Daughters Of The Bride(14)

“You look good,” he told her. “Where do you want to go? For a burger?”

“She prefers ice cream.”

He turned to see his grandmother walking down the stairs by the side of the hotel. She was dressed as always in her beloved St. John tailored knits and Chanel flats. She wore her white hair in that poufy old lady bubble style he would always associate with her. He knew she would smell of L’air du Temps and vanilla. He crossed the driveway to meet her and pulled her into a hug. The tension that had been with him on the drive north faded.

“You made it,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as if she would never let go.

He’d always liked that about her. Joyce gave good hugs. When he’d been a kid, she’d been his anchor. When he’d gotten older, she’d always been there, ready to offer advice or a kick in the ass—depending on what she thought he needed. Now she was simply home.

He held on a few more seconds, pleased that she didn’t seem any frailer than she had when she’d visited him six months before. She was well into her seventies, but as vital and sharp as ever. Still, lately he’d found himself worrying.

“Ice cream, huh,” he said, glancing at the dog sitting in the passenger seat of his Bentley. “Then that’s what we’ll go get.”

Joyce stepped back. She barely came to his shoulder and had to look up to meet his gaze. “You’re not taking the dog for ice cream. I don’t know what ridiculousness you get up to in Los Angeles, but here in the real world, dogs don’t eat ice cream.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been back thirty seconds and you’re already lying to me.”

She smiled. “All right. They do, but at home. We don’t take them out. Besides, if you take Pearl, you need to take Sarge, too. He’ll get jealous otherwise.”

As if he heard his name, a small white fluffball barreled through the open doorway and down the path. Pearl jumped out of the Bentley and ran to greet her companion.

They were an odd pair. The tall, stately blonde poodle and the small, white bichon-poodle mix. Pearl was nearly four times Sarge’s size, yet he clearly ran the show. Now they circled Quinn, sniffing and yipping. He crouched down to greet them both. After letting them sniff his fingers, he offered pats and rubs.

“Your man arrived yesterday,” his grandmother told him.

“He’s my assistant, Joyce, not my man. We’re not living in a 1950 Cary Grant movie.”

“But wouldn’t it be fun if we were? I tried to check him into the hotel, but he said he was staying somewhere else.”

Quinn straightened and closed the passenger door of the Bentley. “He is. Wayne and I work best when there’s some separation between us.”

“You’re not moving back because you think I’m getting old, are you?”

She always did like to cut to the heart of the matter. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve thought you were old for a long time now, and not everything is about you.”

She touched his face. “You are so full of crap.”

“That is true.” He held out his arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and he led her back into the hotel.

Quinn’s mother had been Joyce’s only child. He’d spent as much of his childhood with Joyce as with his mom. By the time he’d turned fourteen, his mother had abandoned him and he’d moved into the hotel permanently.

Now as they entered the lobby, he took in the high ceilings, the crystal light fixtures and the big, curving reception desk. The furniture was comfortable, the food delicious and the bartenders generous with their pours. Add in the beachfront location in quiet Central California, and the Los Lobos Hotel had nearly everything going for it.

At seventeen, he couldn’t wait to be anywhere but here. Now some twenty years later, he was grateful to be back.

The dogs led the way into the bar. He and Joyce took seats at a corner table. The dogs settled at their feet.

He was sure having a couple of canines in an establishment that served food had to violate several state ordinances, but as far as he could tell, no one complained. If they did, they were told the dogs were excellent judges of character. That tended to quiet all but the most offensive of guests. And the ones who weren’t quieted were asked to leave.

A pretty redhead appeared at their table. “Hello, Joyce. Quinn.”

He recognized her face from his previous visits, if not her name. Fortunately, her name tag was easy to read.

“Nice to see you again, Kelly.”

She smiled. “What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have a glass of Smarty Pants chardonnay.”

Quinn laughed at his grandmother. “I can’t believe you’re still bitter about what happened.”