“Curses, like chickens, come home to roost.”
— Susanna Moodie, eighteenth-century Canadian author
Quinn Caine may have traveled all over the world, but she still thought nothing was more enchanting than springtime in Vienna, Virginia, especially driving with the windows down on Church Street. That’s where all the historic charm bloomed, with people she’d known since birth living close by. This was her hometown. Memories resided on each corner. As did oversized bags of dog food.
Quinn pulled up in front of the family business, Prose & Scones, Vienna’s only independent bookstore. Mama Caine stopped sweeping the sidewalk of stray petals from the flowering dogwood trees, leaning her weight into her broom handle.
“Need any help?” she asked.
“Nah, I got it.” Quinn hopped out of her truck and onto the curb, grabbing a sack under each arm before flinging them into the flatbed. Two pointy ears with a big smile and a wet nose poked out the passenger side window. Her German shepherd, RBG—Ruff Barker Ginsburg—always seemed to know when she was getting a treat. And sure enough, her mama’s hand spelunked down her jacket pocket. Then, palm out, she offered a liverwurst yummy in the shape of a lil’ cupcake, thanks to the new doggie “sweet” shop down the street.
“You spoil her, you know.” Quinn shook her head, pretending to mind.
“Please. This here’s just practice. Wait ’til I get my first grandbaby.”
Quinn chuckled. “New rule: Every time you drop a grandbaby hint, I’m delaying marriage and conception by at least six months, even if I meet the right guy.”
“Fine—eviscerate a mother’s hopes and dreams.” Adele Caine sighed, wiping the crumbs off her hand. Then, lightning fast, her expression clouded over. “In all seriousness, I’m glad you have RBG with you. Not just as company, but for protection.”
Her daughter gave her an “are you kidding?” look.
“I’m not kidding, Quinn. It used to be the worst thing to happen was getting your bike stolen if you forgot to lock it up. Vienna’s still lovely, but a lot has changed since you’ve been away.”
She was right. The town was in the midst of some growing pains, having transformed more in the last few years than it had in the quarter century before. Mainstays such as the Freemason Store, the Vienna Town Inn, and Caffe Amour had remained intact, but many long-standing institutions had closed. To the residents of Vienna, those businesses were more than just places of commerce; they were extended members of the family.
“I know change is hard, but it’s not all bad. I, for one, am doing a happy dance that we finally have some good tacos in town.”
Quinn’s attempt at levity was squashed by Adele’s stern-mama look. Every mother had one, and Adele Caine could wither the plumpest of grapes into hard raisins with hers.
“I’m not talking about tacos, Quinn. Someone was murdered here not too long ago.”
“Are you—oh, Mama, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Who was it?”
Her eyes went soft. “How could you have? You were living in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the world. Your father and I didn’t bring it up because we didn’t want you to worry. I wasn’t going to waste one second of my time with you on Skype talking about such tragedies.”
She had her there. “When did it happen?”
“Right before you came back. I don’t know the details, but supposedly, it was a strange death. It hasn’t been labeled ‘murder’ as such. But the police haven’t ruled out foul play either.” A strong breeze ruffled her blondish-gray hair all around, but Adele didn’t seem to mind. “I’m sorry I don’t know more.”
Quinn reached for her mother’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Adele’s cerulean-blue eyes lit up. “You know who would know?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Aiden. He made lead detective last year. The youngest in history, I believe.”
No surprise. Aiden Harrington was always going places. He had been her older brother’s best friend and Quinn’s secret crush since she’d been old enough to make pinky promises. He had movie-star good looks and a Superman physique, but those attributes—though a visually intoxicating bonus—weren’t why her heart pulsed a secret beat just for him.
Aiden “got” her. He appreciated her vast—and sometimes pointless—encyclopedic array of knowledge. Growing up, some boys had mocked her for being the first to raise her hand in class or for outscoring them on tests. But Aiden would remind her, “Any guy who’s intimidated by a smart girl will never grow up to be his own man. Keep those boys in your rearview, Quinnie. They’re well below your pay grade.” Such high praise from a beautiful, older, more popular boy had been heady liquor for a young girl. Every smile he gave and any chance to share his air intoxicated Quinn, her heart a swelling hope. Someday, she would think to herself. It was her most private wish.
He had always been a natural protector, so she hadn’t been surprised when he joined the police force after he graduated from the University of Virginia (double major in psychology and criminology with a minor in English literature—swoon). Her mom was right: Aiden was probably the perfect person to ask about what was happening in Vienna, but considering she regressed into an awkward, knobby-kneed tween every time she was in his presence, Quinn was going to pass on a one-on-one.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll talk to him later,” she lied.
“How many more pickups you got?”
Quinn glanced down the street. “Yours was the last one of the morning. We’ve been at it a while.”
She caught her mama staring.
“You okay?” Quinn rested her hand on her shoulder, gently bringing her back.
Her mother smiled. “Oh, don’t mind me. I know you’ve been home a little while now, but I swear, sometimes I look over at you and can’t believe you’re really here … that you’re back for good.”
“Well, believe it.”
Even with the reassurance, Adele’s hand still fiddled with a raven brooch on her jacket lapel. She collected intricate pins, getting the idea from former secretary of state Madeleine Albright. Years ago, Quinn had taken her to peruse the former secretary’s brooches on exhibit at the Smithsonian Castle, each pin a tongue-in-cheek “tell” on her mood and sentiments throughout her tenure. Quinn’s mama had been a collector ever since, encouraging her daughter to do the same. But Quinn wasn’t into the same fussy finery. She opted for some quirky pop culture–inspired enamel pins instead, some of her favorites being “These feelings would go good with pie” and “You can’t please everybody. You’re not a taco.”
Her mother rested her chin on top of the broom handle. “You ever miss the adventure?”
Quinn thought about it for a second. After graduating from The Catholic University of America, Quinn had spent the next three years teaching English all over the world, mostly in remote villages in Southeast Asia and Central America. For someone who hadn’t previously left the East Coast, let alone the United States, it had been a heck of a learning curve, one she’d never forget.
“I miss the people—a lot—but that’s about it. Don’t get me wrong—it was a phenomenal experience. But this is home. Besides, after living in yurts and huts, indoor plumbing and heat rock.”
Adele’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “I bet they do.”
Quinn went on, “Even more important, I promised my new bosses I was here for good.”
That made her mama laugh, deep and throaty, since her parents were her “new” bosses. “You have no idea how happy we are to have you. You’re not too overwhelmed now, with all the projects customers have brought in?”
“Not at all. You know I like being busy.”
When Quinn had come back to the shop, she had been worried there wouldn’t be enough work for her as a bookbinder. She had never been so wrong and was surprised by how many old books, journals, and even photo albums people had brought in for repair. She took the bounty as a sign her town was happy to have her home, enough for them to crawl into the creaking dark recesses of their attic spaces, confronting their forgotten, ancestral ghosts, all in order to dig up old family heirlooms for her to resurrect back to life.
Her dog gave a friendly yip.
“That’s my cue to get going,” Quinn said.
“Fair enough. Don’t forget my morning sugar.”
That was Caine family code for a hug and kiss goodbye. Quinn leaned in, taking in her mama’s delicious scent of orange blossom honey and wildflowers. Quinn could always tell when she had spent time in her prized garden, with a cup of tea.
She waved goodbye as she drove slowly down the street in “Golda”, her ochroid-colored, Ford F150, named after the first woman prime minister of Israel. Ever since buying her first car at sixteen, Quinn had been giving her vehicles nicknames—and she picked “Golda” for the same reason she’d chosen to buy a truck when she returned home from overseas. Both may not have been known for their conventional beauty, but they were tough, tenacious, and got the job done.
Quinn had it specially configured to play cassettes, along with outfitting Golda with the standard hookup for her iPhone. She pushed in her go-to driving mixtape, Venture a Highway—a word play on the classic hit by retro band America. Except this time Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” played, serenading her with the perfect song for driving down meandering roads. It wasn’t until she was almost at her destination that Quinn realized her mama never had answered her question about who had been killed in their town.
I’ll have to check on that later.
Quinn and RBG headed over to their next destination: Guinefort House—named after the only sainted canine in history—where Anglican nuns served the Almighty by breeding German shepherds and caring for rescues of all varieties. In fact, that’s where Quinn had gotten her own canine baby. The dog food donations she coordinated through local businesses weren’t much, but it was a small way for Quinn to give thanks and give back. The treats for RBG didn’t hurt either.
Even with all the bookbinding work that had come in, Quinn still needed something outside the shop to help her start rebuilding her life. Most of the friends she’d had growing up had not returned to Vienna, and the handful that had were squatting in their parents’ finished basements. She knew she was lucky, because the friends who had come back lived like retirees—complete with subsidized housing and working part-time in dead-end jobs. There was little more depressing for a young person than killing it through four years of college only to end up as a greeter at the local Walmart with your grandma’s canasta buddies.
Originally a rural farm town on the border of American history, over time Vienna had evolved into a sleepy bedroom community and was now a hot spring for tony families to raise their broods. Being ranked by several national magazines and news outlets as one of the best places to live certainly contributed to Vienna’s growing popularity and reputation. Blessings and curses often insisted on traveling in pairs.
When Quinn’s pilgrim spirit had finally been ready to settle, she’d discovered that what once was home was now, in many ways, new country. The same was true for some of the people. When she had left to teach English overseas, her cousin had been Elizabeth Anne Caine. Firebrand redhead. Social justice warrior. A little lost. A big chip on her shoulder in the shape of a broken heart. Now, she was Sister Daria. Nun-in-training. A woman with purpose. Someone actually interested in following the rules for the first time in her life. Quinn couldn’t help but wonder, Who was this person disguised as her beloved cousin?
Quinn understood a bit of the appeal: little compared to the beauty of Guinefort House, home of Sister’s Daria’s order. It was a Carpenter Gothic stunner, originally home to a family active in Northern Virginia’s Reconstruction efforts before it became the spiritual center for Anglican nuns and novitiates. Christ Fellowship Church in Vienna may have only been planted in 2011, but the Anglican Church had deep roots in Virginia, dating back to before the American Revolution, with founding father George Washington attending services at The Falls Church during his tenure as the nation’s first president.
Guinefort House’s moniker made Quinn chuckle as well, as it had been named for the only canonized pooch in history. She always forgot to ask: Had the nuns decided to breed German shepherds because of the name of the house, or had they named the home once they decided to breed dogs to support their order and rescue mission?
Quinn avoided asking her canine version of the question “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” because what she really wanted to ask her cousin and best friend was “Since when did monastic life become your go-to career option?” Quinn still remembered the shock she had felt over two and a half years ago after receiving Sister Daria’s letter. Quinn was six months into her first overseas teaching gig at the time. Her cousin wrote that she wanted to dedicate her life to the service of others, and being a social worker wasn’t enough. She was going to become a nun.
Out of nowhere, she had given away all her possessions and become a novice, taking her first vows two years later. Of course, Quinn had asked her why. So had the rest of the family. The only answer any of them received was that she felt called to serve in this way, through Guinefort House. In three more years, she’d take her final vows. Maybe by then Quinn would understand.
She texted her cousin to come out and help her lug in the bags of dog food, shoving the phone into her pocket while admiring the surrounding trees coming back to life. Vibrant purple crocuses peeked through the last of the winter white, warming her all over. Quinn adored the change of seasons. Maybe that’s why she didn’t sense the approach of Vienna’s own ice queen.
“Wow, a whole flatbed filled with kibble. I knew you and that fleabag did everything together, but I didn’t think you ate from the same trough.”
Quinn sighed, not wanting to turn around to address Tricia Pemberley. Because she loved her town. She really and truly did. But she was over mean girls like Tricia, who thought winning a few shiny tiaras back in high school still gave her some imaginary keys to the kingdom.
RBG wasn’t too thrilled either; her tan-and-black paws were on the gate of the truck, and she was grumbling low while staring straight at Tricia’s blanching face. But then again, dogs were excellent judges of character. That was one of the reasons Quinn had named her pup after the famous Supreme Court jurist, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Her girl was always able to assess people and situations. Quinn sometimes got it wrong, giving people the benefit of the doubt even when her instincts told her otherwise, but RBG? Never.
Tricia backed away. “Dear Lord, can’t you keep that dog of yours calm?”
RBG gave one of her warning growls, then a couple of quick, low grunts.
Quinn frowned. “She can’t help it. She’s responding to your mood.”
It was one thing for Tricia to pick on her, but no one—absolutely no one—was going to smack-talk her dog. “What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you go to Saint Marks? Or did the priest’s ears burn off after hearing your confession?”
Tricia narrowed her eyes. “Ha-ha. As if.”
Just when Quinn thought she’d have to deal with Tricia’s surliness alone, higher powers sent a reinforcement. At first, all she could see in her peripheral vision was flapping white and gray, like a wayward jaybird, hauling tail down the sidewalk. But it was Sister Daria. She wasn’t going to come out swinging, but she sure looked like she was at least entertaining the idea.
She may have been a nun-in-training, but she was still Quinn’s smart-mouthed, suffer-no-fools cousin and best friend. And one look at her expression told Quinn that Daria was in the mood to throw down some morning sass.
“Tricia, please tell me I didn’t just hear you take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Me? No! Um … well … good morning, Sister. We were just joking around.” Tricia pinned Quinn with her gaze. “Right, Quinn?”
As if. “Well, actually—”
“Actually, I have some big news,” Tricia interrupted, flipping the long bangs of her bob out of her face. She bared her teeth in something resembling a smile while thrusting her left hand forward. “Scott proposed last night! Isn’t it beautiful?”
Sure enough, there was a big, round rock, set in platinum, glittering away in the morning sun. Quinn noticed how the diamond’s fractal light shimmered like stars across Tricia’s metallic nail polish. Between her smile and the ring’s glimmer, she was her own constellation of happy.
Her cousin broke out in a wide grin. “Wow, that’s wonderful!”
“Uh, congratulations, Tricia.”
Better never break up with him. That is one man-boy who does not take rejection well.
Tricia was staring at Quinn. “Are you sure you’re happy for us?”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
“Your words say one thing, but your tone says something else.” Tricia put her hand on her hip, elbow out.
“There’s no tone, Tricia. Really and truly.” She tried to reassure her.
She was being truthful too. Just because Quinn couldn’t tolerate Scott for longer than a drive-by pleasantry didn’t mean she’d begrudge Tricia Pemberley the joy she’d found in their impending nuptials. Although, the idea of those two as Vienna’s new power-hungry couple was enough to make Quinn shudder. As Oscar Wilde once mused, “Some people create happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.”
Quinn summoned a kinder response. “I am very happy for you both.”
Tricia’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Well then, that’s good to hear. Glad there are no hard feelings.”
Hard feelings over … what exactly?
Quinn gazed skyward, shaking her head.
Thankfully, her cousin threw her a Hail Mary. “That’s an impressive haul you’ve got there. Seems like our ‘pet’ project has really taken off.”
Ah, a change of subject. Quinn mouthed a thank-you. “Yeah, I was surprised too. It’s twice the usual amount we get for donations. At this rate, y’all won’t have to buy dog food for months. Speaking of which …” She dragged the words out. “I need to get these bags inside. Can I count on some help from the blushing bride?”
Tricia’s smile melted off her face faster than lipstick on a pig in summer.
“Why, Quinn, that’s a great idea,” Sister Daria piped up. “What do you say?”
Tricia made an “eek” face. “Oh, well, y’all know I’m all about volunteering, but I’ve got to get a move on. You two have no idea how much goes into planning a wedding, especially since Scott wants to marry me as soon as possible.”
Quinn pulled down the truck gate. “Why? Is he expecting?”
Her cousin stifled her snort, coughing to cover it up.
“You think you’re so funny,” Tricia huffed.
“Oh, c’mon now—I was just teasing. You are going to make a beautiful bride.”
That was true. Quinn may not have thought much of Tricia as a human being, but she had been a gorgeous child, one who had grown into a stunning woman. There was a reason why she’d won all those pageants back in the day, even with her slightly tone-deaf rendition of “God Bless America.”
Quinn grabbed one of the dog-food bags and handed it off to her, not really giving her a choice. “Making a nun do manual labor is, like, seven years of bad luck.” She hoisted another bag toward Tricia. “That’s no way to start off your married life.”
The bride-to-be might pretend to be dainty, but that girl looked like she lived at the gym. She could handle the heavy bags.
Tricia grimaced. “I thought seven years of bad luck was for when you broke a mirror or something.”
“Oh really? You want to risk it?” Quinn asked. “Nope, there’s no way I can let you take that chance.”
“Fine, but this load is it.” She gave Quinn the stink eye before heading toward the kennel next to the abbey, with her arms full.
Sister Daria waited until the bridezilla-to-be cleared the doorway. “You know I am more than happy to help you bring this stuff in.”
“Oh, I get that. And you will.” She stretched herself across the flatbed for another bag. RBG head-butted the kibble in her direction, her adorable way of trying to help. Quinn cooed and gave her a scratch along her jaw and neck. Then she handed a couple of sacks over to her cousin.
“You know, using my being a nun as a way to mess with Trish only adds to my prayer load.”
“Please, you know the only reason she was even over here this morning was to tell me they got engaged. Everyone knows I’m always here the first Friday of the month.”
Her cousin’s shoulders shook from her silent laughter. “Don’t look at me to confirm your theory. I’m under contractual obligation with the big JC to assume the best in people—and you have no idea how much of a challenge that can be sometimes.”
“Oh please, you’re a softie.”
“Maybe so, but don’t forget: I can still pick a lock and hot-wire a car without getting caught.”
“The Reverend Mother must be so proud.”
“She is. Just because I’ve had a unique past doesn’t mean I can’t be your typical nun and be of service.”
Quinn couldn’t hold back the snort of laughter that time. “Being of service is one thing—being typical is something else.”
“I’m not that unusual of a candidate.”
“Oh please, what other novitiate chose their name after their favorite MTV animated character?”
Even with her arms full, her cousin waved the comment away like an annoying bug. “That’s just a coincidence. Saint Daria was real. After she helped convert a bunch of Romans, Daria was sent to a brothel as punishment, where a lion defended her honor.”
“Aaand?” Quinn dragged out.
Daria rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. The pontiff still ordered her execution. She was first stoned and then buried alive, but hey, how many saints end up with Disney-inspired happy endings?”
“Fair point, but face it: you’re the order’s first novice with a master’s degree and a rap sheet. Don’t get me wrong: you know I think you’re the coolest, but how you passed whatever test it took to get in there in the first place is a frickin’ miracle.”
Her cousin gave an impish look. “Be nice now. Who else is going to say extra prayers for a smart-mouth like you?”
She dropped the haul just inside the door of the kennel next to Guinefort House, noting Tricia had done the same. She glanced left and right—no signs of Vienna’s mocking girl anywhere.
“Where did she go?”
One side of Sister Daria’s lip quirked up. “She took off as soon as our backs were turned.”
“Figures.” Quinn walked to her truck, RBG’s cue to crawl through the cab’s open rear window and wait for her in the passenger seat. Quinn hoisted herself through the window to clip RBG’s seat belt. “I can drop her off and come back and pick you up you for breakfast, if you want. Or you can squeeze in. There’s room.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Daria said. “I’ll meet you over there. I want to change out of the penguin outfit first.”
“Why are you wearing it anyway?”
Sister Daria fanned her arms out. “We like to dust off the old wimple-habit combos when we have to confront owners of puppy mills, which I had to do at the crack of dawn this morning, along with some animal control officers. We’ve found some of these mill owners respond to old-school authority better than police uniforms sometimes.”
“Man, it’s a good thing you’ve never succumbed to the dark side.”
Sister Daria winked. “May the force be with you, nerd-girl.”
Quinn waved as she maneuvered herself into the driver side, closing the door. “See ya in a few!” she said, pulling away.
Minutes later, she rolled her truck toward one of the town’s more impressive historic estates, right on the curve of Walnut Lane. But this was not her house.
Once the home to Harmon Salsbury, a Union captain in the Twenty-Sixth Regiment of the Colored Infantry during the Civil War, the Salsbury House had belonged to Quinn’s Auntie Johanna and Uncle Jerome “Jerry” Caine for more years than she’d been alive. “Belonged to” was Quinn’s phrasing, not theirs, for she knew they regarded themselves as the house’s caretakers, not owners. An apt ideology for a town steeped in often-told American stories, albeit with a surprising twist of agency for its black citizenry.
Ever since her return from overseas, Quinn had lived behind her aunt and uncle’s residence, in a renovated, farmhouse-chic gem. Painted in traditional red with white trim, the once dilapidated barn was where they used to play hide-and-seek behind haystacks as kids. When Jerry and Johanna remodeled the barn, they admitted that they intended for their daughter—Quinn’s cousin—to have it. But when Elizabeth, now Sister Daria, took the veil, shunning all worldly comforts, she convinced them to work out a sweet rent-to-own deal for Quinn.
“At least it stays in the family,” Aunt Johanna had said with a sigh. “Plus, I know you’ll love it right. You’re a details girl, the same as me.”
Quinn had been grateful for the chance to be a homeowner at such a young age, especially in a coveted and increasingly expensive area. Otherwise, there was no way she could afford to live in Vienna on a bookbinder’s salary.
Quinn knew the arrangement had been bittersweet for them. Her aunt and uncle had wanted a traditional path for their daughter: to get married and have children. She had thought her cousin was halfway there when she met Raj back in grad school, the only man Quinn thought worthy of such a gem of a girl. Until something changed, and then he wasn’t anything anymore.
In addition to her rent, Quinn demonstrated her thanks to her aunt and uncle by feeding and caring for the chickens on the property and maintaining Aunt Johanna’s herb and vegetable garden. Sometimes, Quinn would catch Aunt Johanna watching her doing chores from the kitchen window, a sweet, sad smile on her ageless face. She’d give an enthusiastic wave, but Quinn knew: her presence was a consolation prize.
As soon as she and RBG walked through the front door that day, her dog baby went straight for her water bowl in the galley kitchen, slurping up the cold refreshment. When Quinn had adopted RBG, she had gotten into the habit of slipping a couple of ice cubes into the dog’s bowl, wanting her to have fresh, cold water at the ready. In no time she realized RBG liked munching on the ice cubes just as much as she enjoyed the drink, and every time she heard that crunching sound, Quinn couldn’t help grinning to herself. Along with the chickens clucking in the yard, the sound of crushing ice made her feel at home.
“All right, I’ve gotta go, girl. See ya soon!”
RBG looked up from her bowl, tail wagging while she licked her nose. She gave a short “ruff” as if to say goodbye. Quinn smiled to herself as she locked the door: I swear she understands most everything I tell her. I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m a crazy doggy mama.
Once buckled up in Golda and back on Church Street, Quinn got lucky with a parking space right in front of her favorite eatery. Three tiny bells rang over her head as soon as she walked in the door.
“Oh good! Quinn’s here. You get a good haul today?”
Even after having one heck of a morning, Quinn never got sick of walking into Church Street Eats and having her people check in with her. That included Ms. Eun Hutton, who owned the place, with her husband, Greg. He did the cooking, and she did what she called “the managing of all the things,” which some thought was code for waiting on customers and keeping up on the town gossip.
“Best one yet.” Quinn slid onto a stool at the counter. Ms. Eun handed her a laminated menu and a glass of seltzer, her usual.
Greg flipped a couple of sausage patties. “Hey, so where’s Mother Teresa?”
“She’s on her way. She just needed to change first.” Quinn and Daria usually had breakfast together after she unloaded the monthly donations.
Ms. Eun pretended to glare over her shoulder at her husband. “Now why do you do that?”
“What did I do?” he asked, a wicked grin curling under his mustache.
He totally knows what he did.
Ms. Eun thrummed her short fingernails on the counter. “You know … calling her everything except by her saint’s name.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “To me, she’ll always be little Lizzy Caine. Not Sister Maria, Donna, Conchita, or whatever it is now.” Greg eyed Quinn. “Hey, give an old man a break. I used to coach her softball games and break up her fights.”
Quinn grinned. “Ah right—I forgot about those.”
As a teenager, her cousin had taken it as her personal mission to pummel anyone who bullied another kid. Quinn despised bullies just as much but preferred less physical, more clandestine methods of retaliation.
Ms. Eun leaned her forearms on the counter in front of Quinn. “So, did you hear the news?”
She didn’t even wait for Quinn to respond.
“Tricia Pemberley and Scott Hauser got engaged last night.”
“I heard,” Quinn told her. “Tricia came by the abbey this morning.”
Ms. Eun rolled her eyes. “Well, of course she did. She’s always been bothered that you two dated.”
Quinn let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t see why. It was barely a blip on the radar.”
“Maybe not to you, but it was to him. You’ll always be the girl who got away.” Ms. Eun wasn’t done. “And some people think you might still be harboring a secret crush of your own because you haven’t been seen with anyone since being back in town.”
“You can’t be serious.” Quinn stared, pausing mid-sip. “I’ve only been back a couple of months. Who works that fast?”
“Good point, but no one could fault you if you had your eye on someone. Anyone in particular?”
And there it was … Quinn had walked right into that trap. Rookie move.
“Not these days, no.” She took another sip of her seltzer. “And for the record, I’m good with that.”
The little bells over the door rang.
Ms. Eun appeared unconvinced. “Really? Because there are some really nice boys at my church that I am more than happy to set you up with, especially since you’re—”
“Leave her alone.” Daria walked in and parked herself at the counter. Now she looked more like the cousin Quinn had grown up with, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a worn Young Life T-shirt. “Trust me, Quinn. I’ve seen the boys at her church. You aren’t missing a thing.”
Ms. Eun gave her the stink eye. “Hey, just because they’re not Anglican doesn’t mean the boys at my church aren’t good enough for Quinn.”
“Hey, I’m not saying they’re not good enough because they’re Presbyterians,” Daria said. “I’m saying they’re not good enough because they’re boys. In case y’all haven’t noticed, Quinn is all grown up now. She needs a man.”
Greg called out from behind the grill. “Eunnie, you gonna find out what the girls want, or you gonna keep yapping about boys like you’re at a sleepover?”
“All right, all right … I’m getting to it.” She leaned a slender hip against the counter, taking a pencil out of her pixie-cut black hair. “What’ll it be?”
Her cousin didn’t need to see the menu. “I’ll have the Gooey Grilled Cheese and a ginger ale.”
The tiny bells above the door rang again.
Ms. Eun wet the tip of her pencil on the tip of her tongue. “And you?”
Quinn handed back the menu. “I’ll have the Shredded Herbed Chick Omelet.”
Ms. Eun nodded, jotting her order down. “Side of almost-burnt home fries?”
Quinn smiled. They knew she adored the crispy potato edges. “Always.”
Someone spoke behind her. “You know, Mom still considers that her chicken recipe. If she catches you eating any version of her creation outside the house, she’ll go nuts and burn a bunch of sage in your old bedroom to cleanse your chakras or something.”
She knew that voice.
Quinn spun her stool around. “Only our mother throws parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme onto a chicken and proclaims Simon and Garfunkel taught her to cook.” She jumped into her older brother’s arms. “I can’t believe you’re back!”
There he was, her handsome, brilliant, and irreverent brother—Sebastian “Bash” Caine. She hadn’t seen him since her welcome-home party.
“Of course I am. Where else would I be?” Bash gave her a long squeeze before smiling at their cousin. “Hey, dork.”
Sister Daria laughed. “Hey, stink face.” She gave him a tight hug. “Look at you! Still in one piece.”
“So far, so good. Must be all those extra candles you’re lighting for me.”
Her cousin scoffed through a laugh. “The Catholics do that, not us, genius.”
“Then do that thing where you toss my sins on bread crumbs into the river instead.”
Daria’s eyes darted between Bash and Quinn. “Is he trying to be annoying? Because I know you know that’s the Jewish atonement tradition of tashlikh.”
Bash knew exactly how to push people’s buttons. It was a miracle he was as well liked as he was. “It used to be harder to rile you up,” Bash said. “You’re getting soft-headed in your old age, cousin.”
Greg opened one of the ovens and retrieved a succulent roast chicken. “By the way, Adele Caine is a kick in the pants, but for the last time, this is not her recipe.”
“It’s not yours either, Mr. Hutton,” Daria piped in. “It’s from a song.”
Quinn ignored the religion and chicken debates. “I thought you weren’t coming back for another week or two.”
Bash shrugged. “That was the plan, but rainstorms rolled in. So, I was able to get back earlier than expected.”
Just then, her cousin received a text and frowned.
“Everything okay?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah, it’s fine, but I’ve got to head back.” Her eyes darted from her phone to the Huttons. “Can I get that to go?” Her expression said everything was definitely not fine.
“Sure thing, Sister D.” Mr. Hutton placed a grill press onto her cheese sandwich. The husband and wife team worked lightning fast, getting everything together.
Ms. Eun brought her the food in a bag, along with a ginger ale that had a paper straw already in place. Her cousin handed over payment, but Ms. Eun brushed it away. “Your money’s no good here, honey.”
Daria’s expression softened. “Thanks, Mrs. Hutton.”
Ms. Eun gave Daria a hug. “Try and stay out of trouble now.”
Her cousin’s brows went up. “Me? I never get into trouble.”
That comment earned Quinn’s “you don’t fool me” gaze. “You mean you learned how not to get caught anymore.”
Bash chimed in. “She’s right, you know.”
Daria grumbled while grabbing her bagged lunch. “Oh, hush already.”
“Bye, Sister! Be careful!” Ms. Eun called out, waving.
Quinn watched her cousin walk out the door and hurry down the street. She’d have to call her later and find out what was up.
Meanwhile, her brother combed his fingers through his sandy-brown hair as he twisted side to side on his stool.
“Hey, Bash. Taking a break from saving the world?”
He gave Ms. Eun a playful wink. “Something like that. How’s my girl doing?”
And sure enough, that’s all it took to make a grown woman blush. “Don’t give an old woman hope. Now what can I get ya?”
It didn’t matter that Eun Hutton was twice his age and happily married. Bash was a natural flirt, a particular gift he shared—often. Everyone knew he was just playing.
He grabbed the menu off the counter, giving it a compulsory glance, although Quinn didn’t know why: Bash had been ordering the same thing since he was a kid. In fact, he loved their burger so much, Ms. Eun had it named after him.
“I’ll have my usual. Make sure that boyfriend of yours makes the fries extra crispy.”
“I heard that,” Greg called out over his shoulder. “It’s technically still breakfast, but since you save lives, I’m going to let that go.”
“Appreciated.”
Greg wasn’t done. “And stop flirting with my wife. Go get one your own age.”
Bash’s teasing eyes glimmered. “But you got the last good one.”
Greg let out a womp womp. “Yep. Sucks for you.”
Bash chuckled, then sat up straighter when a curvy woman in a short skirt walked by. Of course, he noticed.
Quinn eyed the exchange. “I’m guessing this means you’re no longer seeing the emergency operator in Colorado?”
Bash might be a flirt, but when he was seeing someone, he was loyal. So, for him to be even glancing at someone else told his sister all she needed to know: he wasn’t dating Ms. 9-1-1 anymore.
“We’re going there already? I haven’t even gotten my food yet.”
“Consider this the beginning of your meal.” Ms. Eun plopped down a glass of Coke in front of him. “Now, spill.”
He stalled, taking a big gulp. “Thanks, but I’m going to be a stickler and wait ’til I get my burger before I start the sharing circle.” His phone started ringing, cutting him off. He checked the screen, and his eyes widened. “Oh crap, didn’t expect this call so soon. Sorry, Quinn, I have to take this.”
“Oh, it’s okay. You weren’t even supposed to be back for another two weeks. This whole moment is like an extra gift on Christmas, except it’s April.”
His expression warmed.
She patted her messenger bag. “Besides, I brought a book with me.”
“Of course you did. Be right back.”
He ruffled her hair like he’d been doing since they were little. He sauntered to the back of the restaurant, heading for the bathroom.
Quinn opened her cross-body messenger bag and took out her latest book. She was going through a cozy mystery phase. This new series had a feisty amateur sleuth marooned, right on the beach, in a Pinterest-worthy retro-chic Airstream. Too bad it looked like the murderer might have just moved in next door.
The tiny bells over the door jingled yet again.
A woman’s shrill voice filled the space. “Are you sure you want to eat brunch here? I can call over to Bazin’s and have my regular table ready.”
“Don’t make a big deal, okay? You can live without your prosecco for one meal.”
The woman talking didn’t seem to care that everyone at the eatery could hear her. Quinn knew who both of them were without turning around, and started praying she wouldn’t be noticed.
It was her ex-boyfriend, Scott, otherwise known as Tricia’s current fiancé. He had just walked in with his mother, a woman who considered herself the epicenter of high society, if Vienna had such a thing. Although the town certainly had its share of well-heeled residents, few regarded having money as a status to hold over others’ heads. It was no wonder when people described Millicent “Milly” Hauser, they usually said, “Her house may be in Vienna, but she still lives in McLean,” a not-so-subtle dig at her and the haughty neighboring town inside the Beltway.
Ms. Eun interrupted. “Actually, we do have prosecco. They come in these cute lil’ bottles. Oh, and feel free to grab any available table.”
“Why don’t we park over at the counter?” Scott asked.
Please don’t sit by me. Please don’t sit by me.
There was silence for several seconds.
Scott’s mother spoke up. “We’ll take a table over there … such as it is.”
Quinn kept her head in her book, hoping that if she ignored them, they’d go away-her version of Field of Dreams, but, well, the opposite. Her book was on the counter, so she propped both elbows on either side of it and gazed down, letting her hair fall forward in an autumnal wave, her lame attempt at hiding in plain sight.
Even with her head down, she could feel Scott standing behind her.
“I know you believe books are magic, but please tell me you don’t actually think you’re wearing some sort of invisibility cloak to hide yourself.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Closing the book, Quinn met Scott’s gaze. “You get points for throwing in a Harry Potter reference. What’s up?”
He smoothed his hand down the front of his mint-green, Vineyard Vines button-down shirt, every blond hair on his head laquered in place. He gave a toothy grin. “Nothing. Just came by to say hi.”
“Okay, well … hi.”
He gave a quick nod. “I heard Tricia came by Guinefort House this morning, saying you really needed her help.”
Oh did she now?
Quinn feigned a smile. “Yes, she really was such an asset, I couldn’t have managed without her. Will you let her know I said it was okay to come back and volunteer again with the heavy lifting next month?”
See? Clandestine methodology. She had learned that maneuver from reading Mother Teresa’s biography. True story.
Scott beamed. “I’ll do that. Wow, I had no idea she was even interested in helping out on a regular basis. Isn’t she great?”
Tricia was a queen-bee train wreck who talked through her nose, but no way was Quinn going there. “I don’t know her very well,” she lied. “But congratulations. I heard this morning you two got engaged.”
“Did you see the ring I put on her finger?” He actually puffed his chest out like a ready-to-mate peacock. “Over three carats.”
“I’m happy for you both.” She waited to see if he was going to tell her what he wanted.
He just stared, looking a bit put out.
“I’m sorry—is there something you needed?”
He huffed. “Geez, Quinn. I thought me getting engaged to another woman would get some sort of reaction out of you. You and I have history.”
Oh wow. Cue the awkward. “Scott, we dated for, like, a minute and a half, three years ago before I left town. By all means, have a happy life. Live long and prosper. May the force be with you, and all that good stuff.”
Her words seemed to help him relax. His shoulders dropped as he let out a long breath. “Thanks, I appreciate that.” Something was still working behind his eyes. “I’d still like to talk to you about another matter. Another time, that is.”
She felt the lines furrow between her brows. “About what exactly?”
“Scott Alexander!”
His mother must’ve been in a state, because she was using both his first and middle names, which everyone knew moms said in lieu of doing what they really wanted, which was to slap the spit out of their children’s heads. Didn’t matter that her son was twenty-seven years old.
“What?” He did not bother to hide his annoyance.
Kitten heels together, arms straight at her sides, she resembled a coiffed mannequin in a Bergdorf’s window. “You are being rude, that’s what,” his mother bit back.
Quinn tried to diffuse the tension. “Hello, Mrs. Hauser. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you and Scott.”
Vienna’s version of Cersei Lannister revealed the barest hint of a curled mouth. “Hello, dear. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Congratulations on the happy news, by the way.”
The cords along Mrs. Hauser’s sinewy neck tensed before her features smoothed over. “Yes, well, Patricia comes from a lovely family, although I’ll never understand why she and her sister chose a career in sales of all things. No advanced degree of any kind.” She huffed, shaking her head. “But I suppose we can’t make our children’s choices for them now, can we?”
Quinn had no idea how to respond to such a hostile remark. She didn’t even like Tricia, and she still felt the need to defend her.
“You know, Mrs. Hauser, Tricia is a highly successful realtor, one of the best in the area.”
“Yes, I’ve spotted those billboards as well. So ghastly! They must’ve cost a fortune.” Mrs. Hauser’s gaze scanned Quinn up and down, like the Terminator’s, but without the warmth. “I suppose every mother thinks no one is good enough for her son.”
And with that petrified turd of a comment, his mother walked to the booth on the other side of the restaurant.
Just then, Bash waltzed out of the bathroom, pegging Scott in Quinn’s personal space and barreling straight for them. “Everything okay here?”
Ms. Eun placed their food down with a thud. “Chow’s up!”
Scott startled. Of course, Bash was six feet three and her ex was only five eight, so she understood why he was getting jumpy.
“Nope. No problem.” He gave her a quick, pained smile. “See you later, Quinn.”
Her brother did that staring down “I’m not gonna blink until you’re gone” thing, waiting until Scott was across the room and seated with his mom before he slid back onto the stool.
“Is that numb-nut bothering you?”
She stole one of his fries. “Not really. Until today, that is.”
He grabbed the ketchup. “Why, what’s so special about today?” He opened the top and slammed the heel of his palm on the side of the bottle.
“He got engaged to Tricia Pemberley. She even made a special trip over to Guinefort House to let me know.”
He barked out a laugh. “That’s awesome. They’ll both be miserable for the rest of their lives.”
Quinn kept her voice low. “I don’t understand why he’s here with his mom. They never come here.”
“No kidding.” Ms. Eun butted in. “The only time that boy ever came in was when the two of you were dating. And now he’s back.” She gave Quinn a pointed look.
Quinn groused. “Oh, c’mon now. He’s engaged.”
Ms. Eun remained unfazed—and unconvinced. “He’s never gotten over you. Everyone knows that.”
“Please, he just never got over someone breaking up with him. ‘No one breaks up with Scott Hauser’—I still can’t believe I went out with someone who talks about himself in the third person.”
“He was—and will always be—a self-centered bro-hole.” Bash took a whopper bite of his burger.
“He says he wants to talk.”
Bash swallowed. “Well, that’s not happening.”
She shoved a bite of her omelet into her mouth. “Um, I tink dass my dwecision to make,” Quinn said through a mouthful of herbed chicken goodness.
Greg yelled out, “Hey, beautiful bride of mine, we’ve got other customers!”
Ms. Eun shrugged her shoulders. “That’s my cue.”
As soon as she was out of earshot, Bash leaned in. “Want some good news?”
She swallowed another bite. “Of course, I do—spill.”
“Guess who was just hired as the new assistant fire chief for Fairfax County?”
She dropped her fork on the plate. “No way.”
Another happy smile. “I just got off the phone with the chief. That means no more traveling the country, living out of crappy motels. I’m moving back for good, and I start Monday.”
Quinn waved both hands like they were on fire, something she did when she was over-the-moon excited. “Holy shi—are you serious?” She didn’t wait for his response. “I can’t believe it! This is huge!” She threw her arms around him, rocking him side to side.
“But wait—there’s more.”
She released him. “What? If I order now, I get the Ginsu knives too?
Eun came back to refill his Coke. “What’s going on?”
“You know what? Let me tell you on the way.” He retrieved his wallet and placed a couple of twenties on the counter.
Quinn scrunched her nose. “You know, I can buy for us, Bash.”
He brushed his sandy-brown hair out of his eyes. “I know, I know … you are woman, hear you roar. All for it, except you forget, when you’re out with your big brother, I’ve got you, the least of it meaning me paying for breakfast.”
She really did have the best brother ever created.
“Not necessary, but always appreciated.” She hopped off her stool and adjusted the strap of her messenger bag.
“Thanks, guys.” She waved to the Huttons.
“Stay out of trouble!” Ms. Eun called out. Her husband moved away from the grill, draping an arm over his wife’s shoulder.
Bash leaned close to her ear. “I need you to come with me on an errand, by the way.”
“Sure. Where we going?”
He held the door open for her. “To face the enemy.”