“Is she standing right behind the door?” Quinn whispered to his dad.
“No, I’m setting the table,” she bantered back, although the fact that she’d heard a whisper suggested otherwise.
His father’s shoulders were shaking from quiet laughter. “I appreciate you trying to explain, Quinn. I hope you’ll call on me for help if you need it, but I know you have everything in hand.”
“The Dare Valley contingent is here!” his mother shouted.
“Wonderful.” His father set aside his work and wiped his hands on a towel, which he then tossed to Quinn. “The only way we can get your mom to refocus her attention is for the company to arrive.”
The playful elbow his father gave him as he passed by had him standing up a little taller. It was nice to see this side of his father. Growing up, he’d always been tense or tired or driven, coming in late from work in a suit. He’d tried to be home for dinner, but more often than not he hadn’t been. Some nights, Quinn had pretended to be asleep when his father had come in after lights out to kiss him and tuck him in. J.T.’s comments—and Connor’s—came back to him about his dad sacrificing so much of his family time for Merriam Enterprises. Quinn had to find another way.
Francesca was just the person to help him.
He put his jacket back on and followed the noise to the front hallway. J.T. was stepping away from hugging their father. The grin he shot Quinn should have been enough of a greeting, but J.T. opened his arms wide like Frankenstein’s monster and stepped toward him with a wicked glint in his eyes.
“Come here, big brother,” he said, rushing him.
“Shit,” Quinn said, seeing no play other than to dash off to the dining room. Truth be told, he didn’t want to resist. Their talk about J.T.’s first bike ride had stirred up happy memories of easier days as boys.
His brother’s footsteps sounded on the tile floor, but Quinn was around the side of the table and had a chair out like a bullfighter before his brother could reach him.
Still, for show, he had to say, “What the hell, man?”
“You’re more chill with Francesca back, and I consider it my brotherly duty to encourage you to have more fun,” J.T. said with a grin. “Besides, it got us alone, didn’t it? I wanted to let you know that I’ve got your back. Take as much time as you need to restructure and win Francesca back. Caroline and I agreed she’ll fly out weekends and maybe for some longer visits so we can be together more. Trevor’s on call too, if we need him. Seriously, man. We’ve got you.”
Quinn gripped the top of the chair. “Thanks, J.T.”
“Now come on. Aunt Clara will want to kiss you, I’m sure.”
He hugged his brother more easily than usual and smacked him on the back for good measure. “That’s because I’m the handsomest.”
J.T. reached into Quinn’s pants and yanked his underwear.
Quinn yelped. “A wedgie! That’s really juvenile.”
“Like I care,” his brother said.
Quinn readjusted his briefs and chased his brother into the living room where everyone was congregating.
“Quit your horsing around and come and kiss your auntie,” Uncle Arthur barked. “If I’d known you were going to turn into two hooligans upon seeing each other, I would have checked into a hotel.”
“He’s all blather,” Aunt Clara said, hugging Quinn tightly. “It’s good to see you, Quinn. Observe. I wore my best chaperoning outfit.”
“Clara, you wear black to a funeral,” his uncle said, “not for matchmaking. Quinn, my boy, asking your auntie to help out made her smile, and for that, I thank you.”
They hugged, and then Quinn turned to Hargreaves, who stood in his standard black suit with a crisp white shirt, looking ever inconspicuous. “Hargreaves. Thank you for coming as well.”
“Master Quinn,” Hargreaves said, bowing slightly. “Always a pleasure.”
“Well, now that everyone has greeted each other,” Assumpta said, linking her arm through Aunt Clara’s, “I thought we’d start with some mimosas.”
“Clara likes her gin.” Uncle Arthur sent her a wink.
“Oh, don’t listen to him. Assumpta, I love mimosas. When are Francesca and Alice coming again? Hargreaves told me, but I’m so excited, it’s left my mind.”
“The first sign of dementia,” Uncle Arthur said, jerking his thumb at Aunt Clara.
“Oh, you old poop,” Aunt Clara said. “Assumpta, feel free to order him out of your house if he continues on like this. He thinks it’s cute to tease me.”
The glare she shot her husband had real heat, but there was a flicker of amusement behind it. Clearly, she thought the teasing was cute, and they both knew it.
“They’ll be here at noon, Aunt.”
“That’s in about an hour, dear,” Uncle Arthur said, grinning as she gave him another glare.
His father popped the champagne, and J.T. made a show of pouring the orange juice in first so as to not squash the bubbles, something Uncle Arthur was quick to tease him about.
Hargreaves was leaving the kitchen as his father handed out the glasses.
Quinn called to him. “Hargreaves. Please stay. I know you don’t normally join family occasions, but Alice will be joining Francesca, and I’d hoped you would do the same.”
“When they arrive, I would be happy to converse with Miss Bailey. Until then, I have a few things to see to. Thank you for the invitation, Master Quinn.” He bowed and left the room.
Aunt Clara shook her head. “His butler etiquette is ironclad, but we’re working on him, aren’t we, J.T.?”
His brother clinked glasses with her. “Every chance we can get.”
“To family—near and far,” his father toasted.
“To family,” everyone repeated, clinking glasses together right and left.
They settled into the family room with Assumpta peppering Aunt Clara with questions about everything from the Hale family in Dare Valley to the next trip out to Kenya to work with the Maasai.
Quinn did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept wandering to Francesca’s arrival. The fourth time he checked his watch, his mother drilled him with a glance.
“Do you need to resume your chopping duties, Quinn?”
His father laughed and stood. “Come on, son. Let’s finish prepping for brunch.”
Although he didn’t much feel like chopping more vegetables, he followed his father into the kitchen without complaint.
“If you need help…” J.T. called, kicking his feet out playfully.
They didn’t need help. In fact, there was a companionable quiet in the kitchen. His father had moved his cutting board closer to Quinn so there was only a foot between them.
When the doorbell rang, his father gripped his shoulder. “You’ve got this, Quinn.”
That python-like tightness was back, gripping his diaphragm, but he calmly wiped his hands. When he looked up, his mother stood in the doorway.
“Come, let’s meet your girl.”
When she extended her hand to him, he felt a lump in his throat. “You really are the best mom ever.”
“I know.” She waggled her brows. “Your Mother’s Day card tells me every year.”