Big Talking Man (Kings of Castle Beach #2) Page 8

  “I can grab us something.”

  “Already have plans.”

  I don’t believe her, but I go along with it. “All right. Have fun.”

  “I’m meeting Ophelia and Momma at Café Delmare, over in Royal Bay.”

  Now that, I do believe. “Be sure to tell them both I said hello.”

  Quinn nods and walks away, then pauses to glance at me over her shoulder. “You’re doing a really good job assisting me. Just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But don’t let that go to your head.” She sashays away, her booty shorts doing remarkable things for her entire body. “Later, gator.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Free for lunch?” Barron asks from behind me.

  I turn, raising an eyebrow. “You have time for the little people?”

  “Shut up.” He grins. “Crabs and beer sound good to you?”

  “Oh yeah.” We exit the boardwalk, then climb into Barron’s golf cart. He drives us to the sound side of town, where it’s considerably less crowded. “When’s the ceremony?”

  “Tomorrow. Before the fireworks, but after the reenactment.”

  “Aren’t you in that?” The Kings have always participated.

  “Kinda.”

  I give him a questioning look. “How are you kinda in it?”

  “Narrator.”

  I burst out laughing. “Demoted, huh?”

  He pulls into a parking spot at The Crab Shack. “Hard to be a pirate while wearing a suit and bow tie.”

  “You can’t manage a wardrobe change?”

  He shakes his head. “There is no way I’m going to get photographed for the paper wearing a false eye patch and parrot on my shoulder. It’s not dignified.”

  “It’s not supposed to be dignified. It’s supposed to be fun,” I point out, then narrow my eyes. “Is this the fiancée’s idea?”

  “And if it is?”

  We get out and make our way inside, finding two empty seats at the end of the bar. The bartender brings us two beers, the only brand they serve, and a bucket of crab legs—the only food they serve.

  “She sounds delightful.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “True enough. Why don’t we get together? A double date with Quinn and me?”

  Barron pauses mid-drink. “Quinn’s going to allow you to go public?”

  “We’ve already had a date at Ten Blue. And besides, this is with family.”

  “I’ll agree to it, once Quinn is on board,” he says. “Anyway, back to you. How are things going?”

  “Just peachy,” I say, cracking open a leg. “Today, she allowed me to clean up after her, get donuts, and have a bathroom break.”

  “And you enjoyed every second of it.”

  I don’t deny it. “A man in love...”

  “Is an idiot.”

  Barron and I both swivel in our seats.

  A grin breaks out on my face. “Deacon King. How the hell are you?”

  “Better than the two of you,” he says, sitting on the empty barstool beside his brother. The bartender doesn’t miss a beat. Soon, Deacon is drinking beer and chowing down on crab legs with us. “How’re things?”

  “Great.”

  Deacon side-eyes me. “Then why are you here in Castle Beach?”

  “Thinking about moving home.”

  Barron sets his beer down. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Didn’t realize I was married to you.”

  “Does the woman you are married to know?” Deacon asks.

  How in the hell does he know about Quinn and me? “Not yet.”

  He grimaces. “I’ll get Hollis to make an arrangement for you.”

  “Who’s Hollis?” The name sounds a little familiar, but I can’t place a face with it.

  Barron grins mischievously. “She owns Bloom. Deacon is a regular at her place.”

  “How in the hell are you a regular at a flower shop?”

  Deacon pops a piece of crab into his mouth. “I like to use flowers to speak for me. You should try it sometime. Might save you some trouble with my sister.”

  “Actually, he’s got a thing for the owner, but won’t admit it.”

  Deacon slams his bottle down. “Take that back.”

  “Nope.” Barron tips up his beer, eyeing Deacon as he drinks it down. Once he sets it on the table with a thump, he says, “There’s nothing you can say that will convince me otherwise. You’re a fucking marketing guru who specializes in online campaigns, who has yet to use an online florist to speak for you.”

  “Hollis is online.”

  “Because you recently helped her out.” Barron makes air quotes around the word helped.

  Leaning over, I take a couple of crab legs from Barron’s bucket. “He’s got you there, man.”

  “I’m sure she paid you back in your favorite currency, too.”

  Oh, shit. Barron should have stopped while he was ahead, but what can really be done with brothers who like to press each other’s buttons?

  In my case, duck, maybe.

  Deacon’s blue eyes flash with fury as his fists ball up. Yeah, I should duck. “Damn it. It’s not like that with her.” He turns to his brother, finger shoving into his chest instead of a punch to the face. “I better not hear any fucking rumors about us either, Mayor McPainInMyAss. She’s a decent person, and she can do a hell of a lot better than me.”

  “Then why do you persist on hanging out at her shop every day?” his brother asks.

  Deacon’s jaw works as he runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe because I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, then he gets up and walks away. “The mayor will take care of my bill,” he tosses out to the bartender.

  I signal to the man behind the bar. “Actually, it’s all on me.”

  Barron shakes his head. “Can you believe the shit that comes out of his mouth?”

  Hello Pot, meet Kettle, I want to say, but it will be lost on him. “You don’t think your brother is capable of loving someone more than himself?”

  “That’s what you got out of our conversation.” Barron laughs, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t know my brother very well. All that denying is nothing but confirmation.”

  “You plan on spreading the word?” I eye my best friend, wondering if in the time I’ve been gone, he’s changed and I missed it somehow.

  “Hell no. He’s my brother and I like to give him a hard time, but talking shit about him behind his back isn’t me.”

  “Good man.”

  He grins, wriggling his eyebrows. “Besides, it’s more fun to say it to his face.”

  Chapter 10

  Quinn

  I arrive at Café Delmare with enough time to spare so I can change from Pirate Chic to Southern Belle Light. Unlike Tate or my brother Barron, Momma and Ophelia do not have the need to arrive fifteen minutes before our reservations, which gives me time to gather my thoughts.

  Every single one of them is about Tate.

  I sigh, flexing my hands. Dried paint is under two of my nails, and there is a stain of red on the right hand. Guess I didn’t use enough cleaner to get it off. Luckily, I don’t have a mother who will complain about that.

  Despite her best efforts into making me a lady, I’ve always been more of a tomboy. She’s never made me feel weird or shown she’s disappointed me over it either.

  But sometimes, I wish I were more ladylike... right now, for instance.

  I glance up to see my mom and Ophelia making their way to me. Momma, of course, is every inch the Southern lady in a brightly colored—but not too bright—sheath dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. Ophelia’s style is... well, at this point, I think it’s whatever my mother tells her to wear. Not because she wants to dictate, but rather because Ophelia is on autopilot. In any case, she is wearing a lavender sundress with a wide belt at the waist. Everyone stops to stare at her because she’s just that hauntingly beautiful.

  Jealousy is not something I’ve eve
r felt when it comes to my sister-in-law but right now, with faded paint on my hands and arms, and haphazardly thrown on capris and a belted shirt, I feel like something the cat dragged in.

  “Quinn, honey. You look beautiful in that color. I swear you could wear a burlap sack and make it look fashionable,” my mother says as she sits down beside me. She’s being sincere, not saying it in a passive-aggressive, ‘Oh, that’s what you’re wearing’ type of way either.

  “Thank you.” I hold up my hands. “Sorry about the paint.”

  Ophelia eyes my hands as she sits down, longing appearing in her gaze. She and Laird always went to Blackbeard Days. He as a pirate, while she dressed as a mermaid. She’d help me with face painting while my brother would spend the day in character, regaling everyone with the fictional history of our town and the pirates who made it their homes.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you this year,” she says. “I... I’m sorry.”

  I hate that she feels the need to apologize over her grief. “It’s not a problem. I have Tate assisting me.”

  Momma raises a brow. “Really? That’s very kind of him.”

  I shrug. “That’s Tate.”

  “You two were always close,” she says.

  You have no idea, I think wryly. “He put up with me because I’m Barron’s little sister.”

  Ophelia picks up a menu. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  While I want Ophelia to join in because she’s been so quiet since Laird’s... death, I really feel like kicking her under the table right now.

  “I agree with Ophelia,” Momma says, peeking at me over the menu, her eyes twinkling. “I think his motivations are slightly suspect.”

  I really should have kept my booth open during lunch. Let Tate grab something for us to share again. “If you must know, Tate and I are seeing each other.”

  “Again?” Ophelia asks.

  “Again?” Momma echoes, eyebrow rising.

  I narrow my eyes. “Yes, again.” If a hole could open up on the floor right now and swallow me, I would be super grateful.

  My sister-in-law smiles. “That’s wonderful, Quinn. I’m really happy for you.”

  And now I feel like the world’s biggest jerk. “It’s complicated.”

  “How complicated can it be? If the two of you have a connection, then I say go for it.” Momma lightly smacks her hand against the table. “Barron won’t mind.”

  “Speaking of Barron,” I say to change the subject. “How’s the wedding planning?”

  Ophelia frowns, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s been a challenge to nail down specifics,” Momma says, her smile faltering. “Eden’s family is wonderful, of course, but... ah, here is our server.”

  My mother doesn’t know how to say a bad thing, regardless if it’s true or not, about anyone. She’s the ultimate people pleaser.

  I have yet to master that way of thinking.

  While we have our orders taken, I study Ophelia, wondering if she’ll ever get over Laird’s death. If she’ll ever remarry... my heart pinches. She and Laird had so many plans. Plans to travel, plans to renovate the cottage they bought, plans to start a family, and now... the only thing she has left of her plans is an empty cottage.

  “Ophelia, you should come spend the night with River and me. We’re having a slumber party this evening. There will be cake.”

  Interest animates her face for a split second, but then it’s gone. “I promised Jane Ellen that I’d—”

  “Nonsense. You go to Quinn’s tonight. I’ll find another bridge partner,” Momma says.

  “You play bridge?” I ask Ophelia.

  “Not very well, but that’s Laird’s fault because he’s the one who taught me how to play in the first place.” She giggles, then slaps her hand over her mouth, like she’s just said the worst thing ever. Tears fill her eyes as they fix on my mom. Her hand drops. “I didn’t mean to say anything bad about him.”

  And just like that, a pall comes over our lunch, the memory of my brother causing more sadness than happiness. I hate that someone who was known for his sunshine personality is now responsible, albeit through no fault of his own, for doom and gloom.

  My mom covers Ophelia’s hand with hers. “I know what it’s like to lose a spouse, honey. You say what you like because you won’t offend me in the least. I know how much you loved my son.”

  Ophelia nods. “If you’ll excuse me...” She flees to the bathroom.

  “That’s not what I intended to happen,” Momma says on a sigh.

  That’s my cue. With a heavy sigh, I push my chair back. “I’ll check on her.”

  “You’re such a dear for always being the one to do it.”

  Smiling tightly, I nod at Momma before making my way to the ladies’ room. I don’t feel like a dear. Instead, I feel like walking out the front door of Cafe Delmare.

  “Ophelia,” I call, opening the door to reveal a powder room, complete with mirrors and chairs that would look amazing as a salon design. Another door leads to where the toilets and sinks are, something I appreciate since I don’t want to have a conversation with her while someone flushes.

  Ophelia blows her nose, turning away from me. “Go back to the table. I’ll be just a minute.”

  “Then I’ll wait just a minute with you.” I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. More than a minute passes, but Ophelia doesn’t move from her spot.

  “Are you coming tonight or not?” I finally ask.

  Her shoulders sag. “I want to, but I’m not good company anymore.”

  “The only way you’ll learn to be good company again is by being company in the first place.”

  She turns. “You sound like Laird.”

  “Where do you think he got his smarts?” I point out.

  Her mouth trembles. “I feel guilty for having moments of happiness. When will that stop?”

  I search her face, hoping I can get through to her in some small way. “It doesn’t stop completely. After our dad... I felt like the worst daughter ever for smiling. For even enjoying a donut from Bette’s because he loved those donuts, too.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I decided to stop living my life as if I had to apologize for being alive in the first place.”

  Ophelia nods, but tears start slide down her cheeks. “He was my best friend, Q. The things he knew about me, about my family... he never made me feel less than perfect, and I don’t have that anymore. I don’t have anyone to keep away the nightmares. He left me alone, and I’m... I’m furious with him, with the ocean... with God, because the one good thing in my life was taken. I don’t know how to come back from that.”

  I cross the small room, pull her into my arms, and hug her to me. She feels so fragile. It’s then I realize my sister-in-law is shaking. Literally shaking with rage and grief.

  “It’s okay to be mad.” I rub her back. “I was so mad at my dad, for a very long time.”

  “At least you had your brothers and momma... and Tate.”

  I blink. She’s right; I had all of them, especially Tate. My dad’s suicide actually brought us closer. He’d been there for me every step of the way, despite the fact he’d just broken out as a huge movie star and was in high demand.

  “You have us, too, you know. You’re not completely alone,” I remind her.

  “It’s not the same.”

  “I know.”

  She lifts her head and steps back, then closes her eyes, wiping at her face. “I can’t believe I had an emotional breakdown here.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  She smiles faintly. “I know. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you and Tate are married either.”

  Crap. Laird must have told her before he left that day. “Uh, thank you?”

  “He was really happy for y’all. We both were.” She tosses the tissue in the trash. “I hope you two work everything out. Life’s too short to stay mad at one another, especially when that person was given really bad adv
ice on how to help you.”

  “How do you know any of this?”

  She shrugs. “I think people started to forget I was even in the room, so they simply talked and talked... and talked.”

  “Barron is long-winded,” I agree.

  “He means well, and I think it says something positive about Tate that he wanted to do right by you. Don’t keep punishing him for that.”

  Maybe she has a point. A teeny, tiny point. “I’ll think about it.”

  With that bit of unexpected relationship advice, Ophelia threads her arm through mine and we rejoin Momma at the table.

  TATE’S AT THE BOOTH when I get back, rearranging the display, putting out what I need, and taking down the clock that I tacked up. There’s a line of people waiting for me, so I wave and call out a greeting to the ones I know.

  “Right on time,” he says with a big smile on his face.

  “Thanks for getting everything ready.”

  His smile falls. “Are you okay? You look—and don’t take this the wrong way—exhausted.” He taps the side of his head. “Mentally exhausted.”

  Shocked at his astute observation, I don’t fight against my urge to lean against his side. “I am.”

  He wraps an arm around me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’ll put the clock back up. Let everyone know we’re closing in an hour.”

  “I can’t. I made a promise to work until seven.”

  “Then at least let me take you out to dinner.”

  “I promised to watch River for Duke tonight, and I think Ophelia is coming over, too,” I say.

  Concern shines in his eyes. “Do you ever slow down?”

  “No, but it might be time to start,” I admit. I extricate myself from his hold, but try to do it in a way to let him know I actually don’t want to leave it, without actually saying the words. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Anytime,” he says softly. The wind ruffles his dark hair. His dark chocolate eyes are sincere. “I’ll be your anchor in this storm we call life.”

  I want to call him out on his line, but I simply can’t—mostly, because I know he means it.

  And I needed to hear it.

  Chapter 11

  Tate