Daughters Of The Bride(23)

He pushed his plate away. “You’re never going to get over what happened, are you? It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you I’m sorry. That I want to make things right. You don’t care. I screwed up and you can never forgive me.”

Her stomach started to hurt. “You don’t care about my forgiveness. You just don’t like being the bad guy. It cuts into your self-image. Get over it. Like I said, you’re a good father. I never say anything bad about you to Josh. We work well with him. That’s more than most divorced couples have.”

“Don’t you ever wish we could be friends again? There were rough times while we were married, Rachel, but there was a lot of good, too.”

There had been, she thought to herself. Lots of laughter and love. At least at first. But then things had changed. She’d grown up and he hadn’t. While she’d taken care of their child and their house, Greg had gone out with his friends. He might have cheated only after ten years of marriage, but he’d let her down a long time before that.

“I like things how they are now,” she told him. “Separate. You have your life and I have mine.”

For a second she thought he was going to protest. To say he wanted something else. Something more.

Her chest tightened and her heart pounded. Hope, anticipation and fear blended into a churning mess that didn’t sit well with her pizza. Because no matter what face she showed to the rest of the world, she knew the truth. That despite what she said and how she acted, she’d never gotten over Greg. It wasn’t that she couldn’t forgive him, it was that she couldn’t forget him. He’d obviously moved on and she was stuck still in love with him.

“That’s what I thought,” he told her, his voice resigned. “What’s done is done and there’s no going back.”

The hope shriveled and died, much like her heart had done that day two years ago when she’d taken one look into his eyes and had known the truth.

“I should be going,” he told her. “Have a good week.”

“You, too.”

He called out a goodbye to Josh, then let himself out the back door. Rachel wrapped up the rest of her small pizza. She couldn’t eat any more tonight. And while Josh would protest the lack of meat, he would still snack on it tomorrow when he got home from school.

Later, after her son was in bed, Rachel sat alone in the living room. The house was quiet, the only sounds coming from outside when a car drove by. She told herself that everything was fine, that she was doing okay, but she knew she was lying about all of it.



Quinn stared at the house. It was three stories and about forty-two hundred square feet. Big windows, a nice yard, on a quiet street.

“Never gonna work,” Wayne announced.

“You haven’t seen the inside,” Quinn pointed out. “What if it’s perfect?”

Wayne—a sixtysomething former marine—sighed the sigh of those cursed with too much intelligence who were forced to deal with ordinary mortals.

“I’ll explain it to you Barney-style,” he said, speaking slowly.

Quinn held in a grin. Explaining something Barney-style meant speaking slowly and simply, as if to a child. Wayne was nothing if not colorful.

The older man had been with him about seven years. Before that he’d been a dispatcher for a trucking company and before that a marine. They’d met under unusual circumstances. When Wayne’s son had died, he’d tried to drink himself to death. Quinn had been the one to take him in and sober him up. Then he’d offered him a job as his assistant. He’d been shocked as hell when Wayne had accepted.

“You Barney-style all you want,” he said. It was Monday morning. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and he needed more coffee. Having Wayne walk him through the details just might be entertaining enough to make him forget his lack of caffeine.

“It’s not a verb,” Wayne grumbled. “You’re getting the phrase all wrong. Damned civilians.”

Quinn held out his hand. Zealand groaned, then handed over five bucks. Because whoever got Wayne to complain about the world not being “marine enough” first won five dollars.

Quinn pocketed it, then nodded at Wayne. “Tell me why this isn’t a good idea.”

Wayne swore under his breath. “There’s not enough parking,” his assistant began. “We could pave over the grass, but you know the neighbors are going to complain. All those windows—” He pointed to the front of the house. “Every one of those is a place for noise to get in from the street and out from the studio.”

“I produce music, not noise,” Quinn protested.