Page 7 of What Love Can Do

Though he had no idea where to begin. He supposed he could start by re-reading Mam’s journal and making notes on places to visit, but two important spots—at least for him—would be the house she grew up in and Mulligan’s Tavern, the pub where she and Dad met in the Irish part of town.

A noise like that of a chainsaw ripping apart a giant oak tree sounded next to him, and Quinn noticed that Con had already passed out right on top of the bed’s comforter, snoring away like a freight train. Quinn sighed, envying his brother’s ability to just lay back and fall asleep like that. It’d always taken Quinn a while, especially when his brain was overloaded with a thousand thoughts.

He was only older than Con by three years, but sometimes, he felt like Con was the baby of them all and felt compelled to take care of him as such. Getting up, Quinn reached for the folded blanket at the end of the bed and stretched it out over his brother. “It’s way past your bed time, wee one.” He laughed then headed out, closing the door gently behind him.

The establishment had a lovely living room area with couches, a fireplace, and some reading chairs. He could sit out here for a while and hope that the muffin gazelle would come by again. That is, if her mam wasn’t around to keep her in line. He’d seen the way she looked at her daughter—Lillian, her name was—as if she needed an eye kept on her.

On a couch next to a window with a view of the country road, a pumpkin patch out on the lawn, and the rain about to come down, Quinn had just spread his knees out, getting comfortable, when Lillian appeared, brandishing a tray with a tea kettle and two ceramic cups. She didn’t see him and was headed down the hall, clearly for their room. “Miss?” Quinn called.

She slowed down. “Oh, you’re out here. I was taking it to your room.”

Quinn stood to help her, or at least make his willingness known. “My brother fell asleep. Much appreciated. I feel bad you made it after your mam told you. When she offered, I assumed she’d be the one to do it.”

Lillian rounded the couch and set the tray down on the table before him. “I didn’t know which type of tea you liked, so I just made chamomile. There’s cream, sugar, and honey here,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. She didn’t make eye contact with him, and she kept pointing at the tea and talking about it without looking directly at him.

“I usually just pour some milk in it, but no worries.” He smiled, hoping she’d brave a look at him.

“Wow, milk—the one thing you needed was the one thing I didn’t bring.” She snapped her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ll go get some. Be right back.”

“No, honestly, it’s fine. Lillian, please. I don’t need it,” Quinn said, shooting out a hand to stop her. “I’m sure it’s grand just the way it is.” He poured himself a cup and raised it, letting the tepid liquid touch his lips. It wasn’t his mam’s strong black tea with milk. It was the worst, blandest tea he’d ever had in his life, but he sipped it and made mm-mmm noises just so she would think it was fantastic. “Thanks. This really hit the spot.”

“Whew! I’m so glad. Here I was thinking I was making it all wrong. My name’s Lilly, by the way. Only my mom ever calls me Lillian. So what brings you all the way out from Ireland? Do you have family here?” She folded her arms over her good-sized chest, offering up a sweet, pretty smile. She didn’t have the biggest or the smallest breasts. They were a perfect size for her frame.

He forced his gaze on hers. “Please, sit.” He gestured for her to have a seat and watched her think about it.

Slowly, she sat, folding her hands in her lap. “Actually, I will sit a minute. I’ve been on my feet for five hours.” She sank back against the seat’s cushion and moaned slightly. Quinn tried not to imagine that same moan in another context. “Yeah, that feels good.”

He swallowed, shaking off the erotic images creeping into his mind. “See? No more foosterin’ for you, young lady,” Quinn laughed.

“What?” Lillian—no, Lilly—raised an eyebrow.

“Er…wasting time. I was being facetious. Of course you’re working hard. Anyone can tell just from looking at ya.” Quinn caught Lilly’s mother’s eye as she passed by the living room, not missing how the woman’s stride slowed slightly before she disappeared from view. Quinn cleared his throat. “I get the feeling your mam doesn’t like me for some reason.”

Lilly’s eyes widened. “Don’t be silly. Why wouldn’t she like you? No, everyone always assumes she’s pissed off, but that’s just her normal face.” She laughed. “So you’re a fan of wine and wineries? Is that why you’re in town? I would imagine. I mean, it’s really the only reason anyone ever comes through here.” When she spoke, her voice was soft and melodious, and if he closed his eyes and gave into his exhaustion, it would send him straight to heaven.

Quinn considered telling her about his mother’s death. He liked her already, and she seemed the type of girl who would understand his mission, but he wasn’t ready for the questions that would come, nor the condolences. She would want to know more about Maggie Phillips, and then her mother might overhear, and God, no—he just wanted to drink his bland tea, and share a few words with this beautiful woman a bit more before retiring to his room. “We heard it’s nice out here. Wanted to see it for ourselves. Yes, we love wine and wineries.” He coughed.

“Irish guys who like wine instead of beer and whiskey, huh?” Lilly clucked her tongue. “Never saw that coming.”

“Go way outta that! Stereotyping, are you?” Quinn feigned being offended, but secretly, he loved that she was spot on. He never drank wine, hated the stuff. “I happen to be a huge champion of glorified grape juice.”

Lilly’s mouth twisted. “Well, you came to the right place. Definitely lots of glorified grape juice factories around here.”

“Hey,” he said. “I was just pullin’ your leg, you know. Not disrespecting wine country or anything.” He detected a wistfulness in her eyes. There was something about them, like something brewing just underneath the surface of a clear, glassy lake. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or three with tight skin like that, but she was yearning and had been for some time. “Are you not fond of wine, Lilly?” Or was it the town or something else she longed to be free of?

The light in her eyes seemed to switch on, as if realizing, as hostess, she needed to smile and make her guests comfortable at all times, never let them into any pervasive sadness she might be feeling. “Me? Oh, I like wine fine. And it’s beautiful here. The people are wonderful. It’s just that I’ve lived here my whole life, so I’ve seen everything there is to see…here…anyway. More wineries and vineyards than one person would ever care to see in one lifetime, Mr. O’Neill, so I apologize if my attitude is a bit blasé.”

“Quinn. Mr. O’Neill was my father.” He reached a hand out to her. Lilly stared at it a moment then slowly slipped hers into it, shaking softly. Warm and smooth. “And I see nothing wrong with your attitude.”

She stared at him a few moments. She looked as if there was more she wanted to say, and he imagined her unraveling her whole life’s dreams right here, opening herself to him in more ways than one, but she shook it off, pulling her phone from her pocket to stare at it. “Oh, my goodness. I have to get back. It was really nice chatting with you, Quinn.”

“Ah, sure, very nice. You work every day?” he heard himself say. Why was that? Did he want to see her again? Well, who wouldn’t? Just look at her.

“Most days, yeah. It’s starting to slow down now after Labor Day, but…why?”

“Ah, no reason. Just wondering. We’ll be here a week, my brother and I. Maybe I’ll see you around again?” It was casual enough. Not too hopeful or flirty. Stay focused. Do what you came to do.

“Of course. Swing by in the morning. You can try my famous muffins.” She winked, flashed her bright, pretty smile, and tapped the back of the wingchair. “See you later.”

---