Patchwork Family (2 page)

“Of course I did,” Quinn replied. “We went through school together. I wasn’t aware that he’d died. When—”

“Two years ago.” She couldn’t be that gracious. And she couldn’t be remorseful. She’d tried, but the grieving widow role required more talent than her amateur acting skills.

When she said nothing else, he prodded, “And this applies to Mrs. Wilson because…”

She licked her dry lips. “It applies because Mrs. Wilson hates my guts. She envisioned her daughter, Layla, Linda, Lannie, I don’t know, some L name, as Christopher’s wife.”

He shielded his mouth again, giving another polite cough. “I believe her name is Lila.”

She shrugged her shoulders, tired of the story. “Whatever. It seems her daughter married beneath herself because she still loved Christopher and I had stolen him, according to Mrs. Wilson.” How she wished she’d been able to give him back.

“I see.” Very lawyerly. He even nodded, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

Very nice hands. Large, strong, well cared for.

She jerked her gaze away. It immediately collided with his. A question resided in his hazel eyes. Or were they green?

What was wrong with her? The man’s eye color had nothing to do with her.

“Do you have other questions?” she asked, seeking that peaceful calm, the center of the storm that had gotten her through the past few minutes.

He stood, giving her a polite smile. “No, not at the moment. I’ll study your file. Then I’ll check with the clerk’s office to see if Mrs. Wilson has filed.”

“There’s a petition. She’s circulating a petition to all my neighbors, trying to get them to side with her, to keep me from opening.” How could she have forgotten—

He looked down at his notes. “I believe you did mention it. We won’t be able to stop her petition, but we should be able to come up with a strategy to counteract it. A petition isn’t legally binding, you
know. It’s a tool for persuasion. But there are others.”

She took another deep breath. She was verging on the hysterical again. Determined not to ruin her performance of a calm woman, however pathetic it had been, Molly stood. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to repeat myself.” She extended her hand, trying to be professional. However, as she realized she’d removed her gloves at some point in their conversation, she also noted the brown stains on her fingers.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry. I’m staining some furniture and—”

“That’s quite all right,” he assured her soothingly.

Except it didn’t soothe her. She whirled toward the door, anxious to escape the most humiliating experience she’d ever suffered through.

“Your coat, Mrs. Blake?”

It was getting worse. Not only had she taken off her gloves, she’d apparently shrugged out of the old navy pea jacket she’d found in one of the closets and fallen in love with. The pea jacket that covered the stains on her sweats.

After all, she’d intended to make two stops that would take five minutes, tops, and then be back at work. It seemed silly to even think about changing.

Wrong.

“I—I’m sorry. I know I look a mess. I’m staining a table—”

“Yes, I believe you did say that. Don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Blake. This isn’t New York. We don’t have a dress code for our clients.”

Gracious answer. So why did it make her want to scream? Maybe because he was standing before her
in a very expensive navy pinstripe suit and leather wing tips that would probably cover her food budget for half a year. His light brown hair, with just a touch of blond to suggest days spent in the tropics, had been expertly cut. Businesslike, of course, but with a touch of freedom, giving him a sophisticated air of self-determination. The perfect jet-setter cut.

Christopher would’ve loved it.

She shrugged on her coat without responding.

Then, sticking her hands into her coat pockets, she nodded to the man with impeccable clothes. Impeccable manners. Impeccable everything.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Spencer. Your secretary has my address for billing. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

As an exit line, it wasn’t bad. Until she neared the door and almost tripped over a table holding an expensive vase.

She grabbed the vase and stepped back. Then, after taking a deep breath, she steadied it back in its place.

Without turning around, offering another apology or trying for a better exit line, she walked out of the office.

And prayed Amanda would get back to town at once.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Quinn said, his best smile in place. “Are you keeping warm?”

The quilting circle of older women smiled back at him, as welcoming as ever. Each lifted her cheek for the kiss he always bestowed on them, patting his arm as if he were a little boy.

Maybe that was the charm that frequently brought him to Worthington House. To the rest of the world, he was a playboy. To the ladies here in this sun-drenched room that looked out on a cold world, he was Quinn, a young lad with a good heart.

Or maybe, he reluctantly admitted to himself, these ladies were his surrogate mothers, making up for his mother walking out on her family so many years ago. His friends would laugh at the thought that Quinn Spencer longed for his mother. Or any woman.

He’d been only seven years old when his mother, Violet, had left them. They’d been in Tyler only six months, his father having relocated from New York where he left behind his lucrative career on the stock exchange for a quieter, gentler life in the small town. Elias had hoped his high-strung wife would learn to
relax once she was out of the bustle of the city, but Violet couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. She’d run off with Ray Benedict, her lover from New York, much to the shock of their social circle in the city and the residents of Tyler. Not to mention her husband and three sons.

“We didn’t expect you today, Quinn dear,” said Martha Bauer, one of the older members, calling Quinn back from his memories. She patted an empty chair next to her. “Sit down.”

“I’d love to as long as you share your M&M’s,” he teased. Martha had a sweet tooth and he kept her supply of candy well stocked.

Tillie Phelps nodded her head. “We even have cookies today. Bea made a fresh batch this morning.”

Bea Ferguson, at sixty-seven, was one of the younger members. She blushed but nudged a plate toward Quinn.

“Don’t mind if I do, Bea. These look terrific.” And they were. He enjoyed them more than any expensive hors d’oeuvres he’d ever been served.

As he munched, he watched the ladies set tiny stitches in the colorful quilt they were making. Each quilt was either given to charity or sold and the money used to help the community. The women had become legendary both for their incredible artistry and their hearts of gold.

“Where is this one going?” he asked, while he considered how to bring the conversation around to the reason for his visit.

Merry Linton, another newcomer to the group, smoothed a loving hand across the patchwork quilt. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s called Bachelor’s Puzzle.”

He nodded, still tangling with his own puzzle.

Bea answered his question. “That lovely young woman with the new bed-and-breakfast has purchased it.”

He choked on a cookie crumb. Clearing his throat, he asked cautiously, “Do you mean Molly Blake?”

Martha and Tillie exchanged a look he couldn’t interpret, but it put him on his toes. Something was up.

Martha smiled. “Why, yes, dear, have you met Molly? Isn’t she wonderful?”

Quinn frowned. He could agree that Molly was attractive. Wonderful? The distraught, angry woman he’d faced in his office that morning was hard to fit into the simple word
wonderful.

Complex, challenging, sexy. He shook his head. No, not sexy—

“You haven’t met her?” Tillie asked, obviously interpreting his shake of head as a no.

“Yes, yes, I have. This morning, in fact. So, you like the idea of a new bed-and-breakfast?”

“Oh, yes,” Emma Finklebaum said with a sigh. “Such a lovely idea. A romantic bed-and-breakfast. And she’s going to plan the decor of each suite around one of our quilts.”

“Ah,” he said, like Sherlock Holmes uncovering a vital clue. “You’re glad because you’ll make money!”

The ladies chuckled. Through the years, they’d expressed amazement at the rising value of their efforts.

“It’s more than that,” Martha said. “She’s a lovely person…and the best mother in the world.”

“Mother?” That subject hadn’t come up in their visit that morning.

“Oh, yes,” Merry agreed. “Her little Sara is a charmer. Molly brings her to visit us sometimes.”

“Sara likes my candy,” Martha added, as if that were a vital piece of information.

Quinn smiled, charmed by Martha’s pride. He wouldn’t tell her that every kid liked candy. He would never do anything to make Martha feel less important than she did.

Tillie, who had remained silent until now, asked, “Why did she come to see you? Is there a problem?”

At her question, all the ladies stopped plying their needles and stared at Quinn.

He held up a hand. “Client confidentiality,” he murmured, then waited quietly for their response. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Ursula!” Bea exclaimed.

“I can’t believe she’s still causing difficulties,” Merry exclaimed.

But, then, sweet Merry never believed the worst of anyone.

Emma leaned even closer. “What’s the problem?”

Quinn carefully phrased his question. “I wondered if any of you had been approached about signing a petition.”

“Of course we have!” Martha exclaimed, adding a snort of derision. “That woman thought we’d want to sink poor Molly’s plans. As if we would!”

“Why does she want to stop the opening of the bed-and-breakfast?” he asked.

Tillie leaned closer. “She
says
it’s because the business will destroy the peace and quiet of Ivy Lane.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

“Of course not,” Bea, unusually animated, re
plied. “She thinks Molly stole Christopher from her Lila, don’t you know.”

“As if he were a prize,” Emma added.

Quinn tried to picture Christopher as the answer to a woman’s dream. In particular, Molly’s dream. He’d been trying to do so ever since Molly had left his office.

“And he wasn’t?”

The ladies all looked at one another. Finally Martha responded. “No, Quinn dear, he wasn’t. He was a selfish, egotistical man. A playboy!” She put all her disgust into her last words.

Quinn cleared his throat. “I’m considered to be a playboy, too,” he reminded her.

Martha leaned over to pat his cheek. “But we know better, dear.”

Quinn smiled but shook his head. Maybe that was why he loved these ladies. They saw him through a proud mother’s eyes. Instead of a mother who’d obviously been so unhappy she’d run away and left her three sons—with no word for over twenty-three years.

“Do you think the neighbors will go along with Ursula?” he asked.

All the women proclaimed their hopes that Molly would come out on top.

Emma capped off their remarks with, “Ursula needs to get a life!”

Such a flippant, with-it comment from eighty-year-old Emma brought a smile to Quinn’s face. “I believe you’re right, ladies. And I’ll see what I can do to help things along.”

Amid their praise, he eased himself from the room, promising to visit them again soon.

Heading back to the office, he thought again about what he’d discovered. Ursula Wilson had filed a request to deny the zoning change necessary for Molly’s inn, as he’d suspected. She had another week to supply the city with her petition. It needed one-hundred names. In the morning, he had an appointment with the mayor to discuss the potential problem for Molly Blake.

He thought the situation was a tempest in a teapot, but he wanted to be sure to cover every aspect. The passion in Molly Blake’s voice prodded him to be thorough.

The woman had intrigued him all day. She’d been a mess, of course, in appearance. But an intriguing mess. A woman who took charge of her future. He’d been impressed with her planning, her hard work.

Then he’d discovered she was a mother.

Any interest disappeared with that information. He’d promised himself never to be involved in a child’s life. It was too great a responsibility. One his own mother had abdicated. And he was her son.

M
OLLY STARED AT HERSELF
in the mirror.

She couldn’t believe the difference a few hours had made. When she’d reached the street, after her interview with Quinn Spencer, she’d seen her reflection in a plate-glass window. She’d already realized her appearance was less than professional.

But the physical evidence of her reflection shook her.

All along she’d planned to update her appearance, knowing it would be an important part of marketing her bed-and-breakfast. But she figured that part of her plan could wait. There was no urgency.

Seeing herself as Mr. Spencer must’ve seen her, however, changed her mind.

The Hair Affair, the beauty salon on the corner, became her immediate destination. Forget the table waiting at home. She had more important business to conduct.

Now she stood before a dressing room mirror, wearing navy wool slacks topped by a cream turtleneck sweater, her hair feathered around her face. The new short style made her feel younger. The manicure gave her a touch of elegance.

She closed her eyes, seeing Quinn Spencer staring at her, respect and awe in his expression. Then she burst out laughing. Talk about fantasy!

The saleswoman in Gates Department Store, the Neiman-Marcus of Tyler, asked in bewilderment, “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Bell. You’ve been very helpful. These clothes are exactly what I had in mind. I’ll take them. And also the other two pair of slacks. And the blue sweater.”

The lady beamed at her. “Excellent choices. You have such wonderful taste.”

Probably not what Quinn Spencer would say, Molly admitted, but at least the next time she encountered the worldly Mr. Spencer, she wouldn’t feel like Little Orphan Annie.

After she’d paid for and collected her packages, she realized she had almost an hour before she needed to pick up Sara from her friend Kaitlin’s day care. Instead of heading for Ivy Lane and home, she went to Worthington House.

The quilting ladies had become a refuge of support and love for Molly. With no family of her own, she’d
discovered among them a sweetness and friendship that went a long way to counteracting the anger and bitterness of Ursula Wilson.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” she called out as she entered the room where the quilting took place. She always marveled at the women’s patience and hard work.

“Molly!” several exclaimed, smiles on their faces. Then they took a second look.

“Why, don’t you look pretty!” Martha exclaimed.

Merry beamed at her. “So young and fresh!”

Molly smiled at them. “Well, certainly better than I’ve been looking lately. I was so involved in fixing up the house, I forgot to fix me up!”

Emma Finklebaum asked, “What made you get all polished up today?”

Molly felt her cheeks heating up. She certainly wasn’t going to mention Quinn Spencer. Besides, she’d intended to improve herself all along. “Um, I decided I needed a more professional appearance to sell the idea of my bed-and-breakfast. After all, Ursula is trying to convince everyone I’ll be a failure. I didn’t want to help her.”

Tillie patted her hand. “Good thinking. I think you’ve made the right decision. Besides, you look so pretty!”

“You certainly do,” Bea seconded, causing Molly’s cheeks to redden even more. “Why, you might just attract a young man with that pretty smile of yours, don’t you know.”

Molly’s breath caught in her throat and she cleared it before she answered. “Um, no, I don’t think— I’m too busy with my plans to— I have no interest in men.”

Lydia Perry came in at that moment to distract her friends. Molly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Molly, dear, I’m so sorry I upset you this morning,” the lady said as she sat down.

“Oh, no, Lydia, it wasn’t your fault,” she hurriedly assured her. “I should’ve remained calm but—but I had no idea Mrs. Wilson had gone so far in her anger.”

“But did you see Amanda Trask? Did she tell you what to do?” Lydia persisted.

With all the ladies anxiously awaiting her answer, Molly couldn’t avoid mentioning the one man she wanted to forget. “Amanda is out of town, but I spoke with her partner. He’s going to look into it.”

The ladies exchanged glances and Molly wondered what they were thinking.

Bea nodded. “You can trust Quinn. He’s the sweetest boy.”

“And very smart,” Martha assured her.

“Such a dear,” Merry added, a gentle smile on her lips.

Tillie agreed. “He’s quite popular around here.”

Molly tried to fit the Quinn Spencer she knew, or rather knew about, with the ladies’ comments. But the playboy, womanizer, jet-setter and all-around man-about-town just didn’t seem “sweet” to her. “I’ve heard he’s a very good attorney.”

“Of course he is,” Martha said, patting her hand. “Don’t worry, dear, he’ll take care of you.”

Somehow, the thought of letting Quinn Spencer “take care” of her left Molly breathless.

“It’s—it’s just until Amanda returns. She should be back in town soon.” She hoped she didn’t sound as edgy as she felt.

If the ladies’ satisfied nods were to be believed, she must’ve have sounded like she had every confidence in Quinn Spencer.

Maybe she was a better actress than she’d thought.

Q
UINN LEFT THE MAYOR’S OFFICE
the next morning, a satisfied smile on his face. The mayor had assured him the entire council was in favor of the bed-and-breakfast. Even if Ursula Wilson got the one-hundred signatures on her petition to bring it before the council, the zoning change would be approved.

He paused on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. It was one of those perfect winter days that occasionally came along, bright sunshine making everything sparkle in spite of the cold air.

Assuring himself that he was only doing so to better serve Amanda’s client, Quinn turned in the direction of Ivy Lane. A brisk walk would be good exercise, and he could personally inform Molly Blake of the good news.

He hadn’t been down Ivy Lane in a while. It was a stately avenue, lined with old homes built years ago. When he reached the Blake home, he noticed the outside of the home had been recently painted and restored.

“That must’ve cost a pretty penny,” he muttered to himself, remembering Molly Blake’s comment about her budget. At least she’d prepared for what was important. A sudden curiosity filled him about the inside. He’d visited Christopher’s home once or twice when they’d been in school. Even then the house had been showing its age.