Page 43 of A Newport Christmess

“Would you like me to make a gingerbread house you could decorate with her? It wouldn’t be anything fancy, but Nikki said she also enjoyed making them.”

I glanced at the undecorated houses. “You have lots to do. You don’t need to add anything else to your day.”

“It wouldn’t take long, and I’d love to do it—unless that’s not allowed at the care facility.”

“I’m sure it’s allowed.” I studied her hopeful expression. “But only if you have time.”

Her smile widened, and she gave a goofy salute. “Yes, sir.”

I shook my head with a chuckle. “I’d better let you get to it, then, soldier.” I paused when I reached the door. “And not that you’re likely planning to go out, but there’s supposed to be a storm tonight. Nothing too crazy. They’re predicting a few inches of snow is all, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Are you going anywhere?” Her voice was casual, but a small crease formed in the middle of her brow.

It looked like I’d have to wait until tomorrow to see Julie and her family. “I’ll be downstairs. Text me if you need anything.”

The line between her eyes disappeared. “Even if it feels like I’m inconveniencing you?”

“Especially if it feels like that. Maybe then, you’ll learn you aren’t.”

I stepped into the stairwell and locked the door so Quinn wouldn’t have to get up.

TWELVE

QUINN

It had been hours since Landon had left, and my mind was still churning over all the events from today—the last few days, really. I typically enjoyed the mindless work of decorating so I could listen to music or put on a movie as background noise, but no movie sounded good, and I’d tried many a holiday tune, but it simply wasn’t cutting it. I needed something to ground myself and quiet my thoughts. And with Landon a text message away, perhaps an episode of my favorite true-crime podcast wouldn’t be too much to handle.

I found my phone and started the next episode, engrossed in the plot of a neighborhood killer that ended up being a seventy-four-year-old woman. Were there no demographics untouched by murderous rage? My phone rang, making me jump and pausing my podcast. I sighed. This was not the first time Mom had called, and if I didn’t answer soon, she’d likely call the police and report me missing.

“Hey, Mom.”

“There you are. Sheesh. I nearly called the police. I haven’t heard from you in three days, Quinn.”

I smiled to myself. “I texted you.”

“Anyone can steal a phone and send texts from it. I needed to hear your voice and make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine. I’ve just been super busy.”

“I hope part of that busyness was you asking about changing those airline tickets to come home on the twenty-third.”

And this was the precise reason I hadn’t answered the last few times. I hadn’t even agreed to come yet, and here she was, implying her will into reality. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen Irene Garrity—the one who booked my tickets—since I got here.”

“And you have no other way of contacting her?” Doubt tainted Mom’s voice.

I winced. “I’ll email her tomorrow.”

“Every day you wait, the tickets are going up in price, Quinn. If we’re the ones having to fly you home, Dad and I don’t want to spend a fortune to do it.”

“I’ll email Irene tonight.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I’m excited for you to see all the new Christmas traditions Margaret has planned for us. I don’t know why we didn’t do our own thing together sooner.”

It suddenly felt as though I’d swallowed a paperweight with the way my stomach dropped. “Sounds great. I’d better go, though. I’m right in the middle of decorating one of the houses, and I need both hands.”

I held my breath, waiting for her to say I could just as easily put it on speaker, but she didn’t. I wasn’t surprised. I think she felt like showing interest in my work was only prolonging something futile. “Don’t forget to let me know the minute you hear about the plane ticket.”

“Is that Quinn?” my dad’s voice came through the speaker.