The Breath of Dawn Page 9

  What if there was danger, if they had to flee, to keep moving from place to place? How would the animal handle such insecurity? She had to wonder if she could count on a dog even the rescuers called unpredictable. Without even one coming close enough to pet, she admitted adoption would be a mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” she told the stocky man with a broad, generous face and a brace on one leg who’d let her into the kennel area. “We’d have to trust each other and . . .”

  “That comes with time,” he told her. “Usually.”

  She nodded, believing it. “But I might not have time. And it wouldn’t be fair to expect more than they can give.”

  He eyed her solemnly. “Are you in some trouble?”

  She returned his concern with a smile. “I hope not.” Then she looked at the kennels. “But I think they have too much of their own to add any of mine.”

  He said, “If things settle out for you, keep us in mind.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  It wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. Since she’d never had a pet, her assumptions could be completely wrong. Maybe that magical bond she’d imagined was only that—imaginary.

  Disappointed, but confident in her decision, she went home alone. Since she wasn’t a loner by nature, she gave herself kudos for handling solitude these last four years with equanimity and grace. The grace, she knew, didn’t come from her, but dealing with it did.

  His assistant, Denise, met him at the resort hotel in LA, where they’d all gather for a state-of-the-corporation session, announce his return, and prepare to move forward. He needed to connect with the team members who’d been actively working projects and the bigger talents who came on for the high-level clients he handled personally. He had to know if they could still commit the time, focus, and energy required to right sinking ships in an economy as unforgiving as a shark in bloody waters.

  None had been static during his hiatus. Some would have positions they preferred to keep, places to hunker down and wait for the world to turn around. He wouldn’t blame them. He’d been hunkering himself.

  Coifed like a dame from a film noir in knee-length tight skirt and fitted blazer, blond hair swept into a tight twist, Denise joined him in the conference room at their disposal for the week. He slanted her a glance. “These are preliminary meetings, Denise. One-on-one to get the pulse of my team. We don’t need to be quite so formal.”

  “The pulse, Morgan, that they need to feel is yours. The world isn’t even sure you’re alive and kicking.”

  He wasn’t either. As with his engine, the gears were rusty.

  She pressed a finger to her chin. “I’ve held off contacting Belcorp until we know your own people are on board.”

  As with a quarterback returning from a season-ending injury, they’d want to know he hadn’t lost his nerve. Could he make the hard calls that led to victory?

  He tapped his pen on the knuckle of his thumb. “That’s what this week is for. I presume you have prospects and arrangements for a second week if it comes to making replacements?”

  She nodded. “Believe it or not, there are people in the wings who would kill for a spot on your team.”

  “I hope it won’t come to bloodshed.”

  She flushed.

  He tipped his head. “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Shy away from anything to do with death. It is what it is.”

  She drew herself straight. “I won’t, then. But others might.”

  He nodded. “Not your concern.”

  She consulted her tablet. “I’ve sent you the interview schedule and all pertinent information I could find for each member. Let me know when you need something else.”

  “You are amazingly good at your job.”

  “It’s nice to have one—in which I do something.”

  A part of him quickened, a part that once felt vital. It might feel better if leaving Livie wasn’t eating a hole inside. He could talk to her every hour if he wanted, see her via Skype morning, noon, and night. He used to know what was appropriate, and yes, he realized that wasn’t.

  “Morgan?”

  He looked up.

  Denise repeated herself. “Glen Conyer?”

  “Send him in.” This had been his life, most of it spent without Jill, and Jill in none of it to come. He pushed that from his mind. “Glen.” He stood.

  “Morgan.” The man’s hair had thinned and the scalp shined through it at the top. “Man, it’s great to see you.” They grasped hands. “We doing this thing?”

  He cocked his head. “Some of that’s up to you.”

  The ace accountant had small irises so the white showed all the way around as he said in all seriousness, “Say the word. I’m in.”

  Since she’d left the cellar with Vera’s journal, Quinn had not gone back down. It wasn’t a decision as much as a reluctance that came over her every time she thought of doing it. Instead, she’d scoured the house, even using paint from cans she’d found in the garage—which was incongruously uncluttered—to touch up walls and trim. The windows shone, the wood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much she could do about the ancient gray-speckled kitchen linoleum that popped and crackled, but it was clean.

  She felt good knowing Morgan and especially Livie would have a fresh start in the house. With the cellar blocked off, it would be a normal house Morgan could furnish and inhabit in comfort. The kitchen appliances were a little sad, but he’d figure that out. Now, as she had done each day before leaving, she reached into the key box on Morgan’s hutch, drew a scant handful from the remaining keys at the bottom, and approached the medicine cabinet.

  She pulled one from the collection in her hand and tried it in the lock—gasping when it turned, though others had too. But this time she felt the lock release. Squealing, she did a happy dance and then reached for the knob. With excitement feeding anticipation, she stared through the milky panes of the cabinet, one motion away from satisfying her curiosity—and stopped.

  Morgan had told her she could open it. He’d tried the keys himself so she could see the bottles. Yet as much as she wanted to, she didn’t want to alone. Together they’d discovered the cellar, together carried the cabinet. They’d found the locket and the journal, cringed at the bad stuff downstairs and sparred over the contents of this cabinet until she couldn’t imagine opening the doors without seeing his face. After everything, where was the fun in going forward without him?

  But she groaned. He was out of town. She didn’t know when he’d be back. She knew he wasn’t thinking of her, or the cabinet and whatever was inside. He might not even care when he got back. He’d wanted it left alone. She straightened her arm and started to pull the door—then stopped again.

  She should break the spell he’d cast the night he dared her to take his check. And that, of course, reminded her that it was his. Sighing, she removed the key and stepped back from the cabinet and the promise of the old bottles. It was history. It was answers. And she may as well stop arguing. However it had happened, he was in this with her. And she wanted him there. So she would wait.

  His welcome home consisted of Livie breaking into uncontrollable sobs as he entered the great room. “Hey.” Surrounded by Rick, Liam, and Noelle, Morgan dropped to his knees and clutched her so tightly neither could breathe.

  “I miss you, Daddy.”

  “I missed you too, honey. But here I am, and here you are.” He scooped her up and swung her from side to side. “Shhh.” Cupping the back of her head, he kissed her crown again and again. “It’s okay.”

  If he’d been going to work and coming home regularly, it wouldn’t be so traumatic. But before he left, they’d been together almost every minute. Her heaving chest against his made him feel both helpless and whole. “I’m here, honey. I’m here.” Two weeks had been too long. “Livie, please. Please,” he rasped.

  The sobs slowed, her tiny chest shuddering, her chin shaking. He kissed her wet, salty cheeks, her damp eyelashes brushing a
gainst his skin. He begged Noelle, “Tell me it hasn’t been like this.”

  “Not until now. A few flurries, but no flood.”

  He rubbed Livie’s back. “That’s my girl.”

  “Jelly bean,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Sweet pink cotton candy,” he whispered back, heart squeezing.

  “Want some dinner?” Rick said.

  He could smell whatever one of them was making, and it wasn’t bad, but he said, “I think Livie and I have a date.” There was no fast food in Juniper Falls, no McPlay Place, and the parks were cold and getting dark. But she loved the spiral-sliced flash-fried potato chips at the Roaring Boar Pub and Grill. Food was served all day, and it was too early for the kind of drinking that accompanied the live music—though “live” was debatable for some of the bands in the winter months.

  He bundled her up, and after the short drive, they stepped into the warm scent of barbecue and beer. He’d spent a lot of time in this place, even had a date here with Noelle before Rick. It was a local treasure, but he didn’t come in much anymore, and the hearty greetings of the crowd told him he’d been missed. But since the outing was all about Livie, he nodded his head at a small corner booth where they’d be out of the way.

  “Sure,” the bartender, Scotty, said, indicating he’d serve them there. A bad case of acne had cratered his cheeks like shriveled balloons, but his friendly nature and quick hands made him great behind the bar and at the tables. His tips reflected it.

  As Morgan turned with Livie toward the table, the door opened and Quinn entered. Blinking in the dimness, it took a few moments before she noticed them, then her face lit. He felt a kick in his stomach. The last she’d seen, he was imitating a heart attack. Now it seemed he might have one of another kind. Not. Good.

  She pushed her hair back in what had to be a continuous quest for order and said, “You’re back.”

  He managed, “Just.”

  She tickled Livie with a single finger, then said, “I’ve been hoping to tell you, I found a key.”

  It took a second, and then he answered, “To the cabinet?”

  She nodded, eyes shining.

  “Was it everything you wished for?”

  She folded her arms. “I haven’t opened it.”

  He frowned at her, confused, as this was the cabinet she’d quivered before like a puppy for a bone.

  “I was going to, but it seemed like you should be there.”

  The earnestness in her voice caught him unprepared. “Oh.”

  Her smile dimmed. “I’m catching you at a bad time.”

  “No. Yeah.” Silver-tongued devil. If the team could see him now.

  She waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Listen. I’m having a date with my daughter. Can I meet you there in an hour?”

  “Sure.” She backed up a step, then headed for the bar. He stood long enough for her to start placing a to-go order, then walked with Livie to the booth.

  Carrying the paper bag that held her order, Quinn left without looking back. Seeing Morgan after two weeks had lit her like a torch, and she’d shown it, but he was there with his little girl. The thought of a daddy-daughter date made a lump in her throat she couldn’t seem to swallow. She put her truck in gear, wishing she hadn’t extended the invitation. But for all practical purposes, she’d finished at the house and he’d be moving in. It might be her last chance to open the cabinet.

  Why hadn’t she just done it?

  At the intersection, she crunched a homemade chip, waiting for a car to pass, then moved through. She parked outside of Vera’s and ate in her truck, watching snow fall and thinking about Morgan spending an hour with his little girl, one-on-one, as though no one else in the world mattered. She bit into the usually mouth-watering pulled-pork sandwich that now left her taste buds uninvolved.

  She’d spent time with Pops—fishing, talking, following his hound through the woods—time stolen from chores and service and studies. Her father had no time to waste, but Pops made time, and truth be told, she preferred it that way. With Pops there was no lesson behind every single thing she was expected to bury in her heart.

  She got out of the truck. It had been a bright and sparkling day, but clouds were now scudding across the dimming sky. The air was dry and cold but not yet frigid. If enough clouds gathered, it wouldn’t be a question of whether but how much it would snow. At these mountain elevations it could do that in August if it tried. In November, it didn’t have to try.

  She let herself into Vera’s—Morgan’s—house and did a slow tour. No one would believe that weeks ago the walls couldn’t be seen, and the floors were reduced to paths and patches. As frustrating as some of it had been, she wasn’t complaining.

  She had the money from the antiques, and her warehouse held more collectibles than ever before. The completed auctions had ended quite profitably. She’d already shipped out a number of Hummel and other figurines, decorative plates and glassware, and blessed Vera for caring for them. Where those things were concerned, she’d been a conscientious collector. It felt good dispersing those treasures to others who would love them. In this throwaway world she liked to think of things passing from hand to hand with care.

  That made her think of Vera’s journal and Morgan’s offer. She’d been waiting to see if she would find anything else, but even now the thought of looking in the cellar sent a shiver up her spine. To Morgan it was finished, and she was glad to call it quits. Maybe he’d send her with the journal, or maybe she’d send herself.

  The best part of all was giving RaeAnne her dad. It had been a wonderful day meeting RaeAnne and Noelle in the fog. She smiled thinking of it. From the moment of RaeAnne’s “Pretty, isn’t she,” something had clicked between them. Noelle seemed nice, too, she thought, then jumped when the doorbell made its grinding wheeze.

  She’d completely cleared her head, but the calm she’d accomplished vanished when she opened the door to Morgan and his daughter. She was only human.

  “Well, Livie. How was your date?”

  Livie giggled. “I have chips.”

  “Chips are the best. Guess your daddy’s a keeper.”

  “Daddy a keeper.” Livie pressed a hand to his cheek, speaking into his eyes.

  Yeah, make her a puddle right here on the floor. Getting the nerve, she lifted her gaze to Morgan.

  He was staring, mouth slightly ajar, around the house. “You didn’t just clean.”

  “A little paint and repair. It’s good to go.”

  “Quinn, this . . .” He looked down at her. “This is more than your deal with RaeAnne.”

  “No, believe me, I came out just fine.”

  “But I . . .”

  “You helped me sell the furniture, which I wouldn’t have earned anything on. And this one found the locket and saved me from paper-stack hell.” She touched Livie’s head with a little hitch in her ribs. “I just wanted it to be nice.”

  “Nice.” He cocked his jaw. “Yeah. It’s nice.” He had a great way with understatement.

  “So. Are you ready?”

  He set Livie down, and as she ran around the big empty room, they went into the kitchen. She picked up the key from the hutch and held it out.

  But he shook his head with a slow blink. “You do it.”

  She’d been so right to wait. Drawing a breath, she inserted and turned the key. She pulled the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. Morgan tugged the other knob and that door groaned open. Clutching his arm, she leaned in to see.

  On the top shelf were tiny bottles with glass spires. She took one out and examined the white paper label that read Delysid (LSD-25) D-lysergic acid diethylamide tartrate. SANDOZ LTD., BASLE, SWITZERLAND.

  It looked like a perfume bottle, but she couldn’t see how to open it. Morgan closed it into his hand and took it away. She looked up. “What?”

  “It’s LSD.”

  She searched his face.

  “They’re ampules of psychedelic drugs. You don’t want
to break it open. It might absorb through your skin and send you on a trip you weren’t planning.”

  Jaw falling slack, she turned and stared at the cabinet filled with LSD and who knew what else. “I sold you illegal drugs?”

  His mouth pulled as he replaced the bottle, closed and locked the cabinet. “We didn’t know.”

  “But . . .” She felt completely flummoxed. “LSD in a mental hospital?”

  “What do you think it was developed for?”

  “I don’t know.” She glared at the cabinet. “I thought we’d find . . .” Herbs? Chamomile tea? “Something interesting and historical, not illegal.”

  “I warned you the mystery might be better than the truth.”

  She paced two steps and back. “What are you going to do?”

  He said, “I’m thinking.”

  While he thought, she decided. “I have to give your money back.”

  “Stop.” He said it like she was being silly, but she wasn’t.

  “You paid me five hundred dollars for LSD. That’s a drug deal.”

  His eyes crinkled. “Don’t worry, SWAT’s not closing in.”

  “This isn’t funny. We should call the sheriff.”

  He leaned his arm on the cabinet, looking in. “Let’s hold off.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to show someone. After Thanksgiving, we’ll turn it over.”

  She searched his face. “We leave it here for the next week and a half?”

  “No one knows it but us.”

  “I just . . .”

  He clasped her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

  Heart suddenly skittering, she turned to see Livie, performing a little skip that hardly lifted her from the floor. Her cuteness was calming, as though nothing could be too wrong in the world. “Okay.” If Morgan had a plan, she’d leave it to him. “See you for Thanksgiving.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Deep-frying a turkey took about half as long as roasting one, according to the directions. The unopened fryer had been in the pantry of her A-frame, like the weirdest housewarming present ever, when she moved in. It had sprung to mind when Noelle invited her, so she hauled it over with the pumpkin pie and cornbread pudding she’d baked the night before, along with the fixings for the rest.