Quinn cleared his throat. “So why did you guys … Why the long break? Could he not deal with the Parkinson’s? Was he …?”
She caught his eyes in the mirror. “Unfaithful? Not before he left. Since then? I hope not, but I don’t know. Three years is a very long time.”
Her tone told him the separation had been a long one for her too. “Yeah, but you haven’t …”
“No, I haven’t.” She flashed him an unreadable look. “I think our being apart has more to do with how convoluted our lives became after the accident, how little we communicated, and how hurt and angry we both were. Between our demanding lives, my disease, the trouble with Ronan—” Her eyes went wide, and she came to a standstill.
Suddenly, she had all Quinn’s attention. “What do you mean, ‘the trouble with Ronan’?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” She bent back to her work.
“No, Mom. What about Ronan? I know he’s your favorite—it’s no secret. Dad wanted him to break into the NHL, but then he got hurt. I know Dad was disappointed it ended up being me instead, so you won’t hurt my feelings by talking about it.” I’m a big boy now. I think.
She stopped again, and he wondered if she was going to get through the entire cut or if he’d end up with lopsided locks. Then she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Is that what you think? Oh, Quinnie. Ronan is not the favorite.”
A few silent beats went by before he screwed up the courage to ask his next question. “Then why all the special treatment for him? Is it because I was too much to handle and you couldn’t deal?” In Quinn’s memory bank, his parents had thrown all their attention at Ronan, letting Quinn fend for himself, especially after Ronan’s hockey hopes had come to a screeching halt.
Now his mother rested both hands on his shoulders and her chin on his crown. “Quinnie, trust me when I say Ronan needed … help, even before the accident. You didn’t. Yes, you were high energy and drove me crazy at times, but you were capable of standing on your own, unlike your older brother. You have a good head on your shoulders about most things. And your dad and I … Well, let’s just say it was all hands on deck, and that deck was almost always Ronan. And then the accident. Your dad …” She let out a little sigh. “Well, I always worried we cheated you, but you were so good-natured and seemed to roll with whatever … Gosh, Quinnie, I’m so sorry.”
And she was. He could read it in her misty eyes.
He sat in stunned silence while she finished cutting his hair. Finally, he spluttered, “So Ronan’s not your favorite?”
She offered him a wry smile. “No, honey. I don’t have any favorites, but if I did, it wouldn’t be your brother.”
Blown away couldn’t begin to describe his state of mind after her revelation. He’d have to chew on it a while before digesting it. In the meantime, his chest felt about a hundred pounds lighter.
His mom grasped both sides of his head and squared his face to the mirror. “What do you think?”
Though it wasn’t the professional job he was accustomed to, and the short length would take some getting used to, he gave her his honest answer. “Best haircut I’ve ever had, Mom. Thank you.” And it had nothing to do with his hair.
Sarah removed her heels from her pinched feet and quietly slipped inside the house from the garage. Quarter after eleven, and everything was dim. Good. Liz and Quinn were in bed then, which was where she would head. After an evening of polite conversation, she was exhausted. But where was Archer?
She padded the length of the hallway that led to the kitchen, and her question was soon answered when Archer rounded the corner, his tail swiping back and forth at full throttle.
She dropped into a crouch to pet him. “Aw, I love how you say hello. But you’re not much of a guard dog, are you? I could’ve lifted the family jewels by now and—”
A figure loomed out of the dimness, startling her, and she fell on her ass.
“You okay, Sunshine?”
She stared up at Quinn’s silhouette. Something didn’t compute, but the voice was definitely his. He reached down and clamped a big hand on her arm, hauling her upward. A glow from the kitchen illuminated his face. “Have fun tonight, toots?”
“Oh my God! Where’s your hair?”
“My bathroom floor,” he quipped and took a few steps back.
“Why?” The question came out plaintive, whiny.
He shrugged his rock-hard shoulders. “I was tired of it. Why? Thought you didn’t like it?”
“It’s not that … It’s just … It was your hair. Your identity was wrapped up in that hair.”
“Not really.” He walked into the family room, where the TV flickered. She followed. The volume was so low she barely heard it, but she recognized the show about ancient aliens.
“So you’re like Samson now,” she blurted.
He picked up a mostly full beer bottle and tipped it to his lips. “I’m what?”
“Samson. Delilah cut off his hair, and he lost his strength. Not good if you’re a hockey player.”
Cocking his head, he stepped closer. “Are you drunk? You shouldn’t drink and drive. I would’ve come—”
“No. Just in shock.” She kept her eyes fastened on his face, scanning, taking him in as she adjusted to the gloom. Solid cheekbones seemed more prominent, and his clean-shaven jaw appeared a little more squared off. The youthful, I’m-all-that persona had retreated, eclipsed by a confident … man. A powerful, mature man. Could a haircut be responsible for the transformation? No. Thoughts of the accident—how it had impacted Quinn’s life, his entire family’s life, how his father had left, what Jennifer and Ronan had done—had been running roughshod in Sarah’s brain all night, and once again she’d
