The Quinn Brothers

by Nora Roberts

  When he saw how easily Seth handled the lines, he trusted him to trim the jib. The sails caught the wind, and Cam found speed.

  God, he had missed it. The rush, the power, the control. It poured through him, clearing his mind of worries, obligations, disappointments, even grief. Water below and sky above, and his hands on the helm coaxing the wind, daring it, tricking it into giving more.

  Behind him, Seth grinned and caught himself just before he yelled out in delight. He’d never gone so fast. With Ray it had been slow and steady, with Ethan work and wonder. But this was a wild, free ride, rising and falling with the waves, shooting like a long white bullet to anywhere.

  The wind nearly took his cap, so he turned the bill backward so the breeze wouldn’t catch it and flip it away.

  They skimmed across the shoreline, passed the waterfront docks that were the hub of St. Chris before they finally slowed. An old skipjack no longer in use was docked there, a symbol to the waterman’s way of life.

  The men and women who harvested the bay brought their day’s catch there. Flounder and sea trout and rockfish at this time of year, and . . .

  “What’s the date?” Cam demanded as he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Like the thirty-first.” Seth shoved up his wraparound sunglasses and stared at the dock. He was hoping for a glimpse of Grace. He wanted to wave to someone he knew.

  “Crab season starts tomorrow. Hot damn. Guarantee you tomorrow Ethan brings home a bushel of beauties. We’ll eat like kings. You like crabs, right?”

  “I dunno.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Cam popped the top of a Coke and guzzled. “Haven’t you had crab before?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better prepare your mouth for a treat, then, kid, because you’ll have it tomorrow.”

  Mirroring Cam’s move, Seth reached for a soft drink himself. “Nothing you cook’s a treat.”

  It was said with a grin and received with one. “I can do crab just fine. Nothing to it. Boiling water, lots of spices, then you pop those snapping bastards into the pot—”

  “Alive?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “That’s sick.”

  Cam merely shifted his stance. “They aren’t alive for long. Then they’re dinner. Add a six-pack of beer and you got a feast. Another few weeks, and we’re talking softshell blues. You plop ’em between a couple pieces of bread and bite in.”

  This time Seth actually felt his stomach roll. “Not me.”

  “Too squeamish?”

  “Too civilized.”

  “Shit. Sometimes on Saturday in the summer Mom and Dad used to bring us down to the docks. We’d get us some softshell crab sandwiches, a tub of peanut oil fries, and watch the tourists try to figure out what to eat. Laughed our asses off.”

  The memory made him suddenly sad, and he tried to shake off the mood. “Sometimes we sailed down like this. Or we’d cruise down to the river and fish. Mom wasn’t much on fishing, so she’d swim, then she’d head to shore and sit on the bank and read.”

  “Why didn’t she just stay home?”

  “She liked to sail,” Cam said softly. “And she liked being there.”

  “Ray said she got sick.”

  “Yeah, she got sick.” Cam blew out a breath. She had been the only woman he’d ever loved, the only woman he’d ever lost. The missing of her could still creep up and cut him off at the knees.

  “Come about,” he ordered. “Let’s head down the Annemessex and see if anything’s biting.”

  It didn’t occur to either of them that the three hours they spent on the water was the most peaceful interlude either had experienced in weeks.

  And when they returned home with six fat striped bass in the cooler, they were for the first time in total harmony.

  “Know how to clean them?” Cam asked.

  “Maybe.” Ray had taught him, but Seth was no fool. “I caught four of the six, that ought to mean you clean them.”

  “That’s the beauty of being boss,” Cam began, then stopped dead when he saw sheets snapping on the ancient clothesline. He hadn’t seen anything hanging out on the line since his mother had gotten sick. For a moment he was afraid he was having another hallucination, and his mouth went dry.

  Then the back door opened, and Grace Monroe stepped out on the porch.

  “Hey, Grace!”

  It was the first time Cam had heard Seth’s voice raised in happiness and pure boyish pleasure. It surprised him enough to make him look over sharply, then nearly drop the cooler on his foot as Seth let go of his end and dashed forward.

  “Hey, there.” She had a warm voice that contrasted with cool looks. She was tall and slim, with long limbs she’d once dreamed of using as a dancer.

  But Grace had learned to put most of her dreams aside.

  Her hair was boyishly short, and that was for convenience. She didn’t have the time or energy to worry about style. It was a dark, honey blond that was often streaked with paler color during the summer. Her eyes were a quiet green and all too often had shadows dogging them.

  But her smile was pure and sunny and never failed to light up her face, or to set the dimple just beside her mouth winking.

  A pretty woman, Cam thought, with the face of a pixie and the voice of a siren. It amazed him that men weren’t throwing themselves at her feet.

  The boy all but did, Cam noted, surprised when Seth just about ran into her open arms. He hugged and was hugged—this prickly kid who didn’t like to be touched. Then he flushed and stepped back and began to play with the puppy, who’d followed Grace out of the house.

  “Afternoon, Cam.” Grace shielded her eyes from the sun with the flat of her hand. “Ethan came by the pub last night and said y’all could use a hand around here.”

  “You’re taking over the housework.”

  “Well, I can give you three hours two days a week until—”

  She got no further, for Cam dumped the cooler, took the steps three at a time, and grabbed her into a loud, enthusiastic kiss. It set Seth’s teeth on edge to see it, even as Grace stuttered and laughed.

  “That’s nice,” she managed, “but you’re still going to have to pay me.”

  “Name your price. I adore you.” He snatched her hands and planted more kisses there. “My life for you.”

  “I can see I’m going to be appreciated around here—and needed. I’ve got those pink socks soaking in some diluted bleach. Might do the trick.”

  “The red sock was Phil’s. He’s responsible. I mean, what reasonable guy even owns a pair of red socks?”

  “We’ll talk more about sorting laundry—and checking pockets. Someone’s little black book went through the last cycle.”

  “Shit.” He caught her arched-brow look down at the boy and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I guess it was mine.”

  “I made some lemonade, and I was going to put a casserole together, but it looks like you may have caught your supper.”

  “Tonight’s, but we could do with a casserole too.”

  “Okay. Ethan wasn’t really clear about what you’d need or want done. Maybe we should go over things.”

  “Darling, you do whatever you think we need, and it’ll be more than we can ever repay.”

  She’d already seen that for herself. Pink underwear, she mused, dust an inch thick on one table and unidentified substances sticking to another. And the stove? God only knew when it had last been cleaned.

  It was good to be needed, she thought. Good to know just what had to be done. “We’ll take it as it goes, then. I may have to bring the baby along sometimes. Julie minds her at night when I’m working at the pub, but I can’t always find somebody to take her otherwise. She’s a good girl.”

  “I can help you watch her,” Seth offered. “I get home from school at three-thirty.”

  “Since when?” Cam wanted to know, and Seth shrugged.

  “When I don’t have ISS.”

  “Aubrey loves playing with you.
I’ve got another hour here today,” she said because she was a woman constantly forced to budget time. “So I’ll make up that casserole and put it in the freezer. All you have to do is heat it up when you want it. I’ll leave you a list of cleaning supplies you’re low on, or I can pick them up for you if you like.”

  “Pick them up for us?” Cam could have knelt at her feet. “Want a raise?”

  She laughed and started back inside. “Seth, you see that that pup stays out of the fish guts. He’ll smell for a week otherwise.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll be finished in a few minutes and I’ll be in.” He stood up, then stepped off the porch so Grace wouldn’t hear him through the door. Manfully, he sized up Cam. “You’re not going to start poking at her, are you?”

  “Poking at her?” He was blank for a moment, then shook his head. “For God’s sake.” Hefting the ice chest, he started around the side of the house to the fish-cleaning table. “I’ve known Grace half my life, and I don’t poke at every woman I see.”

  “Okay, then.”

  It was the boy’s tone that made Cam run his tongue around his teeth as he set the cooler down. Possessive, proprietary, and satisfied. “So . . . you got your eye on her yourself, huh?”

  Seth colored a little, opened the drawer for the fish scaler. “I just look out for her, that’s all.”

  “She sure is pretty,” Cam said lightly and had the pleasure of seeing Seth’s eyes flash with jealousy. “But as it happens I’m poking at another woman right now, and it gets sticky if you try that with more than one at a time. And this particular female is going to take a lot of convincing.”

  EIGHT

  He decided to get started on poking at Anna. Since she was on his mind, Cam left Seth to deal with the last couple of fish on his own and wandered inside. He made appreciative noises at whatever Grace was putting together over at the stove, then wandered upstairs.

  He’d have a little more privacy on the phone in his room. And Anna’s business card was in his pocket.

  At the door to his room, he stopped and could have wept with gratitude. Since his bed was freshly made, the plain green spread professionally smoothed, the pillows plumped, he knew some of the sheets hanging out on the line were his.

  Tonight he would sleep on fresh, clean sheets he hadn’t even had to launder. It made the prospect of sleeping alone a little more tolerable.

  The surface of his old oak dresser wasn’t just dust-free. It gleamed. The bookshelves that still held most of his trophies and some of his favorite novels had been tidied, and the overstuffed chair he’d taken to using as a catchall was now empty. He hadn’t a clue where she’d put his things, but he imagined he’d find them in their logical place.

  He supposed he’d gotten spoiled living in hotels over the last few years, but it did his heart good to walk into his bedroom and not see a half a dozen testy little chores waiting for attention.

  Things where looking up, so he plopped down on the bed, stretched out, and reached for the phone.

  “Anna Spinelli.” Her voice was low, professionally neutral. He closed his eyes to better fantasize how she looked. He liked the idea of imagining her behind some bureaucratic desk wearing that tight little blue number she’d had on the night before.

  “Miz Spinelli. How do you feel about crabs?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Let me rephrase that.” He scooted down until he was nearly flat and realized he could be asleep in five minutes without really trying. “How do you feel about eating steamed crabs?”

  “I feel favorable.”

  “Good. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Cameron—”

  “Here,” he specified. “At the house. The house that’s never empty. Tomorrow’s the first day of crab season. Ethan’ll bring home a bushel. We’ll cook them up. You can see how the Quinns—what would you call it?—relate, interact. See how Seth’s getting along—acclimating to this particular home environment.”

  “That’s very good.”

  “Hey, I’ve dealt with social workers before. Of course, never one who wore blue high heels, but . . .”

  “I was off the clock,” she reminded him. “However, I think dinner might be a workable idea. What time?”

  “Six-thirty or thereabouts.” He heard the flap of papers and found himself slightly annoyed that she was checking her calendar.

  “All right, I can do that. Six-thirty.”

  She sounded entirely too much like a social worker making an appointment to suit him. “You alone in there?”

  “In my office? Yes, at the moment. Why?”

  “Just wondering. I’ve been wondering about you on and off all day. Why don’t you let me come into town and get you tomorrow, then I could drive you home. We could stop and—I’d say climb into the backseat, but the ’Vette doesn’t have one. Still, I think we could manage.”

  “I’m sure we could. Which is why I’ll drive myself down.”

  “I’m going to have to get my hands on you again.”

  “I don’t doubt that’s going to happen. Eventually. In the meantime—”

  “I want you.”

  “I know.”

  Because her voice had thickened and didn’t sound quite so prim, he smiled. “Why don’t I tell you just what I’d like to do to you? I can go step by step. You can even take notes in your little book for future reference.”

  “I . . . think we’d better postpone that. Though I may be interested in discussing it at another time. I’m afraid I have an appointment in a few minutes. I’ll see you and your family tomorrow evening.”

  “Give me ten minutes alone with you, Anna.” He whispered it. “Ten minutes to touch you.”

  “I—we can try for that time frame tomorrow. I have to go. Good-bye.”

  “ ’Bye.” Pleased that he’d rattled her, he slid the phone back on the hook and let himself drift off into a well-deserved nap.

  He was awakened just over an hour later by the slamming of the front door and Phillip’s raised and furious voice.

  “Home, sweet home,” Cam muttered and rolled out of bed. He stumbled to the door and down the hall to the steps. He was a lousy napper, and whenever he indulged he woke up groggy, irritable, and in desperate need of coffee.

  By the time he got downstairs, Phillip was in the kitchen uncorking a bottle of wine. “Where the hell is everybody?” Phillip demanded.

  “I dunno. Get out of my way.” Rubbing one hand over his face, Cam poured the dregs of the pot into a mug, stuck the mug in the microwave, and punched numbers at random.

  “I’ve been informed by the insurance company that they’re holding the claim until such time as an investigation is complete.”

  Cam stared at the microwave, willing those endless two minutes to pass so he could gulp caffeine. His bleary brain took in insurance, claim, investigation, and couldn’t correlate the terms. “Huh?”

  “Pull yourself together, damn it.” Phillip gave him an impatient shove. “They won’t process Dad’s policy because they suspect suicide.”

  “That’s bullshit. He told me he didn’t kill himself.”

  “Oh, really?” Sick and furious, Phillip still managed to raise an ironic eyebrow. “Did you have this conversation with him before or after he died?”

  Cam caught himself, but very nearly flushed. Instead he cursed again and yanked open the microwave door. “I mean, there’s no way he would have, and they’re just stalling because they don’t want to pay off.”

  “The point is, they’re not paying off at this time. Their investigator’s been talking to people, and some of those people were apparently delighted to tell him the seamier details of the situation. And they know about the letter from Seth’s mother—the payments Dad made to her.”

  “So.” He sipped coffee, scalded the roof of his mouth, and swore. “Hell with it. Let them keep their fucking blood money.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. Number one is if they don’t pay, it goes down that Dad committed suicide. Is
that what you want?”

  “No.” Cam pinched the bridge of his nose to try to relieve some of the pressure that was building. He’d lived most of his life without headaches, and now it seemed he was plagued with them.

  “Which means we’d have to accept their conclusions, or we’d have to take them to court to prove he didn’t, and it’d be one hell of a public mess.” Struggling to calm himself, Phillip sipped his wine. “Either way it smears his name. I think we’re going to have to find this woman—Gloria DeLauter—after all. We have to clear this up.”

  “What makes you think finding her and talking to her is going to clear this up?”

  “We have to get the truth out of her.”

  “How, through torture?” Not that it didn’t have its appeal. “Besides, the kid’s scared of her,” Cam added. “She comes around, she could screw up the guardianship.”

  “And if she doesn’t come around we might never know the truth, all of the truth.” He needed to know it, Phillip thought, so he could begin to accept it.

  “Here’s the truth as I see it.” Cam slammed his mug down. “This woman was looking for an easy mark and figured she’d found one. Dad fell for the kid, wanted to help him. So he went to bat for him, just the way he did for us, and she kept hitting him up for more. I figure he was upset coming home that day, worried, distracted. He was driving too fast, misjudged, lost control, whatever. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Life’s not as simple as you live it, Cam. You don’t just start in one spot, then finish in the other as fast as you can. Curves and detours and roadblocks. You better start thinking about them.”

  “Why? That’s all you ever think about, and it seems to me we’ve ended up in exactly the same place.”

  Phillip let out a sigh. It was hard to argue with that, so he decided a second glass of wine was in order. “Whatever you think, we’ve got a mess on our hands and we’re going to have to deal with it. Where’s Seth?”

  “I don’t know where he is. Around.”

  “Christ, Cam, around where? You’re supposed to keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ve had my eye on him all damn day. He’s around.” He walked to the back door, scanned the yard, scowled when he didn’t see Seth. “Probably around front, or taking a walk or something. I’m not keeping the kid on a leash.”