Sweet Stuff Read online

  The problem was, she played for both sides. A fact he could never forget. There was no way to talk with her about his idea, without simultaneously announcing the same news to his entire publishing house. He couldn’t ask her to keep it a secret until he decided, and he wasn’t ready to make any kind of public announcement yet. It was the same reason he hadn’t bent the ears of any of his fellow authors. Not that he couldn’t trust their discretion, but this was not a typical brainstorming session. The idea that someone so successful in one genre was even contemplating switching it up would be too juicy a tidbit to keep under wraps. Especially in the current writer-eat-writer economic environment.

  If and when he decided to change it up, he’d need to control the big reveal as best he could. He’d have to tell Claire immediately. It would be career suicide, on many levels, to just spring the manuscript on her, fait accompli, then let the chips fall where they may. But when—and if—he did tell Claire, he needed to be damn sure of what he was doing, so he could defend the book as thoroughly and enthusiastically as possible, ensuring to the best of his ability that it would be well received, with everyone on board his new train and thrilled to be there.

  “We’ll talk soon,” Claire was saying.

  Once again, he bit his tongue and kept his tumultuous thoughts to himself. “I know we will,” he said dryly, accepting the inevitability of that. “Take care.” His smile faded as he clicked off the phone. He groaned as he slid his sunglasses off and hooked them on the rearview mirror. The dragons were officially breathing fire.

  Climbing out of the car, he pushed the aggravation away, focusing instead on the pleasures of Laura Jo’s bacon and egg sandwich, the world’s best coffee, and the friendly smiles and hearty welcomes of the locals who also made the diner part of their morning routine.

  He’d wondered at first if he was making a mistake, if bumming around the island would end up inviting more distractions than he already had. Thanks to a small write-up in the local paper announcing he’d leased the old Turner place, and mentioning his ties to his grandfather and the island, everyone knew who he was, even those who’d never heard of him three or four weeks ago.

  Although his ties were tenuous at best, it was precisely that connection to Sugarberry that had made him an instant local to the other islanders; welcomed, accepted, and, other than a nod and a friendly hello, largely left alone to his own devices. He appreciated both. More than he could have imagined. They also took a sense of pride and ownership of his accomplishments—local boy makes good—which could have come off as a bit of latching-on, but felt like a warm, supportive embrace.

  He hadn’t realized how un-embraced he’d felt, or just how solitary a life he’d led over the years. He considered himself social, and involved. He did charity work, played a round of golf with a few fellow writer buddies when he could. David and Finch were always about or in contact, and there was rarely a time when he wasn’t traveling to see places he wrote about, or tracking down, meeting, or talking and listening to the broad range of people he interviewed and came to know while doing research for his books. He’d have said he had a full, vibrant, interesting life.

  Yet, in a very short time, the span of a single month, the whole island had become as comfortable to him as his bungalow had been the moment he’d set foot in it. It felt like home. Or certainly a place he’d like to call home. Even with the monumental decision he had to make, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so ... grounded. Centered. As if rooted, toes in the sand, island breeze on his skin, and the quiet, loyal support, so good-naturedly offered up by everyone around him ... he could free the rest of himself up to think, to ponder. To plot and plan—which would be ever-so-glorious ... if he could just decide which version of the story he was going to tell.

  His problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what to write next. He wasn’t blocked. Quite the opposite. There were two stories dueling for supremacy in his head. The one he knew he could write, because he’d written it, or some version of it, a dozen times before. The one he knew, hands down, was a solid, marketable, exciting idea that would produce a great story once it was all done and told.

  And the other one, the tantalizing one, the one luring him down a path that was dark and shadowy, where there was no rich experience, accumulated knowledge, and certainty to fall back on. That story was all but bursting inside his head, luring him like a seductive siren. Promising heat and fun and heady anticipation, even though he knew there was a better than average chance his career would end in one huge, crashing, explosive ball of flames.

  The only real question was ... did he risk the flaming ball of destruction for the chance to achieve what might be a slow, steady burn? One that could keep him in a heady, exciting place for many years to come?

  “I wish to hell I knew,” he muttered as he climbed the short set of steps to the rear door of the diner. He’d needed to escape the four walls of his house ... and the four sides of his beckoning computer screen. Write what you know ... make everyone happy ... keep your day job. Those were the words echoing in his ears when he sat down to work. As was often the case of late, it had driven him straight out the door through the dunes and to the beach.

  But a long, limit-testing run or punishing sea swim hadn’t done a damn thing to silence the voices ... or convince him to embrace them. He knew the creative process was unpredictable at best, so he remained hopeful every time he set off down the sand, that the epiphany would come, that some thought or idea would signal to him why he should turn his back on the seductive siren call torturing him, and stick to the steady reliable companion he’d worked so hard to cultivate. To believe in. To trust. He’d already achieved that with his publisher, his editor, and most important, his readers. Was he tossing those relationships away, like a sorry bastard who cheated on his spouse?

  But that wasn’t even half his problem. Half his problem—hell, it felt like all of his problem—was those long runs that were supposed to promote clearheaded, rational thinking ... did nothing of the kind.

  No sooner would he settle into a nice loping stride than his thoughts would trip away from the dialogue his characters should be having to echoes of other conversations, real ones, of laughter shared and insights revealed ... and a pair of devastating dimples bracketing a mouth he’d spent far—far—too much time wishing he’d already tasted.

  What should have been a brief, inconsequential run-in at the bakery the previous week had turned out to be neither brief nor inconsequential. Every time he was with her, he learned more ... and the temptation grew. He’d first told himself he was using his attraction to distract himself from the confusing and challenging choices he had to make. It wasn’t the first time his head had been turned. He’d been writing long enough to see a distraction for what it was.

  Riley Brown was in a whole new category. He couldn’t truly imagine that he’d ever forget her.

  Quinn opened the screen door to the kitchen and gave a small salute and smile to Laura Jo and her line cooks, who were busily plating and serving up dishes, sliding them across the top of the half wall that divided the kitchen from the front diner counter and the tables lining the walls beyond it. He’d come in through the kitchen door by mistake his first time, thinking it was merely the rear entrance, since that was where the parking lot was. But he’d learned most everyone either lived within walking distance, or worked around the town square, so they came on foot. A few tourists or island wanderers would park along the curb out front, in the few spaces available. Typically, the other cars in the rear lot belonged to Laura Jo and her staff.

  She’d thought he was sneaking in due to his celebrity status, which had made him laugh. Despite his sales numbers and his smiling face plastered on book jackets around the globe, he was like the rest of the best-selling authors out there—household names no one would recognize in person.

  At best, he got the “where do I know that guy from?” look or a head scratch. It was amusing when Laura Jo had seated him discreetly in the back of the rest
aurant, right by the kitchen door, thinking he wanted privacy, and then had snuck samples of all kinds of heavenly goodies to him. He’d appreciated her sensitivity even if, normally, it would be unwarranted. With Sugarberry being so small, and folks knowing everything about each other’s business, he’d accepted the privacy she’d offered, simply for the chance to think and plot without interruption.

  But on Sugarberry, there really was no such thing as privacy, no matter where he sat. On the other hand, because he’d been so quickly and warmly adopted by the islanders, rather than finding their smiles and jovial hellos and hey, how are yas intrusive or suffocating, he found them welcoming and heartwarming.

  He felt like the Norm character from the iconic Cheers television program, with everyone raising a mug or tossing out a friendly hello whenever he wandered in. Sometimes the islanders engaged Quinn in conversation, other times they’d leave him to his thoughts, but he was always greeted warmly and openly. More surprising to him was that, rather than sit back and keep to his own thoughts, or observe and listen, he found himself actively engaging in the conversations that sprang up around him, as most of the other diners did, everyone talking over each other and any number of conversations converging, dividing, then converging again. He’d immensely enjoyed the give-and-take, learning more about his new neighbors, and finding himself sincerely and actively getting caught up in their lives.

  He still used the back entrance, though more as an amusing tradition, one he and Laura Jo enjoyed ... and he still took the rear table by the kitchen door. Mostly because Laura Jo still spoiled him with tasty tidbits.

  He pushed through the door to the diner that morning and was greeted by a wave of “Hey,” and “Mornin’ ” and nods or coffee mug salutes all around. He gave a short wave and a smile to everyone, then settled in at his table, which already had a well-thumbed copy of the Daily Islander on it, even though it was barely past nine in the morning. He’d also discovered islanders were an early rising lot, and knew he was easily the fifth or sixth occupant of that table that morning. Not being a morning person, his leisurely mornings were one of the things he enjoyed best about writing for a living. That had shifted a bit since his arrival on Sugarberry. He wasn’t entirely certain why, but when the sun came up, he generally followed close behind it.

  He was getting more regular exercise now than he ever managed in the city ... which he was doubly thankful for. He’d relearned the joys of the slower-paced, Southern lifestyle ... most especially as it pertained to the utter pleasure to be found in lingering over a well-prepared meal and a good cup of coffee. To that end, he settled back in his chair, the tension from Claire’s call already easing out of his neck and shoulders, then smiled broadly as he picked up the paper and realized it was Thursday.

  Miss Alva’s advice column ran on Thursdays.

  Laura Jo popped out with a fresh cup of coffee, two creams, one sugar, which wasn’t at all how he’d taken it in his former life, but how he always had his coffee now. “Thanks,” he told her, wondering how he’d ever enjoyed the brew bitter and black. “That bacon smells incredible.”

  “Good. You’re about to get some with an egg, sunny-side up, on two slices of grilled toast.”

  Quinn closed his eyes in anticipation. “My heart and soul thank you, even if my arteries do not.”

  “Come now, a finer specimen of a man I don’t recall I’ve ever seen. Except, of course, for my Johnny. Rest his soul.”

  “Of course,” Quinn agreed with a smile, “and thank you kindly.” She spouted some version of the same sort of flattery every time he came in, and he was quite certain did the same with every other customer as well, sounding just as sincere, which was a large part of her charm. And why his cheeks warmed right up, every time.

  “I’ll be right back out,” she said with a wink.

  He grinned and shook his head, taking another sip of the sweet, creamy, aromatic brew as he flipped the paper open straight to “Ask Alva.” The column was purported to be an advice column, but was, in fact ... nothing easy to label. Folks did send in letters, and they did ask her advice, but that only seemed like a flimsy excuse to gossip about everyone on the island. She didn’t name names, but there was no doubt to anyone who lived on Sugarberry—which comprised the entire readership of the daily paper—whom she was referring to as she spun her tales of “advice.” She always managed to include a colorful story about how someone of her acquaintance had once done something similar to someone else. The end result rarely was a flattering portrayal, but was always told in such an entertaining manner, it never left a bad taste. Well, other than perhaps to the person being scolded for their bad behavior. But since they generally appeared to deserve it ... Quinn didn’t judge himself too harshly for being amused.

  It did make him wonder why anyone would send a letter in and assume they’d retain any sense of anonymity, which led him to suspect the actual validity of those letters ... but as a born storyteller, he’d immensely enjoyed the few columns he’d read thus far and settled in with the happy anticipation of another round of entertaining anecdotes over breakfast.

  Laura Jo popped out a moment later and slid a steaming plate in front of him. It was like a mini buffet for one. He loved the South. In addition to the egg and bacon grilled sandwich, there was a side of pan-browned, hashed potatoes, a small bowl of buttered grits, and what he knew was going to be a melt-in-your-mouth flaky, buttermilk biscuit. Add to that the little bowl of apple butter, another one of sausage gravy, and a second mug of coffee to replace the one he’d already drained, and it was his own personal definition of the “great and grand beyond”—which was where it would likely send him, if he kept eating like this, he thought with a chuckle ... then dove right in.

  When Laura Jo stopped by to top off his mug again, Quinn looked straight into her lively gray eyes. “Will you marry me?”

  “Well, now that my sweet Johnny has met his maker ... I am available,” she responded, without missing a beat. “Of course, I’ll expect you to take me away from all this.”

  He gave her a look of mock horror. “Why would I want to do that?”

  She leaned down and propped her ample frame on the table with one hand, while the other expertly kept her serving tray aloft. “If I can put out that food you’re devouring from my little, sorry excuse of an aging kitchen where half the stuff don’t work unless you kick it, pound it, or swear at it, imagine what I could whip up for you on that brand-new Viking I hear you have.” She fluttered her lashes as she straightened. “I’ll consider that your dowry.”

  Quinn laughed outright, then took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Take me, I’m yours!”

  She tugged her hand free, then swatted him with the towel she kept tucked in her apron pocket, but not before he spied the bit of pink in her cheeks. “Scoundrel.”

  “Saucy temptress.”

  She laughed even as she snapped the towel at his leg and stepped back toward the kitchen. “Just because you have a way with words, don’t think you can woo me.”

  “Good thing Johnny’s not around, or I’d have to tell him to keep an eye on his back,” he called out as the door swung shut behind her. Still grinning, he continued his meal with renewed energy, like a man starved, knowing it wasn’t so much his belly but his battle with indecision fueling his need for biscuit-and-gravy comfort. There were few forms of comfort more satisfying than a home-cooked Southern breakfast.

  His mind immediately skipped from Alva’s sermon on the evils of coveting your neighbor’s wife and how she once knew a certain tackle shop owner who should really have kept his bait on ice ... to a different kind of comfort food. Riley Brown came directly to mind, full lips parted, blouse opened, with chocolate frosting smeared all over her—

  “Well, look who’s up early and eating like a man should first thing in the morning.”

  Quinn startled guiltily from his little reverie, so much so that he rattled the table and almost knocked his coffee mug over. He quickly steadied everything, then
looked up to find all five-foot-nothing of Alva Liles smiling straight at him. “Good morning to you, Miss Alva. What has you up and about this fine morning?”

  Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thankful for the linen napkin covering his lap, certain that, like his body’s current condition, his thoughts would somehow broadcast themselves like a neon sign. But that was Alva’s influence on folks.

  Eighty-three or not, ol’ eagle eye immediately spied the column he’d folded the newspaper to. She beamed. “Are you enjoying today’s column?”

  “I am. Always do,” he said, happy and thankful to direct his thoughts away from Riley and on to anything else.

  As if Alva had some kind of Vulcan mind meld with him—the more he got to know her, the more he wasn’t too certain she wasn’t at least part alien; it would explain so much—she took the seat across from him. “Can I ask you a nosy question? And you can just tell me I’m an old busybody who should mind her own business. I won’t take offense.”

  Quinn, who couldn’t imagine anyone saying that to Alva’s face—certainly not him—simply nodded. And braced himself.

  “I was wondering if you were ... involved. With a woman, I mean.” She placed her tiny, birdlike, blue-veined hand on his arm, and gripped it with surprising strength. “I don’t want any details, you know, just a simple yes or no. Are you available?”

  Quinn instantly thought of Riley again, and was surprised. More from panic than plan, he flashed Alva a grin and covered her hand with his own. “Why, Miss Alva, are you askin’ me what I think you’re askin’ me?”