“Aren’t you supposed to be playing with your dolls?”
“It’s boring up here, and ’sides, Daddy, you guys were yelling.”
Instantly contrite, Quinn hurried up the stairs and hoisted his daughter into his arms for a hug. Hayley had been barely a year old when Brett Santini’s small plane had been struck by lightning and crashed in a rugged part of the Allegheny Mountains, killing Quinn’s father, mother and wife. At the time, Hayley’s pediatrician said he thought Hayley was young enough not to be affected by the accident that had nearly devastated Quinn. Actually, neither one had been quick to recover.
Two women Quinn had tried dating three years after the accident, accused him of overcompensating for his losses by spoiling Hayley. His daughter was bright and sensitive and his spoiling just meant he wanted her with him when he had free time. So his response to both women had simply been to stop dating them—or anyone. Dating simply cut into his role as dad.
Since Hayley had entered kindergarten, though, she’d started to notice and exclaim over women she thought were pretty or nice. Last week she’d picked out a clerk in a store, and later during that same outing, a waitress. In a voice the women had to have heard, Hayley declared them very pretty and asked if her dad thought either one was married.
But April Trent? She wore boots like a lumberjack.
Quinn tickled Hayley’s ribs as he carried her down to the main floor, and deposited her in a chair by the fire. “Listen, hon, Gram thinks your dad was too hard on Ms. Trent. I guess I’d better go see what I can do to smooth her ruff led feathers. I’ll change my clothes and make a few phone calls before I head out. You can pop in one of the DVDs we brought over.”
“Is ‘smooth ruff led feathers’ like saying you’re sorry for yelling at her?”
Adjusting the knife creases in his tux pants, Quinn straightened fully and began to rub the back of his neck. His troubled eyes sought his grandmother’s.
“Apology might be a bit much, since she showed up here uninvited. But Gram wants me to, uh, discuss something with Ms. Trent.” Crossing to where Norma sat, he crouched to speak softly. “I know you said you’d pay her for the return of the letters,” Quinn said, “but I won’t…can’t do that. Gram, think how that could be misconstrued?”
Norma lowered her voice. “Maybe you should listen to Hayley’s suggestion. You were rude to Ms. Trent. A simple apology might achieve our goal.”
“If I knew the goal,” he muttered, and left her with a look that said plainly it was against his inclinations to go after April Trent.
On the way to his house out back, Quinn spent more time mulling over what excuse he’d give Hoerner for skipping out on his generous cocktail party. After changing clothes, Quinn called the kindly state representative and explained that his grandmother urgently required his help.
Not until Quinn drove out the gate did he realize it stood wide open. Only then did he feel less hostile toward the woman who’d disrupted his evening. Yesterday, Joseph Langford, Gram’s driver, had reported to Quinn that he’d had trouble closing the electronic gate. So April Trent hadn’t scaled the fence as Quinn had all but accused her of doing. She’d strolled right through.
Now he’d probably have to apologize. And tomorrow get onto the perimeter-fence firm to fix the system. The company should have phoned him when they detected a breach. Quinn paid dearly for a firm to monitor the gate’s daily operation—one more nuisance to add to a growing list, at a time when election meet-and-greets, donor balls, et cetera, were exploding into high gear.
And now this…this letter debacle of his grandmother’s. The Trent person had referred to them as love letters. What kind of nonsense was that? Although his grandmother hadn’t rushed to deny that claim, or anything else April Trent had said.
Quinn’s head pounded as he considered even the hint of a skeleton popping out of his family closet this close to the end of a bitter campaign. His opponent was the king of muckrakers.
Or was he dodging shadows where none existed? After all, they were talking about Grandmother Santini. As far back as Quinn could remember, she’d epitomized grace and dignity. As well, she’d been happily married to the grandfather he’d never met for—what—more than two decades? He’d heard his dad brag that Anthony had rubbed elbows with Presidents Roosevelt, Truman and Eisenhower. Quinn was probably worrying about nothing. Besides, trying to throw dirt on an eighty-two-year-old woman was bound to backfire.
God, those letters must be ancient. Quinn’s grandfather had died before Quinn was even born. 1968, he thought. Gram had always lived alone in the big house, but her only son had lived close by. Quinn grew up running in and out of both places. Until he went off to college. Right out of law school, he’d married Amy, and they’d moved to Richmond, where he took a job as a state prosecuting attorney. He’d been twenty-four. No, twenty-five. Lordy, where had those ten years gone? He was thirty-five now, and tonight he felt every minute of it.
Jeez, it was dark in this neck of the woods. The lack of street lights didn’t help; neither did the squall that had sprung up.
Straining to see through the hypnotic swish of wiper blades, Quinn suddenly slammed his foot on the brake and felt the rear of the car fishtail before he managed to stop—there was a doe elk standing in the center of the road. Seconds later, a big bull elk bounded out of the darkness. The two magnificent animals cantered across the asphalt and melted into a thicket of underbrush to Quinn’s left. Rain hammered on the sunroof of the Lexus, reminding him to get underway. He turned on the radio to a favorite classical station before starting off at a much slower pace. Who knew what kind of wildlife might live out here?
Even though he drove slowly, he passed Oak Grove Road and was forced to make a U-turn. Quinn wondered what had possessed a young woman to buy a home so remote from any neighbors. How old was April Trent, anyway? Her brother Miles, was roughly Quinn’s age. Roger had to be a few years Miles’s junior, as he’d only recently finished an orthopedic residency in Bethesda. Quinn had also heard that Roger had just bought a practice, located near the Trents’ law firm, from a newly retired surgeon. Which didn’t tell Quinn a thing about April’s age. He considered himself a reasonable judge of age, since he’d spent several years representing men and women from their teens to their midnineties in court. One learned to gauge people quickly and accurately.
Quinn would be willing to bet April Trent was staring down the barrel of thirty. He couldn’t imagine why he’d even noticed, but she hadn’t worn a wedding ring. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t living out here in the sticks with a significant other. He decided she probably was. Otherwise, he would’ve run across her in the parade of twenty-to-thirtyish singles who stalked the favorite cocktail bars of the area’s upwardly mobile.
He grimaced, recalling how many of the town’s unattached women had gone out of their way to meet him. It had become embarrassing, if not annoying. When he griped to friends, they pointed out that was a normal part of being in the public eye. Married pals were quick to add that if Quinn would pick one of the many available women and settle down, it’d be broadcast far and wide and he’d be out of the market. He would—if he ever found someone who shared his commitment to the environment and to family—someone who wasn’t just interested in his money and so-called good looks.
The road narrowed and branches draped low over what had become a series of potholes. There! Lights straight ahead. Hadn’t Gram said the farmhouse sat at the road’s end?
He could only picture how muddy his car must be as he eased down a drive that resembled one giant mud puddle. Quinn sat surveying the house for a moment after he shut off the car’s motor. The building was long, low-slung, with a new shake roof, but with walls solidly built of red brick. Quinn saw the potential in the whole package. People paid well for privacy, and this place certainly offered that.
He opened the door and climbed out slowly. He vaguely wondered if April Trent had a dog she’d trained to take an intruder’s leg off.
Except