Take the Long Way Home (19 page)

A group of people rose from their table and
offered it to Quinn’s party, confirming her conviction that if
anyone was the star of the day, it was Quinn. The people
relinquishing their table to him and his entourage weren’t doting
fathers, giving their exhausted daughter a desperately needed seat.
They were adoring fans, shaking Quinn’s hand, slapping his back,
raising their glasses and mugs to him in a toast. He looked
disconcerted and a little bemused as he nodded and glanced around.
His smile appeared uncertain, almost pained.

Then his gaze collided with hers and he
froze.

And his smile suddenly appeared genuine.

Really? He was happy to see
her? After sleeping with her last night and blowing her off today,
and showing up at a local bar for a drink with his long-time
sweetheart?
Really?

Anger flared inside Maeve.
Anger, resentment, and something as keen and devastating as the
grief she’d felt when she’d lost her mother. She’d never
actually
had
Quinn—although last night, she’d allowed herself to believe he
was hers. Losing what she’d never actually had shouldn’t hurt this
badly, but it did.

He pushed away from the table, extricated
himself from his posse, and worked his way across the room toward
her. She defiantly lifted her wine glass and took a slug. A nice
Zin ought to be savored, but right now all she could think of was
guzzling the wine so she wouldn’t be tempted to toss it into
Quinn’s face.

More admirers stopped him en route. They
tugged at the sleeve of his dark leather jacket. They planted
themselves directly in front of him. They slung their arms over his
shoulders. A few snapped selfies with him. He paused to chat,
courteous and friendly, but his gaze kept veering to Maeve, as if
to make certain she was waiting for him.

The hell with that. She wasn’t going to wait
for him to run the gantlet of his devotees just to favor her with
his radiant presence. She drained her glass of wine, realized she
couldn’t get from her stool to the tavern’s exit without crossing
paths with him, and asked Gus, “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

Gus was mixing two drinks
at once, pouring vodka into one glass and something pink and fizzy
into another. She motioned with her head the way she had when she’d
signaled to Maeve’s father that Maeve had entered the bar. Maeve
followed Gus’s chin as if it were an arrow and spotted the door
leading to the restrooms. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be
back.”
When Quinn is
gone
, she added silently, sliding off the
stool and using the people thronging the bar as camouflage until
she’d reached the alcove where the restrooms were located. She
pushed open the ladies’ room door, stepped inside, and let the door
swing shut behind her.

Once again, her eyes welled with tears. At
least there were sinks in here to wash her cheeks with, once she
stopped crying.

If she ever stopped crying.

The whole day had been surreal.

The ceremony, for one thing. That freaking
standing ovation—not just from the local folks but from the fans of
Salem’s team who’d driven to Brogan’s Point for the game—had been
bizarre. Coach Marshall’s recitation of Quinn’s achievements and
records, his amplified voice resounding through the stadium, had
gone on and on, and Quinn had experienced something akin to an
out-of-body experience. A part of him kept thinking he couldn’t
possibly have done all that. He couldn’t have been that good.

But another part—the
arrogant, self-satisfied part of himself that he’d been trying to
vanquish for the past ten years—had thought, yeah, he
had
been that good, and
he
had
done all
that. The last-minute win against Gloucester, when he’d
somersaulted over his blockers and landed in the end zone, the ball
tucked tightly in his hand. The games played in the rain, when he’d
managed not to lose his footing in the mud and kept the wet ball
from slipping out of his grasp. The flea-flicker he’d pulled off
with Gary Manzo that had led to a winning touchdown. The game when
he’d passed for a hundred eighty-five yards and run for another
forty-seven. The division championship game his senior year, when
he’d gone sixteen for sixteen in pass attempts.

The cheers had echoed through the stadium
and bathed him. He’d wallowed in the sound, drowned in the vibe.
He’d sucked it in, lapped it up. Relished it.

Ashley had warned him he’d have to make a
speech, but that had been last night at dinner, when all he’d been
thinking about was meeting Maeve afterward. He hadn’t prepared a
statement. When Coach Marshall had thrust the microphone into
Quinn’s hand, he’d had no idea what to say to these people who were
showering him with accolades and adulation.

“Thanks,” he’d managed. “I’m speechless.”
Which had been absolutely true.

The attention had boggled his mind. At one
time, this had been his life. He’d been so used to the applause,
he’d hardly even heard it. He’d taken it for granted. He was hot,
he was cool—he’d deserved all the glory.

He’d been a conceited son of a bitch.

He’d worked hard to leave that behind. It
was an ugly part of him, the smug, egotistical part of him. In the
years since he’d quit playing, he had come to value people whose
talents could be applied to helping people, saving people, making
their lives less painful. He’d forced himself through an academic
grinder, learning humility, shedding hubris. He’d wanted to be a
better person.

But standing in that arena, with all those
people hailing him like a conquering hero… Man, he’d forgotten how
good it felt to be a hero.

The entire thing had been
much too heady. He’d been relieved when the game ended and he could
leave. He’d wanted to escape the strange, otherworldly glow that
seemed to envelop him, and to reclaim who he was now: a doctor. A
healer. Still learning. Still striving. Hoping to be a
real
hero someday, a hero
to people with broken bones, damaged joints, crippling
injuries.

He’d wanted to break free from the whole
hero-worship thing. More than that, he’d wanted a cookie. He’d
wanted a woman who didn’t revere him, who liked him not for his
athletic prowess but for himself.

The ceremony at the homecoming game had been
like fireworks, spectacular but evanescent. Last night with Maeve
had been not fireworks but fire, something that could warm him.
Something real, something lasting. Something burning hot.

His fans wouldn’t let him escape, though.
Merely leaving the stadium had been an ordeal. He’d been repeatedly
stopped and congratulated. More people had wanted to pose for
snapshots with him; they’d asked for his autograph as if he were a
movie star. It had taken more than a half hour to walk from his
seat to the exit gate, surrounded by Ashley, Coach Marshall, and a
phalanx of Booster Club members.

Outside the gate, he’d tried to explain that
he needed to be somewhere. They wouldn’t hear of it. The Booster
Club had planned a reception in his honor. He had to go.

He’d phoned Cookie’s. Maeve’s assistant
answered—calling the place Cookie’s and not Torelli’s, he’d been
pleased to note. He’d barely been able to hear her over the rumble
of voices in the background, though. She’d asked him if he could
hold, and before he could answer, he’d heard a click. He’d listened
to silence long enough to realize he’d been disconnected.

He’d taken comfort in the thought that
Maeve’s store was so busy. Through the phone connection, at least,
her grand opening had sounded grand. He’d wished he could be there,
to savor some of the grandness and to stand aside and watch someone
else receiving all the applause. But Ashley and Coach Marshall had
ushered him directly to the high school cafeteria, which had been
festooned with balloons and banners celebrating not just the
homecoming game but him.

The reception had dragged on. He’d tried
phoning Cookie’s a second time and received a busy signal. He’d
started to text Maeve on her cell phone, but while he was tapping
in a message, a group of fans had swarmed him and he’d had to tuck
his phone away, the message unsent.

He’d catch up with her later, he’d resolved.
He’d flee from this circus and find her, and they’d have some quiet
time together. They’d decompress. They’d walk on the beach, eat
cookies, make love—not necessarily in that order.

He’d get back to being the better Quinn, the
Quinn he aspired to be.

When Bart Sanchez had finished his post-game
meeting with his team and joined the reception, he’d declared that
they should all go somewhere for drinks. Because the reception had
been in the school cafeteria, only soft drinks had been served.
Sanchez had clearly desired something stronger.

So Quinn had found himself swept along in a
tide of people heading for the Faulk Street Tavern. Fine, he’d
thought. They’d all have drinks, and he’d duck into the men’s room,
pull out his cell phone, and try to reach Maeve.

As it turned out, his cell phone wouldn’t be
necessary. She, too, was at the Faulk Street Tavern. He spotted her
at once, as if he was a heat-seeking missile and she was the heat
he was seeking. She sat at the bar with her father, the tall,
sturdy cop, and she looked thin and pale with fatigue.

Quinn wanted nothing more than to race to
her side, to give her a hug, a kiss, whatever strength he could
impart to her. He suspected her father wouldn’t take too kindly to
his doing that, though. Quinn might be ten years out of high
school, but he still found the idea of being in a relationship with
a cop’s daughter a little intimidating.

Not intimidating enough to keep him from
rushing to her side. But he couldn’t rush. He was waylaid by so
many people that by the time he reached the bar, Maeve was no
longer with her father.

He forgot about being intimidated. He was
Quinn Connor, after all. The big shot. The superstar. “Mr. Nolan?”
he said, extending his right hand.

Maeve’s father raised his eyebrows and shook
his hand. “I know who you are,” he said. “Quinn Connor, the best
quarterback ever to walk the halls of Brogan’s Point High. I
understand this was your big day over at the homecoming game.”

Quinn shrugged. “It was a big game for the
school. They won.”

“And you got your number retired. A couple
of the patrolmen were over at the game. We always like to have a
police presence there. Unfortunately, they don’t pick old guys like
me for the fun assignments.”

“I think you’re too important to patrol a
high school football game, Mr. Nolan,” Quinn pointed out. “Aren’t
you pretty high up in the department? A detective, right?”

Nolan frowned. “I know why I know you, but I
don’t know why you know me. I don’t recall ever arresting you.”

Quinn smiled. “I’m a friend of your
daughter’s,” he said.

Nolan’s eyebrows arched again, pleating the
skin of his forehead. “I didn’t know she had any friends in
town.”

“She does.” Quinn glanced around. “She was
sitting here just a minute ago. Where did she go? I want to
congratulate her on her store’s opening.”

“She’s in the ladies’ room,” the tall,
red-haired bartender informed him as she set several draft beers on
a tray for one of her waitresses. She gestured toward an alcove.
Quinn nodded his thanks.

It took him another ten minutes to reach his
destination, because people kept stopping him to congratulate him
along the way. He tried not to be ungrateful, but by the time he
arrived at the alcove leading to the restrooms, he felt as if he’d
swum the English Channel.

He remained outside the door to the ladies’
room, waiting for Maeve.

And waiting. And waiting.

A couple of women entered the alcove,
squeezing past him and shooting him flirtatious smiles. When one
reached for the ladies’ room door, he said, “I’m waiting for
someone who’s been in there a while. Can you tell her I’m
here?”

“Why wait for her?” one of the women asked.
“Why not wait for me instead?”

“For both of us,” the other added, and the
two burst into shrill giggles. “Two for the price of one!”

“No, thanks. I’ll just—could you tell her
I’m out here?”

“Maybe,” one of the women said before they
both disappeared into the ladies’ room.

Quinn was tempted to follow them inside, but
he didn’t want to risk getting arrested. At least one
representative of Brogan’s Point’s finest was seated at the bar,
only a short distance away.

He glanced out of the alcove, checking to
see if anyone was searching for him. Loud music and raucous
laughter bombarded him. Some ancient rock song was playing,
clanging guitars and thumping drums.

The music out in the bar
faded from his mind, replaced by “Take the Long Way Home.” Just
snippets of the song, lyrics floating through his skull.
How they adore you…
But
he didn’t want
them
to adore him. He wanted only one person’s adoration: Maeve’s.
He wanted her to adore him as much he adored her. Screw the fans,
screw the ceremony. Who cared how much they adored him?

Look through the years…if you’d had more
time…

He might need more time to become a better
person, to shake off that celebrity skin and be the man he wanted
to be. It took time. It took hard work.

But he didn’t need more time to know one
thing. Yanking open the ladies’ room door, he leaned in and
shouted, “I love you, Maeve!”

She looked like hell. Her eyes were red, her
cheeks puffy. So much for having a sink and a bunch of paper towels
to undo the damage of all her crying.