by Lacey Baker
“Good morning, Quinn,” she finally replied.
From across the room Michelle said, “He can’t get to the cans with you standing in front of the cabinets, Nikki.”
It was said in a smart way. In fact, Nikki could swear she heard laughter in Michelle’s voice. A sound Nikki didn’t even want to expound on.
“Sorry,” she said, moving out of his way. Then she grabbed her water and her invoice and figured it was time for her to get to work. “I’ll just get out of here before Michelle decides to put me to work, too.”
Michelle agreed. “You know the deal. If you hang around my kitchen you’ve got to do some work.”
Nikki nodded and smiled. “Uh-huh, that’s why I’m leaving your kitchen so I can get to my own work. I’ll run some numbers and let you know this afternoon what we might be able to do about your sous chef.”
“Thanks, Nikki. You won’t regret it,” Michelle told her.
“I’m sure we won’t regret it. See ya later,” she said.
“Bye, Nikki,” Quinn said with a smile that made her body temperature skyrocket too high, too fast.
“Bye, Quinn,” she replied, slipping through the door before she could get caught up in his hypnotic gaze once more.
* * *
“Okay, what was all that?” Michelle asked the moment Nikki was out of earshot. “And don’t even waste your time telling me nothing. My eyesight is excellent and as you’ve already stated I’m a lot like Gramma, which means I’m as intuitive as a psychic. So spill it.”
She’d been waving hands that were caked with seasonings and flour as she talked concocting what looked like a mini summer snowstorm and Quinn had almost laughed at her. Almost. Except he knew not to play with Michelle when she was cooking. As a general rule she was mostly serious when she was in the kitchen.
“Nikki’s a very nice woman. She’s going to be excellent as a manager here.”
“And?” Michelle prodded, once again dipping and coating her chicken.
“And, she’s grown up to be quite an attractive female.” He figured he’d go ahead and admit that much.
“Uh-huh,” Michelle said as she nodded. “One that you’ve got your sights set on.”
“Come on, Michelle. Who even says that anymore? Besides, you know I don’t set my sights on females. I just noticed that she’s attractive, that’s all.” At least that’s what he’d tried to convince himself for the better part of last night.
“She’s looking at you like a woman in love,” Michelle continued, not as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said, but as if she didn’t believe one word of it.
“She’s not in love with me and I’m not in love with her. Hell, I’ve only been here a few days.”
“And you’re not planning on staying,” she said in a quieter voice and was so sure she was right she didn’t even wait for his response. “So let me give you a bit of advice. Stay away from her. If there’s no future for the two of you then don’t start anything in the present. Got it?”
Quinn wasn’t surprised to learn that Michelle was still bossy and that, in this case, she was also right. Quinn had begun opening the beans, dumping them in the strainer and running water over them, then pouring the strained beans into a pot that looked big enough to fit a small child inside. Cooking baked beans was a staple in the Cantrell family, and while Quinn didn’t know all the seasonings that went into the sweet sauce, he had cleaning the beans down to a science. And as he went about the task, a wave of homesickness so thick and threatening hit him so hard, he almost stopped what he was doing to leave the kitchen altogether.
He couldn’t be homesick; he’d never had that feeling before. He’d also never cooked baked beans in Seattle. And did it count as homesickness if you were in the place that was making you feel bad? Hell, he didn’t know. More and more each day he stayed in Sweetland, Quinn found he didn’t know what to think, do, or say.
“I know how to conduct myself with women,” he finally told his sister. “And Nikki’s an adult, I think she can make her own decisions.”
“She could if she knew what she was dealing with. But since I’m almost positive you haven’t told her about Sharane, my stance is the same and it’s firm. Stay away from her, Quinn. Because if you don’t you’re going to break her heart and I don’t think Nikki could take that again.”
That immediately caught his attention. “Her heart’s been broken before?”
Michelle sighed and came to stand beside him at the sink. It was a double stainless-steel sink so she didn’t interrupt his bean-cleaning process. She washed the flour and guck off her hands and reached for a paper towel to dry them.
“She’s not very experienced with men. Had one a while back and he was a real ass. So I’m telling you that she doesn’t need to go through this again. Not now.”
“What did he do to her?” Quinn asked, a feeling of immediate anger rising in him. So much so that he ignored his sister’s warning just as she’d ignored his earlier words.
Michelle had moved back to the island where she’d been working and pulled out a long box of plastic wrap. She wrapped the tray of seasoned and battered chicken with three sheets of plastic wrap then went to the Sub-Zero double-sided refrigerator and pushed the tray onto a rack. When she closed the door she turned back to face him.
“He was basically a lying, cheating womanizer. He came into town one day and picked himself the ripest little peach he could find and snowed her over with a bunch of lies and misrepresentations. When Nikki found out, she was devastated. End of story.”
And it would have been the end of that lying, cheating womanizer’s days of lying and cheating women if Quinn had been here. But he hadn’t. He’d been in Seattle building his career.
“Don’t tell her I told you this,” Michelle warned him.
“We’re not on that level. Nikki and I are just friends,” he said again to convince himself that the kiss and the resulting feelings of desire that had followed were a huge mistake. “And this has nothing to do with Sharane so don’t bring her up, either.”
He turned his back and concentrated on the beans so he didn’t see Michelle shaking her head. Didn’t see the look of pure sadness that crossed her face as she spoke again.
“Everything you’ve done since the day she died has been about her, Quinn. You stayed away because you thought it would be easier—but it’s not, is it? You’re still grieving for the girl you couldn’t save. Then Daddy died and you grieved for him as well because you couldn’t do a damned thing about that disease ravaging him. You can’t save everybody,” she said quietly.
“But I have saved people,” he replied without turning around. “I’ve saved hundreds of people.”
“No, the good Lord spared their lives. He wasn’t ready for them. Don’t for one minute believe you have that type of power no matter how many degrees you’ve earned.”
Quinn slammed the next can down onto the counter. With too much force he slapped the faucet so the water he’d been running to rinse the bean juice down the drain shut off instantly. The motion was so quick it tilted the bowl he’d been draining and some of the beans spilled into the sink.
“You don’t know everything, Michelle. Just because you stayed under Gramma’s wing doesn’t mean you know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“Right,” she said softly yet sarcastically. “I didn’t lose my father. My mother didn’t walk out on me. And my grandmother, my best friend, didn’t just die almost a week ago. I have no idea what it feels like to lose someone you love. That’s a feeling reserved for The Mighty Quinn himself. You’re such a self-centered idiot!”
“And you haven’t changed one bit,” was his parting retort as he left the kitchen, wishing the door didn’t swing. He’d wanted it to slam, to have the noise shock him out of this darkness that threatened to suffocate him.
Every time Quinn thought he had a handle on it, the darkness came back like a raging beast to whack him over the head once more.
Yesterday he’d ordered a new rug for the foyer, he’d played with Sweet Dixi, and he’d kissed a pretty girl. During each of those moments he’d thought he was getting better, moving forward instead of standing still while everything and everyone else moved on around him. Leave it to his sister to swipe away those blinders and slap him in the face with reality.
The real kicker, which Quinn acknowledged when he’d made it outside and around the side of the house, down the small incline to the bench close to the bank that dropped down to the water, was that she wasn’t that far off the mark. He was still grieving the loss of Sharane and his father and he was still spitting mad that he hadn’t been practicing medicine when both of them had been diagnosed with cancer. Even though they were two different types—stomach and lung—he’d since dealt with both, had made strides in new treatments and increasing longevity and quality of life. He could have helped them, could have saved them.
Unable to hold back any longer he cursed, loud, long, fluently.
“Better out than in, is what I say,” Sylvester said.
Quinn startled because he hadn’t even noticed the old man sitting on the bench in front of him.
“Go ahead, let it all out. I didn’t curse much around Janet, but here’s as good a place as any to let all that out of you.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Quinn muttered after taking a deep breath.
“No need for apologies. Not to me anyhow. Why don’t you sit down, let some of that stress you’re carrying around rest a bit.”
Quinn did as the man suggested but had no intention of talking. Instead he looked out to the water, watched as the rays of sun danced along the water like cellophane. Overhead, gulls flew low, screeching loud. In the distance there were boats, three of them, crabbing most likely. Or simply fishing. Sweetland was a huge seafood town, with the majority of menus consisting of some type of seafood. Minutes passed with the two men simply sitting there in silence. A light breeze blew as Quinn concentrated on taking deep breaths and releasing them slowly. It was a relaxation technique he’d overheard one of the therapists using with a patient at the clinic.
He had never sought therapy. Never thought he needed it because grief would pass. Now he was wondering if that little assessment of his was true.
“I miss your grandmother already,” Sylvester said. “Thought about going out to the cemetery just to say hello to her.”
“I miss her, too,” Quinn admitted. If Gramma were alive she would tell him to stop living in the past, to move on with the life he was blessed with. She’d probably warn him away from Nikki as well.
But words were a lot easier to say than to act out, especially for Quinn.
“We could go together, you and me,” he offered.
Quinn turned, looked at the older man who sat with his back ramrod-straight. On the side of the bench was his cane. His pants looked worn, a dull blue khaki, and his shirt was plaid, a variety of blue shades. He wore an old baseball cap, this time no Oriole bird in sight, and his glassy eyes stared at the same water Quinn watched.
“Were you in love with her?” he asked out of the blue and was surprised when Sylvester only hesitated a moment.
“I was.” He nodded and sighed.
“Did she love you?”
“There wasn’t many Janet didn’t love. Except maybe those chatty women at the coffee shop. Said she’d been praying for their menacing souls for so long she thought the good Lord might be tired of hearing about them.”
He laughed, a low wheezing sound that concerned Quinn—but Quinn let it go. Now was not the time to doctor the man.
“You been in love before?” Sylvester asked him.
Like the man before him, Quinn did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“She love you back?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“And now you’re alone?”
“She died. Twenty-one years ago.” Twenty-one seemingly endless years ago.
“Whew, been a long time.”
“Yes, sir, it has.”
“Time to let that bird fly away, don’t you figure?”
Quinn was quiet, more considering than stalling. Then finally, he admitted, “I don’t know how.”
There weren’t too many things Quinton Cantrell didn’t know how to do. If there were, he eventually mastered them because that’s the type of man he was. If there was a medication he hadn’t heard of, he researched it until he knew all the side effects and benefits by heart. A dish he’d just discovered, he had to know exactly what it was made of and if there were any variations on the recipe. An antique he couldn’t place, couldn’t price, he looked in every book he owned on the subject, ran through the Internet until his eyes began to cross from staring at the screen. In the end he would have the answer.
Except to this dilemma.
“Ever tried to let it go?” Sylvester asked.
The man seemed to be full of questions today. That was okay because Quinn was looking for answers.
“No. I don’t think I really did.”
Sylvester nodded. “It’s not easy saying good-bye. And sometimes it’s said for you and you think, Well, that’s okay, it’s done. But it’s really not. If you know what I mean.”
Quinn sighed. It sounded strange but he admitted, “I think I do.”
“Holding on can keep you holding still. And that’s not good. You know what happens to a man who lies in bed all the time, never gets out to walk or see the sun?”
“He develops blood clots in his legs,” Quinn said, opting for the medical synopsis. “The clots travel to his heart and he dies.”
Sylvester chuckled. “You’re right about that. I was gonna say life passes him by. But I guess you got a good point, too.” He laughed some more. “Don’t let those clots, you call ’em, break your heart to pieces, son. Grief will kill you if you let it.”
“I’m healthy and I’m living, helping to save lives,” he argued, but not with much heart.
“When the one you need to save is your own. Janet knew this, she knew it about all of you. Your life is missing something and she wanted to bring you all back here so you could figure out what.”
“She wanted us all to come back to stay here.” But Sweetland wasn’t the remedy to Quinn’s problem, he was sure of that.
This time Sylvester shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think she was more worried you wouldn’t get yourselves straightened out if you just kept working and pushing to succeed. She told me one time that all you kids needed was to come back and smell the sweet Bay air.”
“You have any idea how polluted the Chesapeake Bay is now? There are dead fish washing up on some shores in Maryland because of the pollutants in the Bay. Being here is not as sweet as Gramma thought.”
Sylvester only thought on those words for a few seconds before replying, “Seems to me being away ain’t that sweet, either.”
* * *
When Nikki left The Silver Spoon to head home for the evening she was dead tired. The day had been full of phone calls—to the printer, to possible customers, to vendors, and finally to the accountant in Easton that officially handled the books for The Silver Spoon. She’d wanted a projection about hiring more staff—an assistant for herself and one for Michelle. As the restaurant was also picking up business, Nikki figured Michelle would most likely need more permanent staff instead of just the summer workers they hired. Of course they’d still need the extra summer help, but she felt like a couple of part-time waitresses could help with the influx in catering jobs Michelle was receiving. This extra help could be obtained through the high school to keep costs down.
After the phone calls she’d had a meeting with Walt from The Crab Pot to discuss his forecast for this season’s catch and their pricing changes. Michelle also liked to get all her seafood fresh from Walt as well. There were a few other crabbers and fishermen left in the town but they mainly shipped their products out now. Walt had been the only one to keep a good working relationship with The Silver
Spoon. Nikki suspected the other locals, like Emory Newsome, were trying to get contracts with that big resort on the other side of Yates Passage and some of the newer places trying to come down here and open up shop. Nikki appreciated Walt’s loyalty and showed him that by not looking for outside vendors herself.
When she’d finally hit her street her mind had been so full of work issues that she’d barely registered the two police cars sitting in front of the house. Until she came closer and the officers stepped out of their cars.
“Nicole Brockington?” one of them asked.
He’d gotten out of the passenger side of the first vehicle, along with another one who’d come out from the driver’s side, his hand already on his gun. Two others were in the second car, getting out with looks of trepidation and almost sorrow. The day’s work fled her mind as Nikki approached and answered, “Yes. Is there something I can do for you, Officers?”
She recognized two of them from the second car, Carl Farraway and Jonah Lincoln; she went to school with both of them. The first two were older, one of them probably closer to Caleb’s age and the other one, the one asking the question, was older like her father, his graying hair and paunchy abdomen a dead giveaway. He was the one doing all the talking.
“You know a Randall Davis?”
Dread slithered down her spine and she nodded slowly. “I do.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him? Saw him?” the older officer asked as he stepped up onto the curb in front of her.
“What’s this about?” she asked suddenly feeling like she should be in a small room, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, with dim lights and one angry cop.
“I’m asking the questions, ma’am,” he said, his voice a little more irritated.
Carl lifted a hand. “Let’s just give her a minute. Maybe we can go inside, Nikki. Let you have a seat. We’ve just got some questions to ask you.”
“Sure. Can I do that?” she asked the mean older officer, who frowned as if he were going to say no. But Carl stepped around him and took Nikki by the arm, leading her to the front porch of her parents’ house.