destroyed her. Maybe she could eat dinner in his house
without being destroyed, too. “I don’t know. Tomorrow doesn’t give
you much time to plan, and Friday’s the night before the opening.
I’ll be kind of nervous.”
“All the more reason to come. You don’t want
to be worrying about fixing dinner the night before your big
day.”
She wouldn’t have worried about fixing
dinner. She would have satisfied herself with some fruit and
cheese, or a cup of yogurt. Or her old standby, soup from a can.
“Okay,” she said. “But I can’t stay late.”
“Of course not. Listen, honey, I’ve got to
go. Come around six on Friday. We’ll see you then.”
We. His girlfriend would be there, too. Probably not a bad thing,
Maeve thought. Gus could be a buffer. She could dilute the tension,
like ice cubes in hard liquor. And she had been the woman who’d put Maeve’s
father back together again. If Maeve’s life was truly in Brogan’s
Point now, Gus Naukonen was going to be a part of it.
She disconnected the call, stuffed her phone
back into her pocket, and allowed herself a brief shudder. Then she
squared her shoulders, smiled at Joyce, and said, “Let’s design a
flier.”
Chapter Eight
A gray drizzle softened the edges of the
city. Quinn huddled under the overhang, savoring the chill in the
air. At the far end of the overhang, two other residents, both in
blue scrubs like him, smoked cigarettes, their voices muted. He
pressed his cell phone to his ear and listened to the rhythmic purr
of the phone ringing on the other end.
After a few rings, a woman’s voice reached
him: “Cookie’s, how can I help you?” He recognized her voice. She’d
answered the last time he’d phoned, too—and that time she’d
identified the store as Torelli’s by mistake. She must have
rehearsed her lines since then, because she said the right name
this time.
“Hey. Is Maeve there?”
“Just a minute.”
He waited, watching tiny raindrops glisten
like dewdrops in the hair on his forearm. Then the voice he wanted
to hear reached him: “Hello?”
“Maeve. It’s Quinn.”
An SUV cruising down Cambridge Street hit a
puddle, spraying water toward the sidewalk. Quinn took a quick step
to the left and the water missed him. Years ago, he’d been able to
evade linesmen racing toward him on the field; now he evaded cars
hitting puddles. He still had the moves.
“Hi,” she said. He might be imagining it,
but her voice sounded warm and welcoming.
“Those cookies you gave me last night were
great. No, better than great. The best cookies I’ve ever eaten.”
That was no exaggeration. It had taken him nearly a half hour to
eat them. He’d nibbled them slowly, one luscious bite at a time.
Like a wine expert, he’d tasted them mindfully, trying to divine
the mix of flavors in each mouthful: sweet, spicy, crumbly,
crunchy, chewy.
“Can I put that in an advertisement?” she
asked.
“Sure. I’ll be your pitchman. Give me a
sandwich sign and I’ll march up and down Mass Avenue.”
“I’m not planning to sell my cookies in
Boston,” she said.
“Not yet. Wait until word spreads about
them. You’ll have to set up franchises. You’ll be bigger than
Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks combined.”
She laughed. Her laughter reminded him of
that tinkly little bell above the door of her shop. It reminded him
of the blended colors of her eyes, green and gray and gold. It
reminded him of her kiss.
Then again, pretty much everything reminded
him of her kiss.
“So,” he said, “I’m on call in the ER
tonight. It’ll probably be a busy night. Bad weather means car
accidents, and car accidents mean broken bones. But I’m getting
sprung Friday night, and I’m off through the whole weekend. I was
hoping we could do another late-night run to the Lobster Shack on
Friday.”
“I can’t,” she said.
He refused to be discouraged. “Doesn’t have
to be Lobster Shack. We could go someplace else.”
“I’m having
without being destroyed, too. “I don’t know. Tomorrow doesn’t give
you much time to plan, and Friday’s the night before the opening.
I’ll be kind of nervous.”
“All the more reason to come. You don’t want
to be worrying about fixing dinner the night before your big
day.”
She wouldn’t have worried about fixing
dinner. She would have satisfied herself with some fruit and
cheese, or a cup of yogurt. Or her old standby, soup from a can.
“Okay,” she said. “But I can’t stay late.”
“Of course not. Listen, honey, I’ve got to
go. Come around six on Friday. We’ll see you then.”
We. His girlfriend would be there, too. Probably not a bad thing,
Maeve thought. Gus could be a buffer. She could dilute the tension,
like ice cubes in hard liquor. And she had been the woman who’d put Maeve’s
father back together again. If Maeve’s life was truly in Brogan’s
Point now, Gus Naukonen was going to be a part of it.
She disconnected the call, stuffed her phone
back into her pocket, and allowed herself a brief shudder. Then she
squared her shoulders, smiled at Joyce, and said, “Let’s design a
flier.”
Chapter Eight
A gray drizzle softened the edges of the
city. Quinn huddled under the overhang, savoring the chill in the
air. At the far end of the overhang, two other residents, both in
blue scrubs like him, smoked cigarettes, their voices muted. He
pressed his cell phone to his ear and listened to the rhythmic purr
of the phone ringing on the other end.
After a few rings, a woman’s voice reached
him: “Cookie’s, how can I help you?” He recognized her voice. She’d
answered the last time he’d phoned, too—and that time she’d
identified the store as Torelli’s by mistake. She must have
rehearsed her lines since then, because she said the right name
this time.
“Hey. Is Maeve there?”
“Just a minute.”
He waited, watching tiny raindrops glisten
like dewdrops in the hair on his forearm. Then the voice he wanted
to hear reached him: “Hello?”
“Maeve. It’s Quinn.”
An SUV cruising down Cambridge Street hit a
puddle, spraying water toward the sidewalk. Quinn took a quick step
to the left and the water missed him. Years ago, he’d been able to
evade linesmen racing toward him on the field; now he evaded cars
hitting puddles. He still had the moves.
“Hi,” she said. He might be imagining it,
but her voice sounded warm and welcoming.
“Those cookies you gave me last night were
great. No, better than great. The best cookies I’ve ever eaten.”
That was no exaggeration. It had taken him nearly a half hour to
eat them. He’d nibbled them slowly, one luscious bite at a time.
Like a wine expert, he’d tasted them mindfully, trying to divine
the mix of flavors in each mouthful: sweet, spicy, crumbly,
crunchy, chewy.
“Can I put that in an advertisement?” she
asked.
“Sure. I’ll be your pitchman. Give me a
sandwich sign and I’ll march up and down Mass Avenue.”
“I’m not planning to sell my cookies in
Boston,” she said.
“Not yet. Wait until word spreads about
them. You’ll have to set up franchises. You’ll be bigger than
Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks combined.”
She laughed. Her laughter reminded him of
that tinkly little bell above the door of her shop. It reminded him
of the blended colors of her eyes, green and gray and gold. It
reminded him of her kiss.
Then again, pretty much everything reminded
him of her kiss.
“So,” he said, “I’m on call in the ER
tonight. It’ll probably be a busy night. Bad weather means car
accidents, and car accidents mean broken bones. But I’m getting
sprung Friday night, and I’m off through the whole weekend. I was
hoping we could do another late-night run to the Lobster Shack on
Friday.”
“I can’t,” she said.
He refused to be discouraged. “Doesn’t have
to be Lobster Shack. We could go someplace else.”
“I’m having
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