something tomorrow night, then.” She glanced at Quinn. “How long are you in town?”
“The weekend. But you can’t go home and put on your jim-jams after a win like this. If your folks are going to wimp out, I’ll take you out.”
Her mother pretended to be offended as she gave Quinn a push on the arm.
“You watch yourself, Quinn Whitfield. Your mother and I still e-mail regularly. I can get you into big trouble if I want to.”
“My humble apologies, Mrs. P. I stand corrected.”
Amy fumbled in her bag for her notepad.
“That reminds me. I promised Louise I’d let her know what happened tonight,” Amy said. She added a note to e-mail Quinn’s mom with her news to her To Do list. Quinn’s parents had been on the road in their RV since his father retired last year, their house empty and silent next door, but like her mother, Amy kept up contact via e-mail.
When she glanced up from writing her note, Quinn was watching her with amused eyes.
“What’s with the notepad?” he asked.
“It helps me stay organized.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It does!” she insisted.
“It’s true, Quinn. Amy is the best paint department manager we’ve ever had at the store, thanks to that little pad,” her mother said.
“Guess we’re going to lose her now, though, huh?” her father said.
Amy smiled fondly at her parents. They had never ceased to support her, even though she knew there were probably times when they’d been convinced she’d never achieve her dream. She put her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, his eyes suspiciously shiny. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.
“Well, I guess we’ll leave you kids to it.”
Her parents headed home and Quinn took her elbow and started steering her toward a nondescript sedan parked at the far corner of the parking lot.
“Hey. I need my car,” she said.
“Not tonight. Tonight you’re going to drink champagne and kick up your heels and get messy drunk,” Quinn said.
She glanced at his profile as they walked, his features barely visible in the dark. Despite all the reasons why it should be wrong, it felt right that Quinn was here to celebrate with her.
She smirked as Quinn cut in front of her to open her car door for her.
“So courtly, Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “So sophisticated.”
He gave her a dry look. “I know you’re probably used to being thrown into the back of a truck or over a shoulder, but up in the big smoke we’re a little smoother.”
“Do tell,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him as she slid into the car.
He pushed the door closed and circled to the driver’s side.
“You know what we should do? Bribe Phil into selling us a bottle of champagne and take it to the Grand,” Amy said as Quinn got behind the wheel.
Phil ran the local pub and could generally be relied upon to supply a bottle of wine to desperate locals when the liquor shop was closed for the night.
Quinn pulled onto the road.
“As a member of the New South Wales Bar Association, it behooves me to inform you that purchasing alcohol from a licensed facility for consumption off premises is a crime,” Quinn said in the same tone he’d used to destroy Reg Hanover and Barry Ulrich earlier in the evening.
“So you want me to run in and get it, then?”
“Nah. It’ll be good to catch up with Phil,” Quinn said with a quick grin.
A rush of warm emotion washed over her. It was only now that Quinn was sitting beside her, so familiar and dear, that she was able to acknowledge how much she’d missed him. How painful her self-imposed isolation had been. His laugh, his dry sense of humor, his honesty, his patience and kindness—she’d missed him like crazy for every second of the eighteen months she’d tried to cut him out of her life.
Which went to show how effective her cold-turkey regime had been.
“Lisa must have been pretty pissed with you for canceling Hamilton Island,” she said.
Good to remind herself of Lisa. Quinn’s wife. Her friend. Good to always keep those two very important facts top of mind, before she got too caught up in the feelings swamping her.
There was a short silence as Quinn pulled into a parking spot outside the pub.
“The old oak’s gone,” he said.
She glanced at him, aware that he hadn’t responded to her comment. Did that mean he was in the dog house over helping her out? She hoped not.
“It fell over in a storm last year.”
“Must have been some storm.”
They got out of the car and Quinn took a moment to scan the town’s main thoroughfare.
She looked, too, and wondered what he saw. The heritage shopfronts, or the fact that there was only one butcher? The well-tended flower beds and handmade park benches, or the fact that the post office doubled as a news agency as well as a lottery outlet?
“I suppose it must all seem pretty tin-pot compared to the bright lights of Sydney,” she said.
He met her eyes across the car.
“It’s home, Ames. That’s what it seems like.”
His mouth tilted upward at the corner, but he looked sad. Or maybe lost. Amy frowned, suddenly remembering the long silences during their recent phone conversation.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if anything was wrong but Quinn turned away and started walking toward the pub.
“Phil still trying to give up smoking?” he asked.
“Every year. Last time he held out a whole month.”
“Wow. That’s got to be a new record, right?”
“No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ‘95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”
“Right. My mistake.”
Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.
And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.
The
