The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (16 page)

CHAPTER 13

I roll over in my bed, waking slowly to the aroma of coffee and baking drifting up the stairs. I smile sleepily and stretch my arm over to the other side of the bed. It’s cool, the sheet still smooth. I sit up with a jolt.

No Trey in my life.

Quinn doesn’t make coffee.

Soft wings of panic flutter through my stomach. I hear a noise, a sla
m . . .
a shriek—
Quinn!

I grab my robe and dash down the stairs, punching my arm into a sleeve. I stop dead on the bottom landing, robe half-on, half-off. My mind doubles in on itself as I try to process the scene.

Through the open-plan dining area I see Quinn perched atop a stool at the kitchen counter, happily swinging her legs, pink socks on her feet. Jeb is behind the stove, my white cooking apron stretched across his torso, tied behind his waist. He’s got my cast iron frying pan, and he tosses a pancake high in the air. It plops neatly back in the pan. Quinn chuckles. I can smell the batter cooking, maple syrup. Fresh coffee is in the pot.

My house is filled with the scents and sounds of a home.

I reach for the banister in shock, stare.

He slides the cooked pancake onto Quinn’s plate, smiles gently into her eyes. “Let me guess, you like a really big stack.”

She nods vigorously. “Yup. Dad always used to pile like eight on.”

Jeb ruffles her hair. There is affection in the movement and the poignancy of the moment snares my throat. I swallow, then clear my throat.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out hoarse.

Quinn spins round. Jeb stills and looks up. I come down the last few stairs. His gaze dips, taking in my dishabille. A slow, seductive smile unfurls over his lips.

“Got up in a hurry, did we?” he says.

I grab the other sleeve, thrust my arm through it, and belt my terry robe tightly around my waist. “Quinn, go upstairs.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to J
e . . .
to him.” I glower at Jeb. He stands there in my dad’s shirt, my apron comically askew across his front, his dark hair shining, his eyes alight. He’s showered, washed out the blood from last night. He looks more gorgeous, more mature, more seductive than in my wildest dreams. I can’t think.

“He made pancakes. He’s even making you some. We were going to bring you coffee in bed.” Accusation, hurt, glitters in Quinn’s eyes. The same eyes as his. The two of them—I can see it so clearly now. Daughter and father.

Confusion whips through me. “Quinn, upstairs. Now.”

“Pineapple pancakes!” she interjects. “Like Daddy used to make.” The glitter in her eyes turns to hatred. Directed at me.

My gaze flares back to Jeb.

He shrugs, cast iron pan still in his hand.
I didn’t tell her anything
, he mouths over Quinn’s head.

“They’re my favorite.” A quaver enters her voice.

I push back a fall of sleep-tangled hair. I don’t know what to do.

Jeb reaches for the coffeepot, pours a mug, pushes it along the counter in my direction. “Still take one sugar, cream?”

I come slowly forward. Up closer I can now see the shadows under his eyes, the gauntness in his cheeks. The bruises starting to form under his dusky skin. The lumberjack shirt and apron have made him somehow approachable. Mountain-man sexy. But underneath it I detect the pain of injury, the still-simmering intensity. And his aura, the space he takes up in my home, is suddenly overwhelming.

Quinn has gone dead quiet, is watching us like a hawk.

I hold my robe tightly across my chest. He leaves the mug just out of my reach so that I must come right into the kitchen, into his space to get it. I hesitate, then think this is ridiculous. This is my house. He’s the damn trespasser. I move in with false bravado, reaching for the sugar pot and cream. He grins, as though he’s won. I pull a face, stir my coffee.

He turns back to the stove, plops a dab of butter into the pan. As it begins to smoke, he pours in batter that has chunks of something in it. I spy the empty tin of pineapple next to the stove. As soon as the thin layer starts to bubble, he does another of those fancy tosses into the air. The pancake lands back into the pan with a neat plop.

“Yesss!” says Quinn with a punch into the air, suddenly over her huff with me. I haven’t seen her like this since her parents died. She’s a different kid.

Jeb brings the pan over to the counter, doing a fake almost-drop along the way. “Oops,” he says with a wink, which causes Quinn to erupt in giggles. Jeb’s eyes sparkle in response. My heart beats faster. I feel panic licking at me. This is wrong. This is getting out of hand.

Or is it?

He slides the fresh pancake onto Quinn’s plate. “Don’t forget the marmalade.” He nods to the open jar in front of her plate.

I come up behind him as he melts more butter in the pan. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“First few flopped,” he says quietly. “Then it came back.” He paused. “Some memories die hard.”

“Pineapple?
Marmalade?
”

“Her favorite.”

“Did she tell you this?” I whisper behind him. I reach up, turn on the stove fan to suck up the butter smoke, but mostly to keep our conversation from Quinn.

“She didn’t need to.” He turns to look at me. So close. The fine hairs on my body seem to reach for his warmth, energy, like electrical attraction. I feel my cheeks heat and am conscious of the skimpy nightie under my robe.

“God you look good, Rach,” he whispers. My stomach swoops.

“You have no right coming into my home like this,” I whisper angrily. “I thought you wanted to keep her apart from all of this.”

“What are you guys arguing about?” Quinn says loudly.

I swing round. Quinn is staring at us.

“Nothing,” says Jeb. “I’m just explaining to Rachel why we crept in here, that I didn’t want to wake her.” He holds Quinn’s gaze. “Your pancakes okay?”

She stares at him a moment longer, weighing his answer, then nods and cuts into her food.

“It was her,” Jeb says softly, turning back to the stove. “She came into the boathouse. I woke to find her standing right there by the bed, watching over me while I was sleeping.” His gaze lowers to my lips and his eyes darken. My knees turn to water. I reach for the counter.

“She must have seen us go in there last night. I couldn’t reject her.”

“You’re being selfish, you know that. You’re not thinking of her. This is about you wanting to be with her.”

Guilt flickers through his eyes.

“Who does she think you are?” I whisper close again as he turns to pour more batter into the pan. “What did you say to her?”

He pauses. “She thinks I’m some sort of guardian angel sent by her mom.”

I shoot Quinn another quick glance—she’s momentarily engrossed with cutting her pancake into small, matching pieces.

“And you did nothing to dissuade this?” Anger threads my voice.

He turns on me. “Did
you
? Quinn said you knew I was an angel sent by her mom, that she told you. What did
you
say to her, then? Or did you let it slide just like I did because it feels like the kinder thing to do right now, while we sort all this other stuff out?”

I look away.
We.
This stuff.
We’re arguing like a couple, talking like she is our kid. She is, in a way, shared, right now. But what about down the line, the future?

“I’m trying my best,” he adds quietly. “There is no manual for this.”

“I know.” I look down, hesitate. “How do you know they’re her favorite?”

“Sophia,” he says softly, and a hot-cold sensation quivers down my spine. He knows more about Quinn than I do. From my own sister.

Trixie yips at the glass slider in the living room. Quinn jumps down from the stool and runs on socked feet into the living area to let the dog out. Trixie is the one and only thing Quinn has truly bonded with since I’ve brought her home to Snowy Creek.

“What else do you know about her? What else did Sophia tell you?” I speak fast now, urgently, before Quinn returns to the kitchen.

He tosses the pancake up, executing another perfect flip in the air.

“I know her favorite stuffy was Mr. Goo.” He slides the pancake onto a plate and pushes it toward a vacant stool. “Sit, eat something.”

I stare at him. “Mr. Goo?”

“He was a black-and-white panda that squeaked when you pressed his paw. I know that he was left behind in Manning Park during a road trip. Her favorite color is purple and her favorite TV show is
Phineas and Ferb
. She loves Harry Potter and she’s rereading
Schooled
by Gordon Korman. She thinks the main character, Cap, is an outsider but this fact also forces him to be a hero.” His eyes hold mine. “Her best friend at her old school was Penny James.” His gaze ticks toward the sliding door, where Quinn is fussing with the sticking mechanism to let Trixie back in. As he watches his daughter, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. “I had this on my cell wall.”

I take the thick, folded piece of paper from him and open it. Chalk dust comes off on my hands.

It’s a smudged drawing of rainbows over a purple unicorn. At the bottom are the words,
For mommy and daddy. I love you.

I try to swallow against the ball of emotion that pushes up my throat. Quickly I refold the paper, hand it back to him. Our skin connects. He stills, swallows. Those licks of panic whip harder. My heart starts to race. Jeb jolts suddenly as the pancake behind him catches and acrid smoke curls rapidly up from the pan. He whips the pan off the element.

“Hey! You’re burning them!” Quinn says, running over with a laugh, then a nervous look at me as she clambers back up onto her stool.

“So I am.” His voice is big, bold, confident. It fills this kitchen, this house, in the same way his physical presence does. “There always has to be at least one sacrificial pancake,” he declares. “To appease the pancake gods.” He steps on the bin handle, slides the burnt offering in.

“Or to please Ullr, maybe,” Quinn says.

“You think that grouchy old Norse god of snow likes
pancakes
? I thought he preferred bonfires and burned skis. And Australians.”

A laugh burps into my chest.

“Not if there’s still a fire ban,” Quinn offers solemnly. “The kids at school said there will be no Ullr bonfire worships this year ’cause of the drought and the ban. The whole town would go
poof
!” She throws her arms open wide. Mischievous. A little child again. Something I’ve not seen in her, not in the past six months since Sophia and Peter have been gone.

“Well, yes, in that case Ullr might just have to settle for burned pancakes.” Something changes between Jeb and me at the mention of Ullr bonfires.

It was around Ullr time that we built the big bonfire in the gravel pit. A time when the resort community traditionally stacks and burns giant piles of old skis and people dance like pagans around the flames to the bass beat of rhythmic music, drummers working up a sweat to appease the Norse god of snow, asking him to bless the coming season with plenty of white stuff. Because snow means money. It means adventure, skiers, full restaurants and hotels, flourishing rental and clothing businesses. Which all push up property values. And so the economic cog of the small ski town turns. Snow is our life in Snowy Creek.

Mostly the bonfire burning and celebrations are something to do in the off season, a way for all the seasonal employees—largely Australians, Japanese, Brits, Quebecois, and Ontarians who flock into town anticipating work—to burn off steam and get drunk while they wait impatiently for the first winter storms.

It was Ullr time that two women had gone missing and our lives changed.

The whole town could go poo
f
. . .

I think of the wildfire that started last night. It could still happen. The wind could turn and burn down our town. Or storms could finally blow in, bringing lightning and spot fires.

“How ’bout another stack?” Jeb says, but his cheer is underlaid with tension.

Quinn’s eyes shoot to me, the rule keeper.

“Sure,” I say, unwilling to play the role of ogre. “It’s vacation.” I reach for my mug of coffee and take a seat on the stool beside her. I sip as I watch her eating with gusto. I wonder how it ever evolved to put marmalade on pineapple pancakes. “Quinn,” I say quietly as I lean over toward her. “I was just wonderin
g . . .
what’s your favorite color?”

She stops eating. “Why?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“Purple.” She cuts into her pancake.

“And your favorite stuffy?” I can feel Jeb’s gaze boring hotly into me.

A look of sadness crosses her features. “Mr. Goo.” She glances down at her plate, puts down her knife and fork. “Daddy left him in Manning Park.” Quinn doesn’t look up again for a while, her throat working as she stares hard at her half-eaten pancake, trying not to cry, thinking of her parents. She’s a little roller coaster of emotions.

The weight of responsibility swamps over me. I look up at Jeb. He cocks a brow as if to say, yeah, way to go, party pooper.

I take my coffee and walk to the glass doors in the living room. Cradling my mug, I stare out over the lawn toward the water. Afraid. Of the fragility of my niece’s situation. Of life and how it can be stolen away so fast. There’s been so much living done in Jeb’s absence. Lovers have married. Elders have died. Children have been born and grown, but all that time Jeb’s life has been stalled. The injustice of it feels so stark, it hurts. Yet somehow Sophia has managed to weave a connection between Jeb and Quinn that I don’t have. That hurts, too.

I think of Amy, how Quinn was her child, too. How Amy’s life was also snatched away from her that fateful night. I wonder what would have happened if Amy had gone safely home that night. Would she and Jeb have come together to raise the baby?

Behind me in the kitchen, Quinn is now chattering about school and books. For this moment she is
happy
. The sound of her brightness is so welcoming, but this can’t be right, surely? It’s not normal. Hell, what is normal—or even could be remotely normal—in a situation like this?