Low Tide: Rarity Cove Book Two

by Tentler, Leslie

  “And another torture session begins tomorrow. I’m giddy.”

  Carter looked up at her, her soft smile breaking through the weariness that dulled his senses. He had always liked Quinn’s hair—thick and glossy in the lamplight, loose russet tendrils framing her face. She was petite, probably only about five-four, and while definitely fit, there was also a lushness about her body, her breasts full and hips shapely. Carter lightly cleared his throat and looked away.

  “I noticed the refrigerator’s stocked,” she said. “I’m going to make you an early dinner before I go. Maybe an egg omelet?”

  “I thought you were vegetarian.”

  “That doesn’t keep me from cooking it. Besides, I’m lacto-ovo.”

  He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. “That’s not necessary, Quinn.”

  “Food is necessary, for building your strength. Even when you don’t feel like eating. In fact, I’d like to start supplementing with some high-calorie protein shakes.” When he didn’t respond, she sat on the sofa beside him. Her eyes softened.

  “This will get easier,” she promised. “These first few days will be hardest, but you’ll start getting accustomed to the routine. If you give it your all like you did today, we’ll make progress.” She added carefully, “If you’re open to it, I’d like to teach you some meditative breathing techniques. To help with pain and anxiety.”

  He’d tried, but he had been unable to hide his worry about the walk test that afternoon, fearful of pushing his heart too hard. His apprehension embarrassed him, and he was glad Quinn had kept his mother and Ethan out of the ballroom. Quinn had been a soothing presence, calmly assuring him nothing bad would happen, that his heart and lungs could handle the exertion. Still, she had pointed out the automatic defibrillator the St. Clair had installed in the ballroom as a routine safety feature. Quinn was certified in CPR and knowledgeable about the system.

  “Vegetarian, meditation,” he noted wryly. “And I thought I’d escaped California.” Then, becoming serious, he murmured, “Thank you.”

  The corners of Quinn’s mouth tilted up slightly. “For torturing you?”

  His eyes held hers. “For doing this.”

  She shrugged. “As I reminded Mark earlier, you’re paying me a lot of money. But thank you for trusting me today.” She tilted her head at him. “And for not being a special snowflake. I was expecting some serious celebrity A-list attitude.”

  Despite his fatigue, Carter chuckled. “Least I can do.”

  “Carter…there’s also something else I want to talk to you about. You need to be wearing that medic alert necklace.”

  He felt his dignity slip another notch. She had seen it on the kitchen counter, no doubt, next to the revolving spice rack. Exactly where he’d left it after Mercer had presented it to him yesterday morning.

  “My sister’s idea of a going-away gift,” he said dourly. “She’s apparently confused me with an eighty-six-year-old.”

  “It’s a good idea, especially with you here alone so much. At least until we get some of your strength and agility back.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “If you fell, could you get yourself up?”

  Carter pressed his lips together, unsure of the answer. “Let’s say I did need it. What then? It calls emergency services, and suddenly I’m on the news again.”

  “I looked at it—this one’s advanced. There’s a secondary button you can use to contact someone for lesser emergencies, like Mark or me. You just have to program in the number.” When he didn’t answer, Quinn said, “Just think about it, all right? I don’t want to show up in the morning and find you facedown on the floor.”

  She stood, picking up the remote and handing it to him. “I’m going to make that omelet, you’re going to eat it, and then Doug and I have to get going.”

  “Why don’t you start leaving him here?” He knew the story about how the dog had come into Quinn’s possession. Doug had taken a spot on the area rug, but raised his head, apparently aware he had become a point of discussion. Rising, tail wagging, he padded over to Carter. “Your mother doesn’t want him underfoot, right? And you’ll be here most every day, anyway.”

  Quinn bit her lip. “You’re sure?”

  He rubbed the dog’s head. “Yeah.”

  “I have enough food for him in my duffel for tonight,” she said, although she still sounded unsure. “I can bring more, and the rest of his things, tomorrow. But if you change your mind, you can just—”

  “I won’t.” He watched as Quinn headed into the kitchen. Carter turned on the television and laid his head back against the cushions, Doug now seated beside him on the sofa. A short time later, he sat up again. The overnight package on the coffee table seemed to stare back at him. He leaned forward and picked it up, put it on his lap and awkwardly opened it, sliding out the three-ring binder. The movie script was titled The Rainy Season. On its front, Elliott had scrawled, Forget the Others and Read This Now, in bold, red ink.

  Carter tossed it onto the coffee table and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  By the time Quinn departed, the sun had dropped almost completely below the horizon. Waiting for the gate to open, she pulled from the home’s inlaid-brick drive onto the road. As the Mercedes’s headlights swept across the wooded, undeveloped property adjacent to the beach house, she noticed a nondescript black sedan, lights off, tucked into the jungle of palmettos, palm trees and loblolly pines. Decelerating, she squinted at the car as she passed, fairly certain she saw a shadowed figure inside. Locating her cell phone, she called Carter and warned him about the car as she drove, suspecting it might be a photographer. If so, she wondered if they had been tailed from the resort. She hoped not, since so far, none of the paparazzi had located the home Carter was renting.

  Once the call ended, Quinn laid the phone on the passenger seat, the dark plane of ocean on her left as she drove the several miles back into town.

  You were too young, and you should’ve been way off-limits.

  Mark’s words echoed. Her first time hadn’t been particularly pleasant. The sex had hurt. But at that point in time, she hadn’t cared. Her fifteen-year-old self had been too taken with the idea of being with him—her sister’s ex and the cutest, most popular boy in school. A filmy recollection of their time alone on the beach, Carter’s mouth on hers, tasting of beer, sprang without invitation into her mind. His insistent erection against her swimsuit bottom as they’d made out had both scared and thrilled her. Thinking of how he had pressed her down onto the cool, white sand, the weight of him on top of her—even now, it caused a pulling sensation low inside her. Annoyed with herself, Quinn brushed the recollection away like gritty sand stuck to her skin.

  When she reached the B&B a short time later, light shone from its interior. But based on the lack of cars, it appeared the houseguests were out somewhere. Nora was at Bible study, Quinn already knew.

  As she cut off the car’s engine in the driveway, she noticed the large flower arrangement sitting at the front door under the porch light’s aura. Intuition tightened her stomach. Quinn gathered her things inside the car. On her way into the house, she paused on the porch to pick up the heavy arrangement. Placing it on the kitchen counter, Quinn’s pulse quickened as she read her name typed on the small envelope tucked into the mass of red roses. With a tense breath, she opened the envelope and took out the card.

  I’m not giving up on us. I want you back.

  Jake

  Quinn checked her watch, noting that even though the winter sky had darkened, the time was just after six. There was a chance the local florist that had delivered the roses was still open. Dialing the number under the logo on the envelope, she waited through several rings before someone answered.

  “This is Quinn Reese, calling from the Reese House Bed & Breakfast. You delivered flowers here today—”

  “I remember,” the woman said, pride in her voice. “Two dozen red roses. Is there a problem?”

  “No, they’re l
ovely. But could you tell me if they were purchased in person?”

  “I believe it was a wire order. Hold on a second, hon.” She paused, as if checking her records. “The order came through a San Francisco florist. Pacific Heights Floral Designs.”

  Quinn recognized the high-end florist boutique. It was one Jake had used before. Relief washed through her. Confirmation he had returned home.

  “Thank you,” she said, then disconnected. Quinn disliked roses. They reminded her of funerals. She had told Jake that before and wondered if he had forgotten. She knew only that she didn’t want Nora to see them. To her, they would be another indicator that her daughter was making a mistake. Picking up the vase, she went out to the backyard through the kitchen door. A garbage receptacle sat discreetly behind a latticework fence at the patio’s edge. Balancing the arrangement on her hip, Quinn lifted the receptacle’s hinged lid and removed the bag of trash inside. She then dropped in the flowers and replaced the bag on top, hiding them from view.

  Jake wanted her back. He’d made that abundantly clear. He had cajoled, begged and, finally, threatened. The latter was the reason Quinn had fled San Francisco.

  Standing in the shadowy backyard, her gaze fell on her mother’s collection of garden gnomes. They loitered among the lifeless stems of last summer’s vegetable garden. Looking at them, a faint chill ran across Quinn’s nape. Their dead eyes and leering grins gave her the creeps.

  Nora’s a fragile thing. I wonder how she’d like knowing what her little girl is really into.

  Crossing her arms over her chest against the chilly night air, she hurried back inside.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’re up early.” Nora stood at the kitchen counter, putting out food for a continental-style breakfast for the two houseguests, who were still in their room upstairs. Quinn had just come down, dressed in yoga pants and a sleek, zip-up athletic jacket. As she packed her things into her duffel, her mother admonished, “This is your fourth day at this job, and every morning you run off without breakfast. Sit down and eat.”

  Quinn tucked a loose strand of wavy hair behind her ear. “It’s supposed to be warmer today, almost like spring. I want to get in some yoga at the beach before leaving.”

  She went around behind her mother and filled a black-handled teakettle with water, placing it on the stovetop. “I’ll take some tea with me. I’ve been getting breakfast on the square.”

  “Why, when I have all this food here?” Nora picked up her coffee mug that sat next to a wooden knife block, taking a sip as she regarded her daughter over its rim. Relenting, Quinn selected what looked to be the healthiest item—a bran muffin—from the platter of pastries and breads, then picked off a section and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, she stared at a trio of potted herbs that sat next to the window before speaking.

  “My dinner with Emily is tomorrow night,” she reminded. Quinn had mentioned it several days ago, encouraging her mother to come along. “You still haven’t said if you’re going with us.”

  “I can’t.” Nora busied herself with removing several jams and jellies from the refrigerator. “I volunteer at the library on Fridays.”

  “It still closes at seven, right? We can wait to go until then.”

  “It isn’t a good time, honey.” Having placed the jars on the counter, Nora reached into a cabinet and began pulling out juice glasses. “You know we have guests—”

  “Who are on their own for lunch and dinner. I know the house rules, Mom. Complimentary breakfast and a snack at night.” When Nora continued working, Quinn put down the muffin she’d been picking at and moved closer, frustrated. “Look at me?”

  With a sigh, Nora faced her. Quinn gentled her voice. “Emily is Shelley’s daughter. Your granddaughter. I don’t understand. You should want to see her as much as possible. She’s only eight. Surely you’re not holding it against her that Mark—”

  “She calls that woman Mommy, right in front of me.” Nora’s expression tightened with hurt and indignation. “The last time I had Emily here, all she talked about was her. I just can’t take how they’ve all forgotten about our Shelley.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Quinn said sympathetically. “But try to think of Emily. She was just a toddler when her mother died. She’s a little girl who needs a mother, and Samantha’s filled a big void in her life. Mark still wants you to be part of Emily’s life, too. He told me you haven’t asked to see her in months. You can’t act like they’re trying to keep you out. You’re the only one doing that.”

  Nora bit down on her bottom lip, looking away.

  Quinn released a breath. The teakettle had begun a low whistle. Moving to the stove, she dropped a sachet of green tea—a favorite blend she had brought with her from San Francisco—into her stainless-steel travel mug, then poured steaming water over it.

  “You’re working for them, aren’t you?”

  She turned to her mother again.

  “I guessed as much,” Nora said unhappily. “Mark wanting to talk to you. That fancy car outside. There’ve been rumors Carter St. Clair’s in town. He’s this mystery patient, isn’t he?”

  Quinn felt guilt for her secrecy. “I didn’t tell you because they’re trying to keep his presence low-key. I was worried you might mention it to someone.”

  “Are you seeing him alone?”

  “I’m treating him alone, yes. That’s how private therapy works.”

  “It’s unseemly, Quinn.” Nora squinted at her harshly. “You’re still a married woman. And you know how those actor types are—”

  “I’m legally separated,” she reminded, tense. “And my relationship with Carter is professional.”

  “I never liked him when he was going around with Shelley. And I saw one of his movies—one was enough. I don’t care if it did win some big award. It was pure filth, like everything that comes out of Hollywood. You ask me, the whole family should be ashamed.”

  Quinn stiffened, thinking of her own shadowed backstory. Nora also seemed oblivious to the parallels between the professional sports and entertainment industries. Nor had she inquired about Carter’s health. Instead, she shook her head, self-pity in her voice. “It wasn’t enough the St. Clairs stole Shelley. Now they’re working on you, too.”

  “No one’s working on me.” Quinn’s jaw clenched as she screwed the top onto the mug. “And no one stole Shelley, Mom. I’m pretty sure she married Mark of her own free will.”

  Nora gave her a pained look. “Do you think I don’t know she preferred them to me? And who could blame her? I was here all alone. With them, she had a big, new family, not to mention all that money and prestige. I always played second fiddle.”

  “That isn’t true,” Quinn said, although she couldn’t bring herself to look her mother in the eye.

  “Shelley inherited that baby grand piano from your Nana,” Nora recounted, referring to Quinn’s paternal grandmother, Fiona. “She didn’t even ask me about keeping it here. She moved it into that ostentatious mansion of Olivia’s. I swear that woman thinks she lives at Tara.”

  “The Big House is on the St. Clair property, where Shelley lived,” Quinn tried to reason. “The piano’s too big for the bungalow, and it was probably just more convenient to have it nearby since she played so often.” Hesitantly, she added, “Shelley also knew how much you disliked Nana Fee, even more so once you and Dad divorced. She probably thought you wouldn’t want the piano here.”

  Nora appeared doubtful. Putting down the mug, Quinn walked to where she stood and laid her hand on her mother’s drooped shoulder. When Nora didn’t respond, she suppressed a sigh. Retrieving her mug, she picked up her things, including her yoga mat bag that sat nearby on the floor. Their disagreement had shown her once again how intractable, how judgmental, her mother could be. Quinn’s throat tightened.

  She still loved her, however.

  Before departing, she made a final plea. “Think about having dinner with us tomorrow night? I…know Emily would like to see you.”


  * * *

  It was midafternoon by the time Carter returned with Quinn from the orthopedics appointment in Charleston. He stretched out in the Mercedes’s passenger seat, no longer wearing the sling, since the specialist had agreed with Quinn’s assessment that the immobilization could be making things worse. As she drove them on the two-lane highway that ran beside the ocean, he stole a look at her from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. She had worn her russet hair loose today, and it tumbled around her shoulders, her slender fingers grasping the steering wheel.

  They had already fallen into something of a routine. Mornings began with a supervised walk on the treadmill, then Quinn performing the rather unpleasant scar massage. Another treadmill session followed in the afternoon. Today, however, she had also instructed him on what she called mindful breathing. Carter had felt silly, sitting with his eyes closed and trying to focus his thoughts on his breath. But Quinn was insistent it would help once he got the hang of it. For now, he was indulging her.

  “How’s your shoulder?” she asked.

  The physician had given a cortisone injection deep into his shoulder to help with the inflammation. Carter squinted through his sunglasses at the brief flashes of ocean appearing between the beach houses lining the shore, most of them sun-bleached and ramshackle. “Numb.”

  “The injection probably included an anesthetic for immediate relief,” Quinn said. “The corticosteroid should start kicking in over the next several hours. If we can get some of the pain to ease, we should be able to start some shoulder work.” She glanced over at him. “I’ll admit you took the injection like a champ. I’ve seen three-hundred-pound defensive linemen get woozy when that massive needle comes at them.”

  Carter thought of his lengthy hospitalization. “Not my first rodeo,” he murmured.

  Quinn gave him a sympathetic look. A short time later, she spoke again. “I noticed you brought the script with you—the one your agent sent. Is it any good?”