Through the Fire

by Donna Hill

  Through the Fire

  Through the Fire

  DONNA HILL

  ESSENCE BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Through the Fire is dedicated to all of my readers new and old who fell in love with Quinn, rooted for Maxine and Nikita and wanted happiness for them all. In this final installment questions will be answered, hearts will be broken and mended, love with be lost and found, and in the end I guarantee that you will walk away totally and utterly satisfied. Thank you for taking this journey.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Quinten Parker rolled over in bed, feeling the cool, empty space beside him. Each day for the past three years he’d hoped that he’d awake and the longing, the emptiness would be over—Nikita would be beside him, curled along the length of his body.

  He released a sigh, adjusted his eyes to the light of a new day. Nothing had changed. The heaviness still hung in his heart and in his loins—a sensation that hadn’t been quenched or filled by anything or anyone.

  In the distance he heard his landlady, Mrs. Finch, moving around downstairs. A faint smile touched his lips. Some of the familiar things were still good. Yet, his friends Nick and Parris had repeatedly tried to convince him to move away from the place that he and Nikita had shared as man and wife. “You need to move on, start over,” they’d insisted. “Too many memories.” But the memories were all he had left. The things that kept him company when the loneliness became too much to handle.

  “Daddy…I’m hungry,” came a tiny sleep-filled voice.

  Quinn’s chest filled with an almost unspeakable joy as he was momentarily taken aback at seeing the tiny version of himself staring boldly back at him. He sat up in the bed, the white sheet slipping to his waist, unveiling his bare chest.

  “What would you like today, buddy?”

  “Pancakes!” Jamel said with a wide grin, revealing a missing front tooth.

  Quinn chuckled and threw his long legs over the side of the bed. The past four weeks had been pure magic—the first big block of time he’d spent with his son. He’d tried to squeeze six years into those four weeks. Sure, he’d been to San Francisco to visit several times during the year, but he’d never had this much time, all at once, one-on-one. It was an experience he wouldn’t soon forget.

  He’d learned things about himself during their time together. He learned that he was a good teacher as he helped his son figure out how to connect all the game wires to the television. He learned that he was capable of being a nurturer when he held his son at night and read to him, or bandaged a wounded knee. He learned that he still had the capacity to feel, to want to care, to want to do something for someone else, to give something of himself to another human being. He hadn’t thought Maxine would agree to his request to have Jamel spend part of the summer with him. She’d surprised him when she agreed and told him “it was time.” For that, he would always be grateful.

  Quinn stood and came around the foot of the bed, swooping Jamel up from the floor and tucking him beneath his arm to delighted giggles and squirming.

  “Pancakes, huh?” He pushed a finger into Jamel’s side and wiggled it, eliciting more laughter. It was music to his ears, lyrical and perfect like the chords he’d once played on the piano. But it was about to end and his life would return to what he’d grown accustomed to—trying to make it one day at a time.

  Quinn spoke in quiet but decisive tones to the stewardess who’d promised to look after Jamel during the six-hour flight back to the coast.

  “Please don’t worry, Mr. Parker,” she insisted, placing a comforting hand on Quinn’s hard biceps. “He’ll be fine.”

  Quinn looked down at his son, who held his hand in a viselike grip, but otherwise appeared excited about his journey. “This nice lady…” He glanced at the name tag on her navy blue lapel. “…Ms. Traynor is going to take care of you on the plane, J. If you need anything, you ask her. Okay?”

  Jamel nodded, his dark eyes taking in the sights around him. He stuck a lollipop in his mouth and talked around it. “I’m a big boy, Daddy,” he said with all the assurance of his six years.

  Daddy. His heart fluttered for a moment as the corner of his rich mouth quirked upward into a half smile. “That you are, little man.” He rustled his tight curls.

  “I’d better get him settled on board,” the stewardess said gently.

  Quinn stooped down to Jamel’s eye level, bracing his thin shoulders. “I had a great time, little man.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Mommy will be there to meet you when you get off the plane.”

  Jamel nodded and sucked a bit harder on his lollipop.

  “I’ll call you tonight.” Quinn tugged in a breath and drew Jamel’s small frame close to his body. He hugged him tight, wanting to hold on to those last moments forever—needing Jamel to know just how much he was loved, how much he mattered, the difference that his presence had made in his life—if only momentarily. “I love you, son,” he whispered, hearing the hitch in his voice.

  “I love you, too, Daddy.”

  Quinn gave Jamel one last squeeze and quickly stood before he broke down; that was something Jamel didn’t need to see.

  The stewardess extended her hand to Jamel and led him down the boarding entrance. She looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “He’ll be fine.”

  Quinn pressed his lips together, swallowing over the knot in his throat as he stood framed in the wide window watching the plane take off and disappear into the cloudless summer morning. He tugged in a breath. As sad as he felt after separating from his son once again, this time it was with a sense of hope, of possibility. A feeling he’d forgotten how to experience. Hope that there was a possibility for a life, a real life, though different from the one he’d once imagined.

  “Your son needs you, Quinten,” Mrs. Finch had counseled during Jamel’s four-week stay. “But the boy needs more than the shell of a man you’ve become. Let her go, son,” she’d whispered, clasping his large hand in her thin, frail ones.

  Quinn’s insides contracted and his chest became full as they did any time the thought of Nikita was evoked, her name was mentioned or even alluded to. He heaved in a breath. When would it ever end? When?

  He turned away from the window, head bowed, and started off toward the exit. The truth was, he mused as he caught glimpses of happy, hand-holding couples and laughing families, he didn’t like who he’d become these last three years. Didn’t like how he moved through his day like a shadow, there but untouchable. He hadn’t written a piece of music since Nikita’s death, hadn’t played in the band, hadn’t written a word for his long overdue second novel. All he’d done was try to find a way to open his eyes each morning and hope he could get through the pain of the day until he could close them again.

  He turned on the engine in his Jeep and eased out into the airport traffic. He wanted his life back—a life back, filled with that joy he’d once known. But he was terrified. Terrified of how that pain would feel if he ever dared to love and lose again.

  Chapter 2

  When Quinn returned to the house, Mrs. Finch was, as usual, out front sweeping the yard. He
shook his head in amusement as he alighted from the van and headed toward the wrought-iron gate. Mrs. Finch was no more sweeping the walkway than he was an astronaut. Her only purpose for that raggedy broom was to give her some semblance of legitimacy as she eagle-eyed the comings and goings of her neighbors. An almost religious activity she’d indulged in for as long as he’d known her.

  “You missed a spot, Mrs. Finch,” Quinn wryly commented, fighting down a grin.

  Mrs. Finch squeezed her eyes into what she believed to be a formidable stare and pointed a slender finger at the towering form in front of her.

  “Don’t you sass me, Quinten Parker.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, his dark eyes twinkling. To this day, she was still the only person he allowed to call him Quinten.

  She leaned on her broom. “So…how was it?”

  Quinn’s expression darkened. He looked away for a moment, than back at her. He shrugged. “Awright. Not bad.”

  She looked him over, registering the hollowness in his eyes that had abated during Jamel’s visit, but had taken up residence once again.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Life is hard, son. But we get through it. Think of this as a new start instead of an ending.”

  Quinn looked at his surrogate mother skeptically.

  “I know you don’t see it now. But you will. If you give yourself a chance.”

  Just as Quinn opened his mouth to object, Mrs. Finch cut him off. “I need you to go to the supermarket and pick up a few things for me and stop at the vegetable stand, too.” She reached into the pocket of her pink-and-white checkered shift and pulled out a piece of paper and a roll of one-dollar bills. “Here’s the list and the money. If it’s not enough, you add the rest.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll give it back to you…later.”

  Quinn peered at her from beneath his thick lashes, his brows raised. He’d been running errands for Mrs. Finch for six years. She had yet to give him enough money to purchase anything. If it was a pack of gum for a quarter, she would assuredly give him a dime. If he added up all the money she owed to him he’d be a very wealthy man. But he loved her.

  “And don’t take too long,” she warned. “I want to get my supper started early. Smothered chicken,” she singsonged to his retreating form, knowing it was one of his favorites.

  He shook his head and chuckled. She always knew how to get to him.

  Quinn sauntered in to the supermarket, the blast of cold air smacking him, raising the chill bumps on his bare arms. He slipped his dark glasses off his nose and slid them into the top pocket of his black sleeveless T-shirt. Grabbing a noisy shopping cart he headed toward the frozen food aisle. He opened one of the glass refrigerator doors and pulled out a can of Coke. He popped the top and thought immediately of Nikita. It was her favorite drink—with lemon. After being with her those few short years, he’d found himself addicted to it as well. So many things, he thought, so much of who she was had become a part of him. No one could understand that kind of love, why it was so hard for him to let her go and move on with his life. Sometimes it seemed as if the very air he breathed held her scent.

  “Can’t be that bad,” a throaty voice from his right commented, the words lilting like the verse to a song.

  Quinn turned his eyes in the direction of the melody. The face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “’Scuse me?”

  “I said, it can’t be that bad.” Her steady gaze appraised him, the first time she’d actually seen him up close. He was even more dangerously handsome in person.

  He cut his eyes back to the freezer and shut the door. “Maybe it is,” he returned in a monotone. He adjusted his body to face her. She was tall, he subconsciously registered, full and firm. Not bad. Not interested.

  “If you believe it, then you will make it be.”

  Quinn laughed in his throat. “So what are you…some kinda fortune-teller or something?” He lightly ran his tongue across his lips.

  She smiled and, all of a sudden, something inside him moved as if the darkness had been pushed aside with a beam of bright light. The sensation was so immediate, so powerful it was physical. He swallowed over the sudden dryness in his throat, stunned by the inexplicable sexual arousal that was making itself boldly evident against the confines of his jeans. Her smile wrapped itself around him like loving arms, stroking him so tenderly that he felt his heart beat out of time. He needed to get away from her, away from whatever it was she was doing to him—with a simple smile.

  “You’re Quinten Parker, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the back of your book and on your CD cover. You haven’t done anything in a while. You’re missed.”

  “Fan?”

  “Ego stoking?” she countered.

  Slowly, Quinn began to relax, allowing himself to get reacquainted with the bob and weave of the mating game, the preliminary chat. “You’re on point, huh?”

  “I’ve spent too much time in my life biting my tongue and being diplomatic.” A momentary shadow passed across her warm brown eyes. “It cost me.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugged. “We all have to move on.”

  Quinn stared at her for a moment, that all too familiar refrain settling like a weight in his belly. “What if you can’t?”

  “Then we stay in that same place, unchanged and hurting.” Her unwavering stare held him in place. “And we lose the essence of what life is all about—evolution and change.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.”

  She glanced away, focusing on the contents of her cart. “I’ve had time,” she stated simply. She took a breath, then suddenly brightened. “You like poetry?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Some.”

  She pulled a flyer out of her purse. “Come down to Encore tonight. You might enjoy yourself.” She handed him the flyer and began to move away. “Nice to meet you, Quinten Parker.”

  Quinn watched her walk away, studying the sensuous sway of her hips, the way her hair in curly twists caressed her face, until she turned down another aisle and was gone. He glanced at the flyer in his hand: Rae Lindsay—Appearing Tonight at Encore. Rae Lindsay? He folded the flyer and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, intent on dismissing the entire episode. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it, though he felt he should. He shrugged. Didn’t matter anyhow. The last place he wanted to spend his Saturday night was sitting up in some club somewhere—too many memories. That’s where he’d met Nikita, that’s where he’d returned to finally commit himself to her. Naw, Encore was out.

  But the lovely woman, with the piercing eyes and melodic voice, who spoke poignant truths, had wiggled her way beneath his armor, and there she remained.

  Quinn law sprawled across his bed, the encroaching evening and the hum of the air conditioner his only company. Maxine had called earlier to let him know that Jamel had arrived safely, and they chatted briefly about his trip and how happy he seemed. That made Quinn feel good, knowing that Jamel’s visit didn’t have any ill effects.

  “How’s Taylor?” Quinn asked, wanting and not wanting to know. He could hear the smile in her voice when she talked about her husband.

  “He’s wonderful. His business is doing great, and he’s been talking about opening another office.”

  “Sounds good, Max. Glad to hear it.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “How about you, Q? How are you doing?”

  “Hey, can’t complain. Taking it light, ya know.”

  “Getting out any—meet anyone?”

  “No to both.”

  “Why, Q? You can’t live in a vacuum forever. Nikita wouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t, Max. Awright? Leave it alone.” His jaw clenched.

  “If we’ve ever been anything to each other, Q, it’s been honest. And you know good and damn well you’ve never been able to tell me what to do.”

  He shut his eyes,
knowing how right she was. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m gonna say it anyway—Nikita is gone, Q. She’s not coming back, not even if you sit and grieve from now till the end of time. But you are here. You have a life, a career, a future—a son. It’s up to you to decide what you’re going to do about them. I never knew you to half-step about anything, Q, to crawl in a corner and pull the sheet up over your head. But that’s what you’ve been doing these three years. And you’re not the man I once knew…once loved. And definitely not the kind of man you want to be for your son. The choice is yours, babe. I gotta go get J ready for bed and everything. Call him during the week. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I will.”

  “Take care, Q.”

  “Yeah…and, Max…”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Later, Q.”

  Quinn thought about that conversation now, and the countless others that were so similar. He knew they were right, but it just seemed that he’d lost his will, his drive, and he didn’t know what to do to get it back. He turned on his side and spotted the flyer on his night table. Sitting up, he smoothed out the wrinkled edges against the firmness of the tabletop and reread the invitation. A picture of the woman in the supermarket took shape in his head, and he wondered if she was Rae Lindsay. Something told him she was.

  Getting up, he walked out of the bedroom and went downstairs into the living room straight for his collection of CDs. Sifting through them, he flipped each one to the back, looking for the names of contributors. Out of the first dozen he’d scanned, five had Rae Lindsay’s name clearly noted as songwriter. Songs that he’d listened to and enjoyed, both as a means of entertainment and with a musician’s ear.

  Imagine that. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Rae Lindsay; a sister with not only a strong presence but with something profound and creative underneath. As a musician, he knew how difficult it was to bring together all of the various elements that make up a good song—that fascinating mix of words and music that can bring tears to a listener’s eyes, lift someone’s spirits, or recall memories of times long gone. For this reason alone, she was not a woman he could easily dismiss.