Take the Long Way Home (4 page)

She watched her father leave the shop.
Outside the glass door he paused and gazed back inside. She gazed
back. Something stood between them—that glass pane, their
history—but that barrier was clear. They could view each other
through it. Maybe he was right; maybe they would work it out.

She brought his empty cup into the kitchen,
set it on the dishwasher rack, checked her inventory. The big
staples—white and whole-wheat flour, brown and white sugar,
oatmeal, large sacks of nuts, peanuts and raisins, tubs of molasses
and jars of spices—were already in place, arranged in cabinets and
on shelves where she could easily access them. More perishable
ingredients—butter, eggs, milk, and white and dark chocolate—would
be delivered tomorrow. She would start baking Thursday, focusing
first on the cookies that had a long shelf-life, then on the soft
cookies, and finally on her squares and bars—so that she’d have a
reasonable stock by opening time Saturday morning.

The bell above the door chimed again. She
wasn’t expecting any more deliveries. Had her father returned to
nag her about joining him for dinner? If he had, her answer would
still be no.

Residual flour dust often settled on the
sacks containing the flour, and she noticed her palms were white
with it. She wiped them off on the back pockets of her jeans and
strolled from the kitchen to the front of the shop, resolving to
lock the front door as soon as she got rid of her father.

But the man standing in front of the empty
counter, gazing around, wasn’t her father. It was Quinn Connor.

Torelli’s used to be one of his hangouts.
He’d always been struggling to keep his weight up during his
playing days, aiming for two hundred pounds. Consuming several
thousand calories a day helped, and there was a limit to how many
of those calories he could devour in the form of meat, dairy,
fruits and veggies. So he’d paid frequent visits to the bakery on
Seaview Avenue, where he’d pigged out on slices of anise pound cake
and chocolate-chip biscotti.

Today, as he cruised down Seaview Avenue in
a nostalgia-fueled detour, he discovered that the Torelli’s sign
above the door had been replaced by a large white rectangle
featuring the word COOKIE’S in black-rimmed red letters, the word’s
two O’s depicted by round chocolate-chip cookies.

Maeve Nolan had told him she would be
opening a cookie store. Here was a store called Cookie’s. Quinn
eased his battered old Honda into the nearest parking space and got
out to investigate.

The place didn’t seem to be open for
business yet, but when he tried the door, it swung inward, causing
a bell above the door to ring. He stepped inside, and there stood
Maeve, clad in faded jeans and a baggy gray T-shirt that read
“Stoneworks” across the front, whatever that was.

She appeared startled by his arrival, and
then vaguely relieved. Like yesterday, she had a
deer-in-the-headlights look about her, wide-eyed, wary, as if
sensing danger. There was nothing dangerous about Quinn, but he
couldn’t think of a way to tell her that without sounding
peculiar.

Instead, he said, “Hey.”

She gave him a hesitant smile. “We’re not
open yet.”

“I can tell.” He gestured toward the empty
showcases, where—he assumed—she would eventually display her
cookies. Behind the counter, the wall held a broad white-board
adorned by a frame of chocolate-chip cookies like those in the sign
outside, and COOKIE’S printed across the top. On the left side of
the sign, the word “Circles” was printed, below it a list of prices
for jumbos, single cookies, half-dozen packages, and dozen
packages. The right side of the sign was labeled “Squares” and
included another price list for large squares, small squares, and
packages. Between the Circles and the Squares, the word “Beverages”
appeared in smaller print, with nothing listed below.

She must have traced the angle of his
vision. “I’m not sure what beverages I’ll be selling. I’ve just
installed my coffee and cappuccino machines, and I’ll have hot
water for tea. I’ll bring in bottled water. And milk, of
course.”

“Gotta have milk,” he agreed. “Cookies and
milk.”

“Exactly.” Her smile widened, brightening
the entire room. “I can give you a cup of coffee if you’d like—only
if you take it black. I’ll have cream and sugar tomorrow, but I
haven’t got any today.”

She was obviously busy setting the place up.
He didn’t want to interfere or slow her down. If she’d minded his
company, though, she wouldn’t have offered him something to drink.
“Black works for me.” He dug into his pocket for his wallet. “How
much do I owe you?”

“On the house,” she told him, handing him a
steaming cup filled with aromatic coffee. “I’m beta-testing the
machine.”

“So this is
beta
coffee?” He faked a
scowl, then took a sip. “Skip the alpha coffee. Beta tastes
fine.”

Another broad smile, and she filled a cup
for herself. “This is my second cup. I’ll be awake all night,” she
said, then took a delicate sip.

“I hope I’m not slowing you down or
anything.” He gestured toward the empty display cases.

She shrugged. “I’ve been working like a dog
for the past few weeks. I’m allowed to take a break.”

“Or two breaks, since this is your second
cup.”

Another honey-sweet smile from her. If her
cookies were as delectable as her smile, her store would be a huge
success.

Neither of them said anything for a minute.
They stood facing each other, the counter stretching between them.
She looked like someone who, as she said, had been working like a
dog. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, but a
few strands had come loose from the elastic and dangled around her
face. He noted a pale smudge on her chin—dust? Flour, maybe. Her
clothes were wrinkled. Her fingernails were cut short and devoid of
polish. To Ashley, being seen in public without a proper manicure
would be like walking down the street stark naked.

Ashley. He was supposed to meet her in—he
checked his wristwatch—twenty minutes. She wanted to discuss the
whole Saturday thing with him again, in greater detail. As if there
was anything left to discuss. During halftime at the Homecoming
Game, they’d call his name and speechify about him for a bit, and
then he’d go down to the field and accept a certificate or a plaque
or whatever, and he’d say thank you, and that would be that. She
wasn’t choreographing a Cirque du Soleil show. They didn’t have to
rehearse the damned thing.

He knew her insistence on rehashing the
event one more time was only an excuse to get him to drive up from
Boston and have dinner with her—and to go back to her place after
dinner. She’d made it pretty clear that she wanted to pick up where
they’d left off so many years ago.

He supposed he could squeeze in a quickie
with her before heading back to Boston. But the truth was, he
didn’t want a quickie, with Ashley or anyone else. Ashley was
great. She looked terrific. She’d had her ups and downs since
breaking up with him, but she was clearly on an up now. He had
recovered from having been dumped by her a long time ago.

He was a different person now than when
they’d been a couple—a better person, he hoped. A better person who
didn’t do quickies. Not even with an old girlfriend who was firing
so many steamy I-want-you vibes at him, he was surprised his skin
wasn’t blistering with second-degree burns.

He took another sip of coffee and savored
the dark, mellow flavor. It tasted so much better than the sludge
he and his fellow residents guzzled throughout the day at Mass
General, pumping themselves with enough caffeine to power them
through their long shifts. Fans used to cheer him for his speed on
the field, but scrambling for a first down when he couldn’t find an
open receiver was nothing compared to the frenetic pace of his days
now.

That crazy pace, powered not just by
caffeine but by adrenaline and fear and sheer willpower, enabled
him to do something more valuable than move a pigskin a few yards
closer to the goal line. Surely that proved that he was a better
man today than he’d been ten years ago.

What also proved that he was a better man
today was that he was talking to Maeve Nolan, a woman who’d been
about as significant as a dust mote to him in high school. He’d
never once said hello to her in all those years, never acknowledged
her with a smile or a nod. If he’d been aware of her at all, it had
been because she was a weirdo. Weirdoes tended to leave an
impression in your memory.

But she
wasn’t
weird. She was quiet and
still, her large hazel eyes both haunted and haunting, her chin
tilted at a defiant angle as she regarded him over the rim of her
paper cup. Her arms, visible beneath the sleeves of her T-shirt,
had muscle on them. Her hips filled her faded jeans with subtle
curves. He remembered how cool and smooth her hand had felt in his
yesterday at the Faulk Street Tavern, when he’d prevented her from
leaving before they’d shared a few words.

“That song,” he said.

She lowered her cup. “At the bar
yesterday?”

He smiled inwardly, pleased that he didn’t
have to explain which song he was talking about. She knew. They
were on the same wavelength, at least when it came to the old rock
song the bar’s jukebox had played. “Yeah. What was it, ‘The Way
Home’? Something like that.”

“‘
Take the Long Way
Home.’”

“Right.” He shook his head and felt his
smile rise to his lips. “It’s not like it’s my favorite song or
anything. I didn’t even get the title right. But it… I don’t
know.”

“It spoke to you,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Me, too.” She lowered her gaze, as if
admitting this embarrassed her.

“Did you take the long way home?” he asked.
“Because I sure as hell did. I’m not even sure I’m home yet.”

“I’m home,” she admitted, raising her eyes
back to him and smiling shyly. “I’m not sure I want to be here,
though.”

“Of course you want to be here. You’re
starting a new business. Cookies! Everybody loves cookies.” That
the song somehow connected them made conversation easier. He’d
never spoken to her in high school, because what would he have
said? They’d had nothing in common. But now, they had the song in
common. And their journeys home—although he wasn’t sure if Boston
was actually his home. Boston was where he lived, sharing an
overpriced apartment in Back Bay with two other medical residents
whose schedules were as insane as his. They hardly saw each other,
even though they were roommates.

It was an address. Not a home.

Was Brogan’s Point his home? His parents no
longer lived here; shortly after he’d started college, they’d moved
to Maine, where the cost of living was cheaper. During his college
years, going home meant going to visit his folks, although Portland
hadn’t really been his home. Most of his school friends had moved
away from Brogan’s Point—college, the army, wherever they found a
job. He’d had no reason to come back.

Unless you counted Ashley, of course. She’d
spent four years at the University of New Hampshire and then
returned to Brogan’s Point to work in her father’s automobile
empire. But until she’d reached out to Quinn a month ago, he’d
thought Ashley was gone from his life forever. He’d been fine with
that.

Chance, not choice, had brought him to
Boston. Medical school graduates had little say in where they
landed residencies, and fate had been kind enough to assign him to
a residency at Mass General Hospital. He could just have easily
wound up anywhere else, though.

If he hadn’t moved to Boston, would Ashley
have plotted this homecoming game extravaganza? Would she have
decided to make a play for him, after having dropped him like a
stink bomb when his life had taken a crazy U-turn? Would she be
trying to lure him to Brogan’s Point if he’d become a fisherman
like his father, instead of a doctor?

Who knew?

She was still gorgeous,
rich, and charming. He wasn’t sure he trusted her. But he couldn’t
just tell her to screw off. The old Quinn might have, but he wasn’t
the old Quinn. At least he hoped he wasn’t. At least he was
trying
to be a better
person.

Bottom line: if Brogan’s Point was his home,
he’d taken a very long, difficult, convoluted journey to reach
it.

“I’d like to hear about your long way home,”
he said. Speaking the words made him realize they were true. He
wanted to know more about Maeve Nolan, the school weirdo. The cop’s
daughter. The cookie entrepreneur. The reserved, quiet woman whose
delicate features hinted at deep wounds. He was a doctor, a healer.
A saw-bones, really, but he’d like to have a shot at healing
her.

That thought was so presumptuous, he had to
suppress a groan. He wasn’t the golden boy he’d once been. Maeve
didn’t worship him the way so many people had back then. And no, he
couldn’t heal someone just because he wanted to. For all he knew,
she didn’t need healing—or, if she did—she didn’t want him to be
the one to heal her.

“But,” he added before she could respond,
“I’ve got to be somewhere in—” he checked his watch again “—fifteen
minutes. So…maybe some other time?”

She didn’t say yes. Then again, she didn’t
say no. She only smiled.

“Thanks for the coffee. It was great.
Beta-test is a success. I’ll—um—I’ll be in touch,” he said, handing
her his empty cup, grinning a farewell and strolling to the door.
It wasn’t until he was standing on the sidewalk, chased outside by
a cheerful tinkle of the bell above the door, that he realized he
had no idea how to reach her. Did she have a phone? An email
address? A street address?