promised.
Personally, Quinn thought what Mindy needed was to sleep. She was looking frailer by the day, to the point where he’d had to set aside his cynicism. She wasn’t eating enough to keep a bird alive, and judging from the dark circles under her eyes wasn’t sleeping either. She seemed unable to think about practicalities.
Dean’s will had left everything to her except a few mementos to Quinn. She’d wept and refused to worry about where a safe-deposit key might be or whether bills might be coming due. Quinn had made himself keep his mouth shut. So far. It had only been a week. She hadn’t buried her husband yet. Even a nitwit like she was would start thinking about money and groceries and hiring a lawn service soon.
He hoped.
“Off duty?” Selene echoed, blinking at him.
“Quinn’s been making me eat and mowing the lawn and returning phone calls.” Mindy’s huge, smudged eyes met his. “He doesn’t think I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
He knew she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. He was hoping like hell that the state was temporary. Being the long-term guardian of a twenty-six-year-old adolescent wasn’t his idea of a good time. Damn it, Dean, he asked for the thousandth time, why her?
“You want to prove you can,” Quinn suggested, “why don’t you start eating more than a few bites at a time?”
“Because…” Color touched her cheeks and her gaze slid from his. “Because I can’t eat when I’m upset.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t what she’d intended to say. He’d have liked to know what she’d been unwarily about to admit. But he only nodded and asked Selene if she had a car.
Well, no; she’d ridden the bus.
“I’ll drive you two home. If,” he added with courtesy to Mindy, “you’re ready?”
She sniffed and nodded.
Selene chattered during the drive. What a nice ceremony. Everybody really liked Dean, didn’t they? The house must seem so big without him!
At the last, tears began to roll down Mindy’s face. Again. Quinn glared at the rearview mirror, but her friend was oblivious.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Mindy swallowed hard. In a watery voice, she said, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought… Not yet…”
Quinn pulled into the driveway. “Shall I come in?” Please, no, he begged.
Mindy shook her head and gave him a shaky smile. “We’ll be fine. Thank you, Quinn.” To his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “I mean it.” Then she got out to join her friend on the sidewalk.
“Nice to meet you!” Selene called, as he waved and put the car into reverse.
He flexed his fingers. Mindy didn’t touch him if she could help it. He didn’t touch her, except recently when it was obvious somebody had to steer her to where she was supposed to be. They’d never been comfortable with each other. He’d seen that she was physically demonstrative with everyone else—with her youthful gaiety, she hugged, kissed, danced and even sat on laps without the slightest inhibition. He guessed he’d killed her spontaneity toward him the first time they met. Except for falling into his arms to sob the night he came to deliver the news, this was the first time she’d voluntarily touched him.
His mouth twisted into a sour smile. He must have looked good in comparison with her charming mother.
Quinn grabbed his gym bag and went to the health club. After changing into his usual gray T-shirt and old sweatpants, he snagged a basketball and went into the gym. Late afternoon on a Saturday, it was completely empty. He dribbled the ball, each bounce echoing sharply. Instead of the sound annoying him, he liked it. It seemed to accentuate his solitude.
He warmed up with a few easy layups, then free throws, finally challenging himself with tougher and tougher shots, driving to the basket, spinning, shooting backward, shooting from damn near halfway down the court, from the corners. When he’d worked up a sweat, he dropped the basketball back in the bin and went to the weight room. He wasn’t quite alone here, but the few men who’d claimed a machine or a bench were preoccupied with their own rhythms.
When Quinn’s muscles began to groan, he moved on to a treadmill, setting the timer for half an hour. By fifteen minutes, he was wearing down. He’d been too inactive this week, spent too much time holding the pitiful widow’s hand, figuratively rather than literally, of course.
His shirt was soaked by the time he finished, his legs as shaky as a newborn colt’s. He wiped his face on a towel and went back to the gym to shoot some more baskets anyway, testing his control, his discipline, satisfied only when the ball dropped neatly through the hoop without ruffling the net.
Finally, he showered, changed into swim trunks and dived into the pool. The cool water closed over him, sliding across his skin, insulating him for a few brief moments from the world. By the time he showered again, got dressed and slung his gym bag over his shoulder, he felt almost like himself.
FOR THE ONE DAY, Mindy had actually liked Quinn. He’d been her rock. A silent chauffeur, a hand when she needed one, a steady gaze to help her ground herself. For all his composure, she’d felt the magma beneath, the hot, unsettling grief that matched her own, and she was grateful for that as well. Dean had been liked by many, but loved, she suspected, by only a few. The Howies, Quinn and her.
Her gratitude and warmth of feeling didn’t last through the next day, never mind the next week.
He wanted her to call people, to do whatever it was the attorney needed to start probate. He wanted her to make decisions.
“What are you going to do about the business? Mindy, Mulligan says he’s left several messages and you haven’t called him back.”
She’d spent the morning puking her guts up and had barely had time to force down a piece of dry toast and some juice. “I’ll call him.”
“When?”
“What are you, my conscience?” Didn’t he ever go to work anymore?
“When people start coming to me because they can’t get answers from you, I figure a little prodding is due.”
Anger flared, along with renewed nausea. “I said I’ll call!”
He didn’t budge, just stood in front of her with his arms crossed and his expression unyielding. “And what will you say?”
“I don’t know!” she all but shouted. “Why do I have to decide now?”
“Because Fenton Security employs fourteen people and has a couple of hundred clients. The employees are waiting to find out whether they still have jobs. Without Dean, the clients are going to start dropping away. A business doesn’t run itself.”
“Mick…”
“Is a fine dispatcher. He can’t charm businessmen or handle billing. He might hire, but he’ll never fire anyone. Besides,” Quinn continued inexorably, “Dean didn’t work sixty-, seventy-hour weeks for fun.
