She didn’t call anyone back. When the messages finished, she deleted them and stared up at the ceiling, trying to empty her mind. Her apartment, with its soothing, neutral colors, was so different from the eclectic cheerfulness of her bayside cottage. Normally, she could relax in both places, but not now, with guilt and questions swarming, with fatigue sinking her deep into the sofa.
She couldn’t even remember what her plans for the week had been. Work. Dinner with friends one night. Laundry. Grocery shopping. An aide to an Arizona congressman she’d dated three times-two movies, one truncated dinner-had disappeared. She’d known they were doomed when Lattimore had spotted her at the dinner and made a special point of saying hello, and her date had leaned over the table and whispered, “I hate that son of a bitch.”
That was in February. Quinn had decided to take a break from dating. If a guy whose company she enjoyed fell from the sky, okay. If not-she had things to do.
Just as she’d started to take her relationship with Brian for granted-started to think about the prospect of marriage, children-everything fell apart between them, and poof, off he went. And not just because of their different interests or Gerard Lattimore.
“Quinn, you’re just too independent. You don’t need me.”
Now that she had some distance, she realized that he meant she didn’t adore him enough. Love was one thing and all very nice, but adoration was something else altogether, and he needed it. He’d wanted to be stroked and admired and adored and for her not to work such long hours, have the responsibilities she had. He needed to be the center of attention-the total focus of her life.
For weeks, Quinn had believed he’d basically told her she was selfish and boring. Now she realized he hadn’t been looking for the kind of equal, adult relationship she wanted. As much as he pretended he wasn’t self-absorbed and liked a woman with her own career, he nonetheless, at his core, wanted a woman to acquiesce to his every whim-to anticipate his whims. Scoot off to the south of France at the drop of a hat. Blow the budget on a bottle of champagne.
Give up knitting. She remembered how irritated he would get when she was content to spend an evening knitting, sitting next to him while they watched TV or listened to music. Brian had felt as if they’d turned into his grandparents.
The last Quinn had heard, he was seeing another intern. He wasn’t bored, anyway.
Why am I thinking about him?
Because of Alicia, who’d liked Brian. Because she didn’t want to think about all her unanswered questions.
Restless, assaulted by memories, Quinn jumped up and headed outside, the streets crowded with commuters heading home from work, off to cocktail parties and early dinners, running errands. The normalcy helped soothe her taut nerves but made her feel even more isolated and alone.
All was quiet at the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals. Thelma had gone home, but the executive director, no relation to any of the founders, was up in his office. A former anthropology professor, he and Quinn’s parents got along well. She liked him, but didn’t want to see him or anyone else right now.
Ducking into her office, she thought about the scut work she owed the Society. A few hours of prowling through closets and attic cubbies sounded more attractive than dinner with sympathetic friends or going back to her apartment and heating up a frozen dinner. But as she picked up a manila folder, its contents all junk from 1939, Quinn wished she’d remained in Yorkville, no matter whose feathers she ruffled.
21
Oliver Crawford stayed in Yorkville through the week, his presence ramping up the already intense atmosphere at Breakwater Security. When he left by helicopter late Friday afternoon, taking Travis Lubec and Nick Rochester with him, Huck noticed an immediate reduction in tension among those who remained behind. With a dozen trainees arriving in less than a month, there was still a lot of work to do. Courses were designed and the facilities almost finished, but Joe Riccardi had yet to hire all his instructors. According to Vern Glover, tapped as an instructor himself, Sharon had veto power over any of her husband’s picks. She was the one with Crawford’s total trust.
Vern didn’t approve, grumbling as he helped Huck carry a wooden crate to the walk-in gun vault at the back of the classroom building. “Either the guy can be trusted to do his job or he can’t.”
“I thought they were equals with separate responsibilities, and they each reported to Crawford.”
“In theory, not in practice. In practice, Joe reports to her.”
Sometimes, Vern was smarter and more observant than he let on. Huck had decided not to underestimate him.
They set the crate in front of the locked, alarmed metal door.
“That’s it,” Vern said. “I’ll take it from here.”
“I can help you-”
“Don’t need your help. You’re not authorized for access.” Vern was breathing hard from the exertion of hauling the crate from the parking area, where he and Huck had offloaded it from a van to the vault. “We’re on a need-to-know basis around here. You don’t need to know.”
“Locked doors always kick my curiosity into high gear.”