Page 151 of Down Knot Out
I want to say yes. To promise that everything will get better. I want to hug her, but I’m not sure either of us could handle it. Instead, I reach out and tug on her braid the way I did when we were little.
She ducks away, swatting my hand, and a glow fills her face I haven’t seen in years.
Mrs. Reynolds clears her throat. “If we don’t get going, we won’t be home before dark.”
Sadie squeezes Quinn once more and climbs onto the water taxi. She tucks the snack bag onto her lap before leaning over the side to look back at us.
“Bye, Mom!” Quinn calls, her voice ringing out.
Sadie waves, fingers splayed. “Bye, kiddo. Remember to write.”
Chloe wraps her arms around Quinn as the boat backs away from the dock and moves out onto the water.
When they’re out of view, Quinn turns her face into my pant leg, breathing slow and deep.
I reach down to scoop her up and kiss the top of her head. “You okay?”
Quinn nods. “I hope she comes back to visit.”
Unable to promise anything, I rub her back as I turn and walk to the waiting golf cart.
This wasn’t the visit I expected to have with Sadie. It was both more heartbreaking and more hopeful than I ever could have imagined.
We have a lot to think about and a lot to do if we want to secure Quinn’s and our future.
Back at the Homestead, Holden meets us at the door, arms spread, and sweeps Quinn up into a bear hug.
She lets herself be carried, limp and boneless, and when he puts her down, she says, “Uncle Holden, can we bake more banana bread today? I want to learn the recipe.”
“Anything for you,” he says, choked with pride. “I’ll show you how we brown bananas before they’re ripe.”
Inside, the cabin feels warmer than it did before, the kitchen bright with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
Chloe lifts Quinn onto the counter and pours flour into a bowl. The girl starts to talk, slowly at first, then in a rush of words about the lake, her stories, and her plans for summer. I lean in the doorway and let it wash over me, every sound and scent and movement, alive and real and mine.
The hurt doesn’t go away, but it settles somewhere in the background, and for the first time, I believe it’s possible that the door can stay open, even if only a crack.
Maybe that’s all the hope anyone gets.
Chapter Forty-One
Nathaniel
Aweek after Sadie’s visit, I meet with Blake and Dominic in the garage office.
The faint sound of a movie drifts from the family room, where Quinn, Chloe, and Grady camped out after dinner.
I sit on the sectional, laptop balanced on my knees, a legal pad open and divided into categories for Materials, Labor, Subcontractors, and Incidents. Each heading has a sub-list, then sub-sub-lists, with arrows and asterisks covering the paper.
Dominic has claimed the spot on the floor next to the large, square coffee table, a ring of empty coffee cups forming a barrier around his computer. He stares at the screen with the singular focus of someone who hasn’t gotten enough sleep in days. His shirt is half untucked,hair loose from the braid, reading glasses balanced on his nose because he’s been awake since five and refuses to acknowledge how tired he is.
Blake paces, pausing every few laps to hover over my shoulder or nudge a sticky note with the side of his finger. Sometimes he lingers in the doorway, checking on our mate and our pup. He wears his hair pulled up into a tight knot, and the tattoos on his forearms ripple every time his muscles flex.
Emily arrives late, boots thudding up the wooden steps to the garage. She shoulders inside carrying a box overflowing with manila folders, a bag of peanut butter pretzels and clementines swinging from her arm. Dust streaks her jeans, and flecks of paint spatter her thighs, but her hands are scrubbed clean.
“Evening, gentlemen.” She sets her box down with a grunt. “Records from the city office, as requested. Also, protein for the Alphas, citrus for the brains.”
Dominic grins, teeth flashing, and peels a clementine with the speed of a magician. Blake grabs a fistful of pretzels, not even stopping to chew before he stalks back to the doorway.
