“But,” he continued on for her, “Carolyn signed a confidentiality agreement. We could sue her for discussing the adoption. She had no right.”
“Too late,” Quinn said quietly. “She’s dead. And apparently she left me some sort of an inheritance.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” her mom said. “She had nothing of worth to speak of.”
“I was so shocked I didn’t ask for details,” Quinn said. Details Cliff had tried to give her. She hugged herself, feeling a little sick from the dough.
Or her life. “So . . . were you sorry you’d adopted me once Beth came along?” she asked.
“Oh my God, no.” Her mom came around the island and took Quinn’s hands in her own. “No,” she said again more firmly. “It was a happy accident. The truth is, we didn’t want to take away from either of you, so we just kept it quiet. It didn’t matter to us, and I know this is asking a lot, but I wish it wouldn’t matter to you.”
Her dad nodded his agreement on that.
But Quinn didn’t know how to make it not matter. She didn’t know what to feel, not about the adoption, the devastating betrayal, or the fact that she and Beth had never been sisters at all. She let out a breath and took a step away from them. “I need to think.”
“It doesn’t matter,” her mom said. “None of this matters.”
“Mom, how can you say that?”
“Because we love you. Maybe we were wrong to not have told you about being adopted, and I’m sorry you found out in such a shocking manner, but we’ve never thought of you as anything but a real daughter. Ever.”
This brought a huge lump to Quinn’s throat so all she could do was nod.
“Now,” her mom said, tears shimmering brilliantly in her own eyes as well as she patted Quinn on the arm. “Let’s just look forward, to you marrying Brock and getting on with your lovely life.”
Quinn closed her eyes. “I’m not getting married to Brock. And even if I wanted to, how could I?” she asked. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Okay,” her dad said. “That seems a little dramatic.”
Quinn let out a low laugh. “You’re right. It is. And now I’m going to take my dramatic ass home. I need some time.”
“Time?” Her mom exchanged another worried look with her dad. “But you’re still coming over next weekend for dinner, right? Say Saturday night . . . seven o’clock? On the dot? And you’ll text me once you get here, before you come in?”
Quinn had gotten to the door. She turned around to find them standing in the same position at the island, looking shocked at her unusual temper tantrum. “Let me get this straight. You can’t keep my surprise party a secret, but you were able to keep my adoption one?”
Her mom bit her lower lip. “I don’t know what you mean about a surprise party.”
With another low, mirthless laugh, Quinn walked out. She drove home to the quiet little condo she was mortgaged to the eyeballs for and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was in shock. And adrift. And . . . sad. Angry too . . . and so much more.
It was shocking for more than one reason, not the least of which was that she felt more emotion right this minute than she’d felt in two years.
She’d meant it when she’d told Cliff that she didn’t want anything to do with any inheritance, especially not from someone who’d apparently thrown her away without so much as looking back.
Not that she was happy with her parents right now either. They should’ve told her the truth a long time ago. Instead they’d hidden it and even now had tried to underplay everything, encouraging her to get on with her nice, comfortable life.
But it suddenly didn’t feel so nice or comfortable at all.
Feeling shockingly alone, she looked at her phone. She wanted to call Beth. God, how she wanted that, but instead she called Brock.
“Hey,” he said when he picked up, his voice brisk and rushed. “I’m in a meeting. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”
His voice mail. Disappointment washing over her, she tried to tell herself she was fine, she didn’t need anyone. But her heart was racing and it didn’t seem to fit in her rib cage anymore. Everything felt tight and she couldn’t breathe because she had no one else left to call.
Well, except one person.
Harry Potter, aka Cliff Porter.
Chapter 3
I’d give up being a bitch, but I’m not a quitter.
—from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”
Mick Hennessey stood on the sand dunes, the evening sun still strong enough to beat down on his head, the waves crashing over the shore loud enough to drown out his own thoughts.
Which was just as well since they weren’t good.
He’d grown up here in Wildstone, which was literally an old wild, wild west town that sat in a bowl between the mid-California coast and the rolling hills that lined that coast.
He no longer lived here, but his mom had needed him, so he was back.
Temporarily.
Which didn’t stop him from feeling like a worthless kid all over again in spite of the fact that he’d worked his ass off to make something of himself.
Wildstone had done the same, several times over in fact. In the 1890s, it had been nothing more than a clapboard sidewalk and a row of saloons and whorehouses, supported by local silver mines and logging mills. In the mid 1900s, the town had attempted to legitimize itself and had done away with most of the whorehouses—though the saloons had stubbornly remained. Then the county had discovered wine making and ranching, and the hills had become dotted with wineries and ranches. In the 1970s, the bad economy had forced Wildstone to put on yet another hat, and for a while the town fathers had played up their infamous past, marketing the place as a wild west ghost town, using the historic downtown buildings to do so, claiming them haunted to gather interest.
Mostly the only people who’d taken note were ghost hunters, although Mick’s own mother still swore that her shed was haunted.
In the 1980s, surfers had found the little-known beaches to be perfect, and so Wildstone had added tourism to the roster, pulling in vacationers. Ten years ago they’d been in the running to make the list of California’s Top-Ten Best-Kept Secrets.
They’d come in at number eleven and hadn’t been featured. Without that boost, Wildstone’s economy had continued to suffer beyond the recession.
It was still struggling.
Mick found the place as constricting and stifling as his bullheaded father, so he’d fled the minute he’d graduated from high school. He’d spent almost no time here in the years since, and had been a happier man for it.
Until his dad had stroked out on the throne early one morning four months ago.
Coop whined and Mick looked down at the twelve-year-old golden retriever, ball in his mouth. Coop panted happily and dropped the ball at Mick’s feet, his rheumy brown eyes ever hopeful.
Mick shook his head. “Last time I threw it, you decided you didn’t mean it.”
Coop gave a talkative “woo woo woo.”
Translation: Mick was full of shit. “I had to go get it myself,” he reminded the dog. “Remember that?”