The Best Part of Me (3 page)

After pulling all the chairs down, all that was left to do was to clean the bar top and unload the dishwasher and he'd be finished. He heard a sharp click, then the street noise grew louder as the front door of the pub swung open. His uncle Connor walked into the room and threw his jacket and hat on the coatrack next to the door before boosting himself up on a stool at the bar.

“How are you, my boy?”

“Good, Uncle. And you?”

“Mighty fine, thanks.”

His uncle was a robust man with rosy cheeks and a knack for talking about mundane things for hours. He was wearing his customary tweed jacket with a matching vest. He kept his shoes polished at all times, and he never left home without his pocket watch. He was always polite, always on time, and a damn good businessman. He owned Katie's and a few other restaurants in and around Ballagh.

Connor McKenna had immigrated to the States from County Antrim in Northern Ireland when he was in his mid-twenties. Political turmoil had run rampant, and to say times were tough in Northern Ireland at that time was a huge understatement. The McKenna family was a very influential family, but one could say that Connor was the black sheep of the lot. He was the youngest of two boys and, unlike his older brother, wanted nothing to do with politics or law or riots. As fate would have it, Connor had gone and fallen in love with Katherine McMullen, a nice Catholic girl from Killarney. This romance was forbidden by both the McKennas and McMullens. So instead of cowering to the demands of his parents, Connor had packed up everything he owned and driven a willing Katherine to a justice of the peace before he and his new bride had bought passage on an ocean liner bound for Boston. They'd eventually settled in Ballagh before starting a family of their own.

Ewan was extremely fond of him and looked forward to their one-sided discussions. But now was not the time to sit down and have a long chat.

“What brings you in today, Uncle?”

Uncle Connor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a few envelopes, and threw them on the bar. “Delivering your mail.”

Ewan walked slowly to the bar, already knowing what he'd find. He scanned the letters, all addressed to Ewan McKenna and postmarked from Belfast. He tossed them back on the bar and continued to pull the last of the chairs down.

Every other week, his uncle delivered these letters. Sometimes there was only one, other times two or three.

“Same thing, I'm afraid.” His uncle scratched his head. “If you'd just show me where you keep them, I'd take them there directly without bothering you.”

Ewan took down the last chair and dusted it off with his hand. “What makes you think I keep them?”

His uncle shrugged. “I just assumed you did.”

He'd lived with his aunt and uncle since he was nine years old. The letters had started on his thirteenth birthday. He'd receive one every month without fail. From the very beginning, he'd refused to read them. At first he'd just let them collect in his room at his uncle and aunt's house. Then when he'd gotten to the age when his resentment was at its worst, he'd burned them. But for reasons he hadn't tried to understand, he'd stopped destroying them about the time he started high school. Even though he'd begun collecting the letters again, he still had no intention of reading them.

“Ever think about responding to those?” his uncle asked from behind the bar while he poured himself some beer. It was the same question he asked Ewan every time he dropped off the letters.

Ewan shrugged, the same answer he gave his uncle in response to his question.

“All right then.” His uncle drained his ale in three long pulls and put the glass on a tray behind the bar before walking over to give Ewan a clap on the back. “Stay out of trouble, my boy,” he said as he headed toward the door.

“You too, Uncle,” Ewan called over his shoulder.

He snickered as he shrugged on his jacket and settled his cap. “Son, trouble is my middle name.” Uncle Connor laughed on his way out the door, forcing Ewan to chuckle to himself.

Finishing up downstairs, Ewan retrieved the letters his uncle had delivered and headed upstairs to his apartment over the pub. Entering his bedroom, he knelt down beside the bed and pulled out an old leather suitcase. It was small compared to suitcases that you could buy now, but twenty-some years ago, it was all his puny nine-year-old arms could carry. He threw the letters inside with the rest of the mail from his parents, shut the lid, and pushed the suitcase back under the bed.

The grass was still wet from the night-long soaking they'd gotten, but the sun was shining brilliantly in the sky, and Quinn would rather be nowhere else than in the garden, black eye notwithstanding.

Luckily the ice had done its job, and apart from a little puffiness under her right eye and a slight purple hue, her lingering headache was the worst of the aftermath of last night. It was nothing two ibuprofens couldn't handle.

She'd risen early, like she'd done every day since she'd arrived in Ballagh, to pull in that early-morning air on the front porch, watching the sun creep up the low-lying hills to the south. She would sit in companionable silence with her aunt as they drank their coffee. Rory would stumble out of bed around 7:45 a.m. so he could get to his job at 8:30 a.m. He was a sales associate at a guitar store in Boston, and how he managed to get ready and drive to his store on time, which was north of the city, was beyond her.

This was her first weekend since moving in with her aunt and cousin. After the death of her parents last year, Quinn had been worthless in her grief. Aunt Maura, who was her mother's sister, had flown to Pittsburgh to help with the funeral arrangements. There was an endless process of paperwork with attorneys and financial advisors, estate taxes, life insurance, and settling debts. Quinn couldn't even remember those first several months. She'd quit graduate school, where she was studying landscape design, and wouldn't leave her house for days at a time. She was sobbing one moment and incredibly angry the next. Her therapist had told her what she was feeling was normal.

Then one day, she was sitting in her darkened living room watching pointless TV when she'd seen a commercial for diapers. It was a commercial she'd seen a million times before. A mother gently cradled her newborn daughter in her arms, swaying from side to side. She touched the infant's pink little nose, ran her fingers over her smooth, soft forehead, and kissed the baby's wispy hair. The mother told her daughter that she wanted her to have nothing but the best things the world had to give to her.

There had been a time when Quinn's mother had held her like that. Her mom had probably snuggled at her neck and pulled in her fresh baby scent. She'd no doubt wanted the absolute best for Quinn as well. And she would have been heartbroken to see her daughter wallowing away in grief and remorse.

It was in that moment that Quinn had decided she needed to start living again and she owed it to her mother and father to go out and grab everything life had to offer.

Aunt Maura had begged Quinn to come spend some time with her. Having no other obligations, she'd agreed to spend a few months in Ballagh, Massachusetts. And for something to do and to thank her aunt for all her help after her parents had died, Quinn had insisted on landscaping the farmhouse. It had been something Aunt Maura had wanted done for a long time, and Quinn could at least give her professional knowledge and free labor.

After her morning coffee, Quinn changed into some khaki capris and a long-sleeved T-shirt, waved good-bye to her aunt, and headed to the backyard. There were noticeably fewer cars on the road, and the inactivity made Quinn think she needed to tiptoe around the garden so she didn't disturb the silence. It felt good to get her hands dirty again. And luckily, it was a beautiful day. There was a slight nip in the air, especially in the shade. It was the kind of day in early spring when you had to be outside doing something—anything—just to be out.

Quinn had been busy these last few days. She'd poured all her energy into planting the garden, which she had just finished up the night before. It was late April, and ideally it would have been best to wait a couple more weeks to put the garden in because there's always a chance of a late frost sometime in early May. But Quinn had a long list of projects that she wanted to do, so she just crossed her fingers that the soil would stay warm enough that her seeds would grow. And anyways, the
Farmer's Almanac
had predicted a warm spring this year, and it was always right, wasn't it?

This morning Quinn was going to start on her next project—landscaping around the house. She'd drafted a plan to plant perennials around the perimeter. The shrubs would be basic: some bright green boxwood, red and gold flowering barberry, vibrant hydrangea, and fragrant honeysuckle. She would finish off the landscaping with a stone border and some alyssums peppered in between.

But the big surprise for her aunt, who'd given her free reign over the design, was going to be the flagstone walkway and pergola leading from the back of the house to the garden. The pergola would be a heavy wooden structure with climbing vines to encase the entire walkway. She planned for a small dining area off to the side so that her aunt could sit and have her morning coffee with the beautiful hills and forests of the nearby Blue Hills Reservation as her view.

This was quite an elaborate plan to tackle by herself. When she was enrolled in the landscape architecture program at Chatham University, these types of projects were completed in groups of four or more. She would have to be smart about how to tackle the project since she was going it alone.

By midmorning, Quinn had seven of the twelve holes done. She silently cursed herself for deciding to build a pergola. Although she'd always considered herself tough, her muscles were puny and her stamina diminished to about nothing. Yet she had to push on. She'd already invested too much of her aunt's money into this project, and she was going to finish what she'd started.

She used her right foot to slam the blade of the shovel into the ground. She was averaging about fifteen scoops with the shovel to get down to the level she needed the posts to sit at. She turned to discard a shovelful of dirt into her wheelbarrow and noticed a petite red-haired woman bounce off the side porch, moving in her direction.

“Hey there!” she said as she got closer.

“Hi,” Quinn answered, leaning her shovel against the wheelbarrow and taking off her gloves.

The redhead stopped with her hands on her hips, surveying Quinn's worksite. She raised her eyebrows and whistled. “You've got quite a project going out here. Maura said you were planting some flowers, but I didn't realize you were gonna tear up her backyard.”

Quinn had no idea who this woman was, even though it was clear that the woman knew who she was. But that didn't really surprise her. It seemed the entire town of Ballagh knew everything about her, even though she'd only visited a few times.

“Just digging a few holes. I'm Quinn, by the way.” She extended her hand toward the redhead. She was petite and had the body of a gymnast. She wore a fitted T-shirt and short denim shorts as if it were the middle of summer. Her skin was a creamy white, just like French vanilla ice cream.

The tiny woman's eyes got big and she giggled. “I'm sorry. I'm Erin, Rory's fiancée. I've heard so much about you that I forgot you probably had no idea who I am.”

Ah, so this was Rory's Erin. Her aunt called her Mighty Mouse. She said if there was one girl who could keep Rory in line, then it was Erin Brauer. Erin and Rory had dated the last couple years in high school and gotten engaged shortly after graduation. Although Quinn had heard about her, she'd never met her before.

“It's nice to finally meet you, Erin.”

“I was so excited when Rory told me you were coming to stay for the summer!” Erin smiled widely, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, what are you doing back here?”

“I've just started on a pergola.”

“A perga-what?”

Quinn smiled. “A pergola. It's like a wooden terrace. It's going to lead from the porch right there all the way to the garden,” she explained, using both of her hands to draw the imaginary lines of the pathway.

Erin looked at her skeptically. “Are you planning to do all this by yourself?”

Quinn shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I wish I could say that Rory would help you, but he'd probably hurt himself lifting that wheelbarrow, let alone any sort of lumber. And God forbid he injure himself and not be able to play with his band. It's like the world would stop turning and an ice age would descend upon the earth and destroy life as we know it.” She smiled and shrugged. “It would be like Armageddon.”

Quinn bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh. “That would be unfortunate.”

Erin started laughing. “Rory and his crazy band. I would be insanely jealous of those guys if I didn't know he loved me so much. Have you heard them play? They're really quite good.”

“I haven't. But I did promise him I'd go to his next show, whenever that is.”

“That would be in two weeks. They are playing at a small liberal arts school outside of Boston. Some swanky fundraiser,” Erin said. “We should go together! You, me, and my friends, Lisbeth and Darcy. We could all spend the day shopping and then hit the gig in the evening. It'll be so much fun! I won't take no for an answer.”

“So I guess I won't say no then.” Quinn smiled. The idea of all-day shopping didn't sound like fun at all, but a day with some friends might be nice. She kinda missed social interaction, and she was sure after another two weeks of just her and her aunt, she would be ready to get out a little.

“Awesome! It'll be totally epic.” Erin beamed. “So what are your plans for this evening?”

“I'll probably be out here pretty late. I need to get a few things done today since they're calling for rain tomorrow.”