Susan Mallery - Daughters Of The Bride

At seventeen, he couldn’t wait to be anywhere but here. Now some twenty years later, he was grateful to be back.

The dogs led the way into the bar. He and Joyce took seats at a corner table. The dogs settled at their feet.

He was sure having a couple of canines in an establishment that served food had to violate several state ordinances, but as far as he could tell, no one complained. If they did, they were told the dogs were excellent judges of character. That tended to quiet all but the most offensive of guests. And the ones who weren’t quieted were asked to leave.

A pretty redhead appeared at their table. “Hello, Joyce. Quinn.”

He recognized her face from his previous visits, if not her name. Fortunately, her name tag was easy to read.

“Nice to see you again, Kelly.”

She smiled. “What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have a glass of Smarty Pants chardonnay.”

Quinn laughed at his grandmother. “I can’t believe you’re still bitter about what happened.”

“I haven’t forgotten because I have an excellent memory. Besides, I love my new wines. I’m serving them as the exclusive house wine in the hotel.”

A few years back, the local winery Joyce had sourced from decided to change winemakers and therefore the style and taste of their wines. Joyce had complained, the winemaker had done his own thing and, in protest, she’d gone looking for wines she liked better. Middle Sister Wines, based in Northern California, had won both her taste buds and her business.

The chardonnay was very popular with the ladies who lunched at the hotel, with a fresh, California bouquet that had hints of citrus and pear. Another of their whites, Drama Queen pinot grigio, had been racking up awards from wine competitions around the country.

“They’ve become a tradition,” Joyce added.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re my favorite tradition. I adore everything about you.”

How could he not? She was delightful, and even if she wasn’t, she was the only family he had left.

Kelly turned her attention to him. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the same.”

White wine wasn’t his favorite, but when with Joyce...

“And a cheese plate,” his grandmother added. “Quinn is hungry.”

He wasn’t, but there was no point in arguing.

“Right away,” Kelly told them.

“I’ve reserved the groundskeeper’s bungalow,” Joyce said when Kelly had left. “You should be very comfortable there.”

He knew the cottage—it was at the south end of the property, private and large. “It’s one of your most expensive suites,” he protested. “I just need a regular room for a couple of weeks while I figure out what I’m doing.”

“No. I want you to have it. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

He knew she didn’t need the money renting it would provide, but still. “Thank you.”

“I’ve blocked it for the summer,” she added.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m forty-one. Don’t you think it’s time I moved away from home?”

“No. You’re just back and you’ll find your own place soon enough. This way you can settle in and find what’s exactly right. Assuming you really are staying.”

“You doubt me.”

“Of course. You live in Malibu, Quinn. You have a business there. Whatever will you do in sleepy Los Lobos?”

A good question and one he was looking forward to answering.

“I can run my business from here. Once I get a recording studio set up, my artists will come to me.”

“You’re really that important?”

Her voice was teasing, her smile impish. He winked.

“I am all that and more.”

She laughed. “I hope it’s true and you do stay. And I don’t even care if you’re moving because you’re worried about me. What kind of place do you need for your studio?”

“Almost anywhere would do. We’ll be remodeling regardless. So a house or a warehouse. I’d prefer a stand-alone building with good parking.” And privacy. Where people could come and go without being seen or photographed.

“Is that nice mute man going to be joining you?”

Quinn sighed. “Zealand isn’t mute. He just doesn’t talk much.”

“I’ve never heard him speak at all. Are you sure he can?”

“Yes. He’s said words at least twice.”

Zealand might not have much to say, but he was the best soundman in the business. He would be the one deciding if the space Quinn was interested in could be converted into a killer studio. One where they could work and turn sound into magic.

Movement caught his attention. He looked up and saw a tall blonde walk to the bar. She had long hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt.

It wasn’t her face that caused him to keep looking, although she was pretty enough. It was more the way she walked—partially hunched, with her shoulders rounded—as if she didn’t want to be noticed.

When she reached the bar, she and Kelly spoke. They both laughed. The blonde said something else, then turned to leave. As she took a step, she somehow got tangled in a bar stool and stumbled. She righted herself, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, then hurried away.

“That was Courtney,” Joyce told him. “You’ve met her before.”

Quinn knew his grandmother well enough to say, “No,” in a firm voice.

“I’m only—”

“No. Whatever you have in mind, no.”

“There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

Kelly delivered their wine and the cheese plate. Pearl and Sarge immediately sat up. Quinn saw there were two dog biscuits on the tray. Kelly handed one to each dog, then smiled and left.

“You’re not too old for her,” his grandmother added, dashing his hope that the arrival of their drinks had been a distraction. On the bright side, there was obviously nothing wrong with her mind. On the not-so-bright side...damn.

“She’s what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven. That’s only a fourteen-year difference.”

“It’s not the years, it’s the miles.”

“You’re still a handsome man.”

He paused in the act of raising his glass. “Okay, that’s creepy.”

She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

They touched glasses. Quinn sipped the crisp, buttery chardonnay. “Nice.”

“I like it. Now, about Courtney—”

He held up his free hand. “Not happening. I love you like my grandmother, but I’m not going there.”

“You have to at some point. Don’t you want to fall in love?”

A familiar question. The answer to which had always been hell, no. But lately...he’d started to wonder. A year ago there’d been someone in his life who had made him think there were possibilities. Before he could figure out what, she’d fallen in love with someone else. While he’d gotten over her, the fact that he’d been considering more than his usual no-strings we’re-in-it-for-the-sex had surprised him. And gotten him to thinking. Did he want more?

He hadn’t reached the point of defining the question as did he want to fall in love? He wasn’t sure there was a guy on the planet who thought that way. But having someone around on a permanent basis—that might work.

“I need to figure it out,” he admitted.

“Figure fast. You’re not getting any younger.”

He laughed. “What happened to I’m a good-looking man?”

“Beauty fades.”

He raised his glass to her. “Not yours.”

Joyce rolled her eyes. “Your charm is lost on me. I’m old.”

“You are perfection.”

She didn’t smile back. Instead, she looked at him intently. “I mean it, Quinn. I want you to find someone. Settle down. Have children. I worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself.”