Catching Serenity (Serenity #4) (7 page)

“No,” she says forgetting the drawing for a moment to stare at me, that mild grin completely vacant now. “To be gray-headed, Sayo. To… to be an old lady.”

I am not prepared for that revelation or how desperate I am to keep the tears from spilling from my eyes. I blink them away, not wanting Rhea to notice. She doesn’t want pity. She doesn’t want anyone upset because she is sick—she’s told me at least a dozen times. So again, I deflect.

“Maybe you
should
try dyeing you hair purple.” I tug on my pink hair, waving it a little. “Then we really would match.”

For a long time, Rhea watches me, eyes moving, scrutinizing my features, then dropping her gaze back down to the strands between my fingers.

“No,” she says, exhaling before she returns to the drawing. “I’d rather have gray hair.”

And because she’s not watching, I close my eyes because that’s what I want too—Rhea very old and very gray. I close my eyes and pray, right then, that God would grant her the time for her skin to wrinkle, to allow time to leave its traces in her forehead, for gravity to drag down breasts that had yet to even develop. I wanted that so desperately for her.

“Do you think it’s beautiful?” she asks and I’m not sure if she means the drawing.

“Yes, sweetie, it’s the most beautiful dream.”

And it is. Dreams are that way when they are heartfelt. When the significance behind them goes deeper than hope, further than a wish. Those are the dreams of the faithful. The ones who haven’t completely given up. Rhea dreams beautifully. She hopes fiercely and that night when I went to bed, it was that old lady I tried to see in my head. That gray haired woman and the faceless man who loved her. More than anything, I wanted that dream to come true.

I WAIT AT
Joe’s for Autumn as she hustles to the rugby pitch to fetch Declan and Donovan since both their vehicles are out for repairs. That happens when you race your souped-up rides down Cushman’s Crossing like bored teenagers and come off the other side of the track with a trip to the auto body shop in your future. The wait, I don’t mind. Not on mornings like this when the wind is cool and the sidewalk and pavement is thick with the smell of rain. It reminds me of mornings I’d sit underneath the front awning of the library before I opened it to the public. Those mornings Cavanagh was quiet, the slumber which would give way to hustle and bustle; the easy breath of a vivid, living community that would rise with a burst of energy and not stop until well after the sun set. Most of my days were full of requests from professors or students complaining about their coursework. Before all that started, I’d take a second, brimming hot cup of coffee in hand and sit out on the benches, watching my hometown as it came to life. It calmed me, prepared me for what would come next.

Two squirrels move across Joe’s front yard, scampering toward the large pine tree near his driveway. I smile at the way they chase each other as I stretch my legs out over the front wooden swing, my back against the armrest. The storm that passed through is dying and the steady thump of rain against the roof has me shutting my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of wet grass and honeysuckle from Joe’s back yard. Cavanagh is beautiful, that much I know without opening my eyes. Beyond the cityscape, past the tall buildings and the stadium on campus, there are the lush, imposing mountains that seem to stretch and curl around the town. Cavanagh sits in the center with those mountains acting as sentry—black rock that touches a purple and yellow sky, protecting us.

The university library was my sanctuary—a comforting, imposing structure filled with histories, with the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes, and I was its keeper. I miss it. Rhea’s illness, my need to be with her, keeps me from my office and the large oak desk that fills my office. It keeps me from the rows of Funko Pop! figurines of every conceivable fandom I cherish lining the shelves and window seals. It keeps me from the looming size of that Grecian building, the long row of galley windows, even the cobblestone entranceway that spreads out at the front entrance, and leads to the brightly blooming mums and wild flowers in the planters along the steps.

Sometimes I think I’ll go back. Sometimes I think I need to, but as the Chancellor told me, family is essential. Family is first. Ava would say that. She’s just as much family to me as Autumn, Mollie and Layla are. Still, I tried not to take advantage of our relationship when I asked her for a leave of absence. She understood, but I still felt guilty about it.

The creak of the screen door opening pulls me out of my thoughts; Joe comes out to the porch, his hands full of two steaming mugs. “Still pissing rain?” he asks, offering me a mug of coffee.

“It’s slacked off a bit. Thanks,” I say, tipping my cup for a quick toast.

He leans against the porch column and sits on the railing, gazing at the thick rainclouds that are moving at a snail’s pace away from town. “It’ll be gone in half an hour.” Joe motions with his mug to the sky. “I hope Autumn will be wary of the slick roads.”

“She’s been driving for ten years, Joe.” He shrugs, dismissing me with a smile. I lower my foot, moving the swing when it slows. “You’ve been back two years and you still don’t quite get that your little girl isn’t a kid anymore.”

Joe doesn’t look offended, doesn’t glare at me at least and when he shifts his gaze in my direction, I offer him a smile of my own, loving the way one dimple dents in his cheeks. “Ah, I know that well, love. Too well.” He takes a breath, rubbing his neck. “Before too long Declan will finally convince her to accept his barmy arse and she’ll be married and likely off to Bridgett knows where.”

“You could go with them, you know.” The thought comes to me from nowhere and as soon as I mention Joe leaving, I frown. I don’t want anyone to leave Cavanagh, least of all my best friend, but I’m no fool. None of them will stay here forever.

“Aye, but I’d only be in the way.”

“Joe, you’ve spent most of her life not involved.” I pull my feet up and pat the empty spot on the swing for the old man to sit down. He does, reluctantly but keeps silent. “Don’t you think she’d want you around when she starts having babies?”

“Babies?” I had no idea his eyes could get that round and the amazed, loud laughter is out of my mouth when that wild fear and worry hardens the muscles around his mouth.

“That’s generally what happens when people get married. Especially people like those two.”

“What do you…
oh
aye.
” Some distasteful image must jump into Joe’s mind when I paint that picture and he wrinkles his nose, then rubs the palm of his free hand against his eyelids as though that would take away the image. “Well. What’s that got to do with anything?” He watches the trees move in the breeze, ignoring his coffee as it rests on his thigh.

“You’re the only parent she has left.” I grab his hand to make him look back at me. “And she loves you. Declan loves you, too. You’re the only father either of them has ever known. Of course they’d want you around when they start a family.”

That soft smile, the ease of tension in his features makes Joe look younger, calmer and I get some small glimmer of pleasure that I’d somehow comforted him. Still, Joe seems distracted by the thought of leaving Cavanagh again.

We both watch the rain slide against the railing and down the steps, and Joe seems a little lost. “I couldn’t just… leave…” he glances up at the house.

“It’ll be here for you when you get back. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“You, love,” Joe says, tapping my leg, “should be out seeing the world.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Joe. Not any time soon.”

Joe’s gaze is hard, I feel the weight of it on the side of my face as I stare out beyond the porch, to the neighboring house and the small Yorkie that runs through several puddles on the lawn. But Joe is not one to let anyone he cares for bear a burden on their own. For all his past mistakes, he is a good man and I take the comfort he offers when he slips his hand, still warm from his mug, over mine.

“Thanks,” I whisper, squeezing back against his fingers.

The Yorkie vanishes beneath the covered carport attached to the neighbor’s house and Joe and I stay silent, keeping to ourselves as the weather and traffic around us turns into a quiet hum, until the warmth of his touch grows cooler the harder the wind blows.

Then Joe’s cell phone chirps, breaking our reverie. He excuses himself with a quick, “Give me just a moment…” and then I am alone again with the stillness around me and the lulling melody of the storm.

At least until I hear the low mutter of an accented curse and the whip of the door flying open. Quinn. He must not see me at first as he stretches, bare-chested, with his shirt hanging in his hand and low-hanging black rugby shorts revealing a thick trail of hair below his navel. It’s not until he has taken a few steps out onto the porch, throwing his shirt around his neck and pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, that he notices me sitting on the swing watching him.

“Bollocks.” The curse is whispered, but I don’t care enough to pretend I hadn’t heard him. By the casual glare he offers me, I get the impression that Quinn doesn’t care either.

Another low grunt, another stretch and he glares at the sky and the dark clouds that loom above us. “Fecking rain.”

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.” It seems the only sound he’ll make is that annoying grunt. Quinn holds the cigarette loosely between two fingers, moving his knuckles to twist it side to side as though he needs the distraction. As though the scent of rain and maybe my presence gives him something to consider, maybe something to glare at before he attempts smoking.

Feeling the smallest bit smug that my irritation at his smoking might be what keeps that cigarette unlit, I grin, stretching my legs out again. The small gesture moves the swing, makes the chains creak and moan and Quinn glances back at me. When I return his stare, he gives up, returning his attention to the black clouds.

A smart aleck part of me that hasn’t had a lot of exercise of late gets ahold of me, and I casually say, “Isn’t it a little early for you to be up?” Another glare, this one with a hint of offense and I shrug, harboring a hidden grin. “Don’t you trust fund, party animal types sleep in until just before the midnight hour beckons?”

That doesn’t even warrant a smirk. “Bit hard to get any sleep around here,” he says, stretching his neck, “with all the yammering about and laughter.”

Joe and I hadn’t been that loud; he was just yanking my chain. I decide to yank back. “That must be horrible.” He glances at me, eyebrows drawing together. “All that God awful laughing.”

“It does wear me down a bit, if I’m being honest.”

Quinn slips his gray t-shirt on and I try not to look, reminding myself that those beautiful eyes, that lithe, athletic frame doesn’t excuse the attitude or his bothered, entitled manner. But I’m human. I’m a single woman in her twenties who hasn’t had regular sex since the falling out with my ex Sam, a couple of years ago.

Quinn is beautiful and he damn well knows it so the small effort I make at not staring while he pulls on that shirt, is weak. And he catches me.

I don’t need a mirror to know the look I’m giving him and I don’t think I care much that subtlety is off the table at the moment.

He pauses just long enough for me to notice the lift of his eyebrows before he steps in front of me, kneeling next to the swing so that we are eye level.

“See something you like?” I do. I like that shape of his face, the soft contours of his eyes, how gentle they make him look, how they contrast to the angular cut of his jaw and the wide stretch of his mouth. Quinn stops the swing from moving by holding his leg against the underside of the seat and then he leans forward, his arm resting just inches from mine. “Do you then?”

How many seconds, I wonder, would it take him to have me in his room? How quickly, how thoroughly would he perform knowing that Joe is just a few feet away, that Declan and Autumn would be back soon? Quinn doesn’t strike me as the sort to rush anything, least of all fucking. Certainly not fucking a girl he sees as a challenge. And that’s what I am. I see that plainly in the way he stares at me, how he tries to appear so unaffected by my presence. Do I like what I see? Of course I do. Will I tell him that? Not ever in life.

It would be fun to play with him, to pass the time while I wait for Autumn. I even consider it—flirting a little, trying to remember what it is to laugh, to forget worry, but then Quinn shifts his legs, moving his weight from one foot to another and the pack of smokes in his pocket falls to the floor.

“No,” I say glancing away from his pack to glare at him. “Not even remotely.”

“What have I done now?” he says, with feigned injury, while swiping the cigarettes off the floor and replacing them into his pocket. I didn’t even light the fecking fag.”

“As if that makes one whit of difference.”

He stands when I place my feet on the floor, readjusting on the swing, but Quinn doesn’t keep clear of me. I can smell the masculine scent of his hair and the mint from his toothpaste. “Aren’t you just in a grand mood this morning?”