The Sign of Seven Trilogy (25 page)

“I missed you.” He hadn't planned to say it, certainly hadn't expected it to be the first thing out of his mouth. Then he realized, it was obviously the first thing on his mind.

Her eyes went soft; that sexy mouth curved up. “That's nice to hear. I missed you, too, especially last night when I crawled into bed about one in the morning. My cold, empty bed.”

“I didn't just mean the sex, Quinn.” And where had
that
come from?

“Neither did I.” She angled her head, ignoring the beep of the microwave. “I missed having you around at the end of the day, when I could finally come down from having to hammer out that article, when I wanted to stop thinking about what I had to do, and what was going to happen. You're irritated about something. Why don't you tell me what it is?”

She turned toward the microwave as she spoke to get her mug out. Cal saw immediately she'd made the move as Cybil was stepping through the kitchen doorway. Quinn merely shook her head, and Cybil stepped back and retreated without a word.

“I don't know, exactly.” He pulled off his coat now, tossed it over one of the chairs around a little cafe table that hadn't been there on his last visit. “I guess I thought, after the other day, after…what you said—”

“I said I was in love with you. That makes you quiver inside,” she noted. “Men.”

“I didn't start avoiding you.”

“You think—” She took a deep inhale through her nose, exhaled in a huff. “Well, you have a really high opinion of yourself, and a crappy one of me.”

“No, it's just—”

“I had things to do, I had work. I am not at your beck any more than you're at mine.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“You think I'd play games like that? Especially now?”

“Especially now's the point. This isn't the time for big personal issues.”

“If not now, when?” she demanded. “Do you really, do you honestly think we can label and file all our personal business and close it in a drawer until it's
convenient
? I like things in their place, too. I want to know where things are, so I put them where I want or need them to be. But feelings and thoughts are different from the goddamn car keys, Cal.”

“No argument, but—”

“And my feelings and thoughts are as cluttered and messy as Grandma's attic,” she snapped out, far from winding down. “That's just the way I like it. If things were normal every day, bopping right along, I probably wouldn't have told you. Do you think this is my first cannonball into the Dating and Relationship Pool? I was engaged, for God's sake. I told you because—because I think, maybe
especially
now, that feelings are what matter most. If that screws you up, too damn bad.”

“I wish you'd shut up for five damn minutes.”

Her eyes went to slits. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. The fact is I don't know how to react to all of this, because I never let myself consider being in this position. How could I, with this hanging over my head? Can't risk falling for someone. How much could I tell her? How much is too much? We're—Fox and Gage and I—we're used to holding back, to keeping big pieces of this to ourselves.”

“Keeping secrets.”

“That's right,” he said equably. “That's exactly right. Because it's safer that way. How could I ever think about falling in love, getting married, having kids? Bringing a kid into this nightmare's out of the question.”

Those slitted blue eyes went cold as winter. “I don't believe I've yet expressed the wish to bear your young.”

“Remember who you're talking to,” he said quietly. “You take this situation out of the equation you've got a normal guy from a normal family. The kind who gets married, raises a family, has a mortgage and a big sloppy dog. If I let myself fall in love with a woman, that's how it's going to work.”

“I guess you told me.”

“And it's irresponsible to even consider any of that.”

“We disagree. I happen to think considering that, moving toward that, is shooting the bird at the dark. In the end, we're each entitled to our own take on it. But understand me, get this crystal, telling you I love you didn't mean I expected you to pop a ring on my finger.”

“Because you've been there.”

She nodded. “Yes, I have. And you're wondering about that.”

“None of my business.” Screw it. “Yes.”

“Okay, it's simple enough. I was seeing Dirk—”

“Dirk—”

“Shut up.” But her lips twitched. “I was seeing him exclusively for about six months. We enjoyed each other. I thought I was ready for the next stage in my life, so I said yes when he asked me to marry him. We were engaged for two months when I realized I'd made a mistake. I didn't love him. Liked him just fine. He didn't love me, either. He didn't really get me—not the whole of me, which was why he figured the ring on my finger meant he could begin to advise me on my work, on my wardrobe, habits, and career options. There were a lot of little things, and they're not really important. The fact was we weren't going to make it work, so I broke it off.”

She blew out another breath because it wasn't pleasant to remember she'd made that big a mistake. That she'd failed at something she knew she'd be good at. “He was more annoyed than brokenhearted, which told me I'd done the right thing. And the truth is, it stung to know I'd done the right thing, because it meant I'd done the wrong thing first. When I suggested he tell his friends he'd been the one to end it, he felt better about it. I gave him back the ring, we each boxed up things we'd kept in each other's apartments, and we walked away.”

“He didn't hurt you.”

“Oh, Cal.” She took a step closer so she could touch his face. “No, he didn't. The situation hurt me, but he didn't. Which is only one of the reasons I knew he wasn't the one. If you want me to reassure you that you can't, that you won't break my heart, I just can't do it. Because you can, you might, and that's how I know you are. The one.” She slipped her arms around him, laid her lips on his. “That must be scary for you.”

“Terrifying.” He pulled her against him, held her hard. “I've never had another woman in my life who's given me as many bad moments as you.”

“I'm delighted to hear it.”

“I thought you would be.” He laid his cheek on top of her head. “I'd like to stay here, just like this, for an hour or two.” He replaced his cheek with his lips, then eased back. “But I've things I have to do, and so do you. Which I knew before I walked in here and used it as an excuse to pick a fight.”

“I don't mind a fight. Not when the air's clear afterward.”

He framed her face with his hands, kissed her softly. “Your hot chocolate's getting cold.”

“Chocolate's never the wrong temperature.”

“The one thing I said before? Absolute truth. I missed you.”

“I believe I can arrange some free time in my busy schedule.”

“I have to work tonight. Maybe you could stop in. I'll give you another bowling lesson.”

“All right.”

“Quinn, we—all of us—have to talk. About a lot of things. As soon as we can.”

“Yes, we do. One thing before you go. Is Fox going to offer Layla a job?”

“I said something to him.” Cal swore under his breath at her expression. “I'll give him another push on it.”

“Thanks.”

Alone, Quinn picked up her mug, thoughtfully sipped at her lukewarm chocolate. Men, she thought, were such interesting beings.

Cybil came in. “All clear?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem.” She opened a cupboard and chose a small tin of loose jasmine tea from her supply. “Discuss or mind my own?”

“Discuss. He was worked up because I told him I love him.”

“Annoyed or panicked?”

“Some of both, I think. More worried because we've all got scary things to deal with, and this is another kind of scary thing.”

“The scariest, when you come down to it.” Cybil filled the teakettle with water. “How are you handling it?”

“It feels…great,” she decided. “Energizing and bouncy and bright, then sort of rich and glimmering. You know, with Dirk it was all…” Quinn held out a hand, drawing it level through the air. “This was—” She shot her hand up, down, then up again. “Here's a thing. When he's telling me why this is crazy, he says how he's never been in a position—or so he thinks—to let himself think about love, marriage, family.”

“Whoa, point A to Z in ten words or less.”

“Exactly.” Quinn gestured with her mug. “And he was rolling too fast to see that the
M
word gave me a serious jolt. I practically just jumped off that path, and whoops, there it is again, under my feet.”

“Hence the jolt.” Cybil measured out her tea. “But I don't see you jumping off.”

“Because you know me. I like where my feet are, as it turns out. I like the idea of heading down that path with Cal, toward wherever it ends up. He's in trouble now,” she murmured and took another sip.

“So are you, Q. But then trouble's always looked good on you.”

“Better than a makeover at the Mac counter at Saks.” Quinn answered the kitchen phone on its first ring. “Hello. Hello, Essie. Oh. Really? No, it's great. It's perfect. Thanks so much. I absolutely will. Thanks again. Bye.” She hung up, grinned. “Essie Hawkins got us into the community center. No business there today on the main level. We can go in, poke around to our hearts' content.”

“Won't that be fun?” Cybil said it dryly as she poured boiling water for her tea.

 

A
RMED WITH THE KEY, CYBIL OPENED THE MAIN
door of the old library. “We're here, on the surface, for research. One of the oldest buildings in town, home of the Hawkins family. But…” She switched on the lights. “Primarily we're looking for hidey-holes. A hiding place that was overlooked.”

“For three and a half centuries,” Cybil commented.

“If something's overlooked for five minutes, it can be overlooked forever.” Quinn pursed her lips as she looked around. “They modernized it, so to speak, when they turned it into a library, but when they built the new one, they stripped out some of the newfangled details. It's not the way it was, but it's closer.”

There were some tables and chairs set up, and someone had made an attempt at some old-timey decor in the antique old lamps, old pottery, and wood carvings on shelves. Quinn had been told groups like the Historical Society or the Garden Club could hold meetings or functions here. At election times it was a voting center.

“Stone fireplace,” she said. “See, that's an excellent place to hide something.” After crossing to it, she began to poke at the stones. “Plus there's an attic. Essie said they used it for storage. Still do. They keep the folding tables and chairs up there, and that kind of thing. Attics are treasure troves.”

“Why is it buildings like this are so cold and creepy when no one's in them?” Layla wondered.

“We're in this one. Let's start at the top,” Quinn suggested, “work our way down.”

 

“A
TTICS ARE TREASURE TROVES,” CYBIL SAID
twenty minutes later, “of dust and spiders.”

“It's not that bad.” Quinn crawled along, hoping for a loose floorboard.

“Not that good either.” Courageously, Layla stood on a folding chair, checking rafters. “I don't understand why people don't think storage spaces shouldn't be cleaned as regularly as anyplace else.”

“It was clean once. She kept it clean.”

“Who—” Layla began, but Cybil waved a hand at her, frowned at Quinn.

“Ann Hawkins?”

“Ann and her boys. She brought them home, and shared the attic with them. Her three sons. Until they were old enough to have a room downstairs. But she stayed here. She wanted to be high, to be able to look out of her window. Even though she knew he wouldn't come, she wanted to look out for him. She was happy here, happy enough. And when she died here, she was ready to go.”

Abruptly, Quinn sat back on her heels. “Holy shit, was that me?”

Cybil crouched down to study Quinn's face. “You tell us.”

“I guess it was.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Damn, got one of those I-drank-my-frozen-margarita-too-fast-and-now-have-an-ice pick-through-my-brain headaches. I saw it, her, them, in my head. Just as clear. Everything moving, like a time-action camera. Years in seconds. But more, I felt it. That's the way it is for you, isn't it—going the other way?”

“Often,” Cybil agreed.

“I saw her writing in her journal, and washing her sons' faces. I saw her laughing, or weeping. I saw her standing at the window looking into the dark. I felt…” Quinn laid a hand on her heart. “I felt her longing. It was…brutal.”

“You don't look well.” Layla touched her shoulder. “We should go downstairs, get you some water.”

“Probably. Yeah.” She took the hand Layla offered to help her up. “Maybe I should try it again. Try to bring it back, get more.”

“You're awfully pale,” Layla told her. “And, honey, your hand's like ice.”

“Plenty for one day,” Cybil agreed. “You don't want to push it.”

“I didn't see where she put the journals. If she put anything here, I didn't see.”

I
T WASN'T THE TIME, CAL DETERMINED, TO TALK
about a broken stone or property searches when Quinn was buzzed about her trip to the past with Ann Hawkins. In any case, the bowling center wasn't the place for that kind of exchange of information.

He considered bringing it up after closing when she dragged him into her home office to show him the new chart Layla had generated that listed the time, place, approximate duration, and involved parties in all known incidents since Quinn's arrival.

He forgot about it when he was in bed with her, when she was moving with him, when everything felt right again.

Then he told himself it was too late to bring it up, to give the topics the proper time when she was curled up warm with him.

Maybe it was avoidance, but he opted for the likelihood it was just his tendency to prefer things at the right time, in the right place. He'd arranged to take Sunday off so the entire group could hike to the Pagan Stone. That, to his mind, was the right time and place.

Then Nature screwed with his plans.

When forecasters began to predict an oncoming blizzard, he kept a jaundiced eye on the reports. They were, in his experience, wrong at least as often as they were right. Even when the first flakes began to fall midmorning, he remained unconvinced. It was the third blizzard hype of the year, and so far the biggest storm had dumped a reasonable eight inches.

He shrugged it off when the afternoon leagues canceled. It had gotten so people canceled everything at the first half inch, then went to war over bread and toilet paper in the supermarket. And since the powers-that-be canceled school before noon, the arcade and the grill were buzzing.

But when his father came in about two in the afternoon, looking like Sasquatch, Cal paid more attention.

“I think we're going to close up shop,” Jim said in his easy way.

“It's not that bad. The arcade's drawing the usual suspects, the grill's been busy. We've had some lanes booked. A lot of towners will come in later in the afternoon, looking for something to do.”

“It's bad enough, and it's getting worse.” Jim shoved his gloves in the pocket of his parka. “We'll have a foot by sundown the way it's going. We need to send these kids home, haul them there if they don't live within easy walking distance. We'll close up, then you go on home, too. Or you get your dog and Gage and come on over and stay with us. Your mother'll worry sick if she thinks you're out driving in this at night.”

He started to remind his father that he was thirty, had four-wheel drive, and had been driving nearly half his life. Knowing it was pointless, Cal just nodded. “We'll be fine. I've got plenty of supplies. I'll clear out the customers, close up, Dad. You go on home. She'll worry about you, too.”

“There's time enough to close down and lock up.” Jim glanced over at the lanes where a six-pack of teenagers sent off energy and hormones in equal measure. “Had a hell of a storm when I was a kid. Your grandfather kept her open. We stayed here for three days. Time of my life.”

“I bet.” Cal grinned. “Want to call Mom, say we're stuck? You and me can ride it out. Have a bowling marathon.”

“Damned if I wouldn't.” The lines around Jim's eyes crinkled at the idea. “Of course, she'll kick my ass for it and it'd be the last time I bowled.”

“Better shut down then.”

Though there were protests and moans, they moved customers along, arranging for rides when necessary with some of the staff. In the silence, Cal shut down the grill himself. He knew his father had gone back to check with Bill Turner. Not just to give instructions, he thought, but to make sure Bill had whatever he needed, to slip him a little extra cash if he didn't.

As he shut down, Cal pulled out his phone and called Fox's office. “Hey. Wondered if I'd catch you.”

“Just. I'm closing. Already sent Mrs. H home. It's getting bad out there.”

“Head over to my place. If this comes in like they're whining about, it might be a couple days before the roads are clear. No point wasting them. And maybe you should stop, pick up, you know, toilet paper, bread.”

“Toilet…You're bringing the women?”

“Yeah.” He'd made up his mind on that when he'd taken a look outside. “Get…stuff. Figure it out. I'll be home as soon as I can.”

He clicked off, then shut down the alley lights as his father came out.

“Everything set?” Cal asked.

“Yep.”

The way his father looked around the darkened alley told Cal he was thinking they weren't just going to lose their big Friday night, but likely the entire weekend.

“We'll make it up, Dad.”

“That's right. We always do.” He gave Cal a slap on the shoulder. “Let's get home.”

 

Q
UINN WAS LAUGHING WHEN SHE OPENED THE
door. “Isn't this great! They say we could get three feet, maybe more! Cyb's making goulash, and Layla went out and picked up extra batteries and candles in case we lose power.”

“Good. Great.” Cal stomped snow off his boots. “Pack it up and whatever else you all need. We're going to my place.”

“Don't be silly. We're fine. You can stay, and we'll—”

As clear of snow as he could manage, he stepped in, shut the door behind him. “I have a small gas generator that'll run little things—such as the well, which means water to flush the toilets.”

“Oh. Toilets. I hadn't thought of that one. But how are we all going to fit in your truck?”

“We'll manage. Get your stuff.”

It took them half an hour, but he'd expected that. In the end, the bed of his truck was loaded with enough for a week's trek through the wilderness. And three women were jammed with him in the cab.

He should've had Fox swing by, get one of them, he realized. Then Fox could've hauled half the contents of their house in
his
truck. And it was too late now.

“It's gorgeous.” Layla perched on Quinn's lap, bracing a hand on the dash while the Chevy's windshield wipers worked overtime to clear the snow from the glass. “I know it's going to be a big mess, but it's so beautiful, so different than it is in the city.”

“Remember that when we're competing for bathroom time with three men,” Cybil warned her. “And let me say right now, I refuse to be responsible for all meals just because I know how to turn on the stove.”

“So noted,” Cal muttered.

“It
is
gorgeous,” Quinn agreed, shifting her head from side to side to see around Layla. “Oh, I forgot. I heard from my grandmother. She tracked down the Bible. She's having her sister-in-law's granddaughter copy and scan the appropriate pages, and e-mail them to me.” Quinn wiggled to try for more room. “At least that's the plan, as the granddaughter's the only one of them who understands how to scan and attach files. E-mail and online poker's as far as Grandma goes on the Internet. I hope to have the information by tomorrow. Isn't this great?”

Wedged between Quinn's butt and the door, Cybil dug in to protect her corner of the seat. “It'd be better if you'd move your ass over.”

“I've got Layla's space, too, so I get more room. I want popcorn,” Quinn decided. “Doesn't all this snow make everyone want popcorn? Did we pack any? Do you have any?” she asked Cal. “Maybe we could stop and buy some Orville's.”

He kept his mouth shut, and concentrated on surviving what he thought might be the longest drive of his life.

He plowed his way down the side roads, and though he trusted the truck and his own driving, was relieved when he turned onto his lane. As he'd been outvoted about the heat setting, the cab of the truck was like a sauna.

Even under the circumstances, Cal had to admit his place, his woods, did look like a picture. The snow-banked terraces, the white-decked trees and huddles of shrubs framed the house where smoke was pumping from the chimney, and the lights were already gleaming against the windows.

He followed the tracks of Fox's tires across the little bridge over his snow-and ice-crusted curve of the creek.

Lump padded toward the house from the direction of the winter-postcard woods, leaving deep prints behind him. His tail swished once as he let out a single, hollow bark.

“Wow, look at Lump.” Quinn managed to poke Cal with her elbow as the truck shoved its way along the lane. “He's positively frisky.”

“Snow gets him going.” Cal pulled behind Fox's truck, smirked at the Ferrari, slowly being buried, then laid on the horn. He'd be damned if he was going to haul the bulk of what three women deemed impossible to live without for a night or two.

He dragged bags out of the bed.

“It's a beautiful spot, Cal.” Layla took the first out of his hands. “Currier and Ives for the twenty-first century. Is it all right if I go right in?”

“Sure.”

“Pretty as a picture.” Cybil scanned the bags and boxes, chose one for herself. “Especially if you don't mind being isolated.”

“I don't.”

She glanced over as Gage and Fox came out of the house. “I hope you don't mind crowds either.”

They got everything inside, trailing snow everywhere. Cal decided it must have been some sort of female telepathy that divided them all into chores without discussion. Layla asked him for rags or old towels and proceeded to mop up the wet, Cybil took over the kitchen with her stew pot and bag of kitchen ingredients. And Quinn dug into his linen closet, such as it was, and began assigning beds, and ordering various bags carried to various rooms.

There wasn't anything for him to do, really, but have a beer.

Gage strode in as Cal poked at the fire. “There are bottles of girl stuff all over both bathrooms up there.” Gage jerked a thumb at the ceiling. “What have you done?”

“What had to be done. I couldn't leave them. They could've been cut off for a couple of days.”

“And what, turned into the next Donner Party? Your woman has Fox making my bed, which is now the pullout in your office. And which I'm apparently supposed to share with him. You know that son of a bitch is a bed hog.”

“Can't be helped.”

“Easy for you to say, seeing as you'll be sharing yours with the blonde.”

This time Cal grinned, smugly. “Can't be helped.”

“Esmerelda's brewing up something in the kitchen.”

“Goulash—and it's Cybil.”

“Whatever, it smells good, I'll give her that. She smells better. But the point is I got the heave-ho when I tried to get a damn bag of chips to go with the beer.”

“You want to cook for six people?”

Gage only grunted, sat, propped his feet on the coffee table. “How much are they calling for?”

“About three feet.” Cal dropped down beside him, mirrored his pose. “Used to be we liked nothing better. No school, haul out the sleds. Snowball wars.”

“Those were the days, my friend.”

“Now we're priming the generator, loading in firewood, buying extra batteries and toilet paper.”

“Sucks to be grown up.”

Still, it was warm, and while the snow fell in sheets outside, there was light, and there was food. It was hard to complain, Cal decided, when he was digging into a bowl of hot, spicy stew he had nothing to do with preparing. Plus, there were dumplings, and he was weak when it came to dumplings.

“I was in Budapest not that long ago.” Gage spooned up goulash as he studied Cybil. “This is as good as any I got there.”

“Actually, this isn't Hungarian goulash. It's a Serbo-Croatian base.”

“Damn good stew,” Fox commented, “wherever it's based.”

“Cybil's an Eastern European stew herself.” Quinn savored the half dumpling she'd allowed herself. “Croatian, Ukrainian, Polish—with a dash of French for fashion sense and snottiness.”

“When did your family come over?” Cal wondered.

“As early as the seventeen hundreds, as late as just before World War Two, depending on the line.” But she understood the reason for the question. “I don't know if there is a connection to Quinn or Layla, or any of this, where it might root from. I'm looking into it.”

“We had a connection,” Quinn said, “straight off.”

“We did.”

Cal understood that kind of friendship, the kind he saw when the two women looked at each other. It had little to do with blood, and everything to do with the heart.

“We hooked up the first day—evening really—of college.” Quinn spooned off another minuscule piece of dumpling with the stew. “Met in the hall of the dorm. We were across from each other. Within two days, we'd switched. Our respective roommates didn't care. We bunked together right through college.”

“And apparently still are,” Cybil commented.

“Remember you read my palm that first night?”

“You read palms?” Fox asked.

“When the mood strikes. My gypsy heritage,” Cybil added with a flourishing gesture of her hands.

And Cal felt a knot form in his belly. “There were gypsies in the Hollow.”

“Really?” Carefully, Cybil lifted her wineglass, sipped. “When?”

“I'd have to check to be sure. This is from stories my gran told me that her grandmother told her. Like that. About how gypsies came one summer and set up camp.”

“Interesting. Potentially,” Quinn mused, “someone local could get cozy with one of those dark-eyed beauties or hunks, and nine months later, oops. Could lead right to you, Cyb.”

“Just one big, happy family,” Cybil muttered.

After the meal, chores were divvied up again. Wood needed to be brought in, the dog let out, the table cleared, dishes dealt with.

“Who else cooks?” Cybil demanded.

“Gage does,” Cal and Fox said together.

“Hey.”

“Good.” Cybil sized him up. “If there's a group breakfast on the slate, you're in charge. Now—”