passed quickly. Soon Debi arrived, and Dillon clung to Britt. It made letting go that much hard er. She told Debi to be sure to watch him because she felt he was coming down with something.
Her mother and grandmother packed up their things to go home. Quinn was in the living room with Enzo.
“Please come home with us,” Carin begged Britt. “I hate for you to be here by yourself.”
“I have to work at the restaurant tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”
Carin glanced toward the living room. “Why is he still here?”
“Give it a rest,” Ona said, placing dishes in a bag. “There’s more than one way to trap a weasel.”