The Mighty Quinns: Ronan

Charlie wasn’t sure if he wanted permission or if he was asking for a review of his technique. “It was very all right,” she said. “I—I mean, good. Very good. And all right, too.”

He smiled. “So I can do it again?”

“Sure,” she said. “Right now?”

“Later,” he said. Ronan pushed to his feet, then held out his hand. When she stood beside him, he drew her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her wrist. “What’s next, boss?”

In truth, Charlie would have been happy to continue what they were doing. But maybe later would be better. “I think I’m going to take you home to meet the folks,” she said.

He gasped. “What?”

“You kissed me. You know what that means. My mama and daddy are going to want to look you over.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She laughed. “Yeah. But my dad will want to meet you. He has to meet everyone we hire. He’s the president of the company.”

“All right.”

“I won’t tell him about your fear of boats. I think I’ll keep that to myself a little bit longer,” she promised.

“GARRETT SIBLEY, CLOSE that door! You’re letting flies in!”

Charlie’s brother ran down the front steps of the porch, then turned back to grin at Ronan. “It’s Indian food tonight,” he said. “If I were you, I’d turn around and get out of here before she forces you to eat it.”

Ronan turned to Charlie and she gave him a reassuring smile. “My mother likes to try cooking new cuisines. Don’t worry, if it’s really bad, we’ll get something else to eat later. Just tell her it’s good and eat really slowly.”

“I like Indian food,” he said.

“Me, too. But this won’t taste like any Indian food you’ve ever had. Last month, she was mastering German food and everything tasted like vinegar.”

The Sibley family lived in a sprawling white clapboard Victorian, set on a beautiful tree-lined street in the heart of Sibleyville. It was the biggest house in town by far, a testament to the family’s position in a town that bore their name.

They climbed the steps to the wide porch, lined with old wicker furniture and decorated with hanging baskets of colorful flowers. Ronan heard another shout from inside the house and a moment later, a young girl came running out the door. “Garrett, come back here. You have to help me finish folding the laundry.” She froze when she saw Charlie and Ronan, sending Ronan a suspicious look.

“This is my sister, Libby,” Charlie said. “She’s thirteen. Libby, this is Ronan. He’s going to be working for us.”

She rolled her eyes and continued her call for her brother, running down the steps and shouting his name.

“Is your whole family going to be here?”

She nodded. “Isaac is a senior in college and Abby is a sophomore. They’re in college but they still live at home. Jane is eighteen and Ethan is sixteen and both are in high school. Don’t try to remember them all.”

“I’m not sure I could,” Ronan said.

“When they’re all around, things can get kind of crazy, but once you get used to them, they’ll seem almost normal. Whatever you do, don’t look the dog directly in the eyes and if my brother Ethan asks you to pull his finger, don’t do it.”

“If this is going to be a problem, I can always pick up some dinner at the grocery store,” Ronan said.

“No, no, my dad is going to want to meet you before you start work. He has to approve my choices.”

“Your dad hurt his back?”

“Last season. He was moving a crate of oysters off the boat and onto the dock. He just twisted the wrong way and herniated a disc.” She reached for the door. “Ready?”

“I guess so.”

How bad could it be, Ronan wondered. Charlie was nice enough. Actually, she was more than that. She was funny and sexy and smart. But there was something else about her he found attractive, a warmth that he rarely saw in the women he’d dated.

She pulled the door open and he stepped inside. The old Victorian was decorated in a style that Ronan could describe as early twenty-first century chaos mixed with beautiful antiques. The furniture was tattered but comfortable. Every available space was filled with some bizarre knickknack or strange painting. On one shelf alone, Ronan saw a stuffed raccoon, an old microscope, a doll with one eye, and a paint-by-numbers portrait of FDR.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” A young man walked through the room, giving Ronan the once over. He resembled Charlotte with her bronze eyes and wavy dark hair. “If I were you, I’d leave right now. It’s Indian food.”

“Isaac, this is Ronan Quinn.”

Isaac’s eyebrow shot up. “You brought a Quinn home? Maybe I will stay for dinner.” He turned around. “Hey, Abs, come and see what Charlie brought home.”

In less than a minute, Ronan realized that he probably should have opted for dinner alone. He could feel the energy in the house, as if the walls were vibrating and the roof was about the blow off.

An older woman appeared in the dining room, her graying hair twisted into a haphazard knot on top of her head. She held a fly swatter in her hand. “Hello, dear. You brought a friend. I’m cooking Indian tonight. Chicken tandoori. I was supposed to marinate the chicken in yogurt, but I had to use cottage cheese instead. And Delbert didn’t have anything called garam masala down at the grocery, so I had to leave that out. You don’t know what that is, do you?”

“Mama, this is Ronan Quinn. He’s going to be helping us out for a few weeks.”

She blinked in surprise. “Quinn? Really. Well, now, that’s very interesting. We’ll have something good to talk about over dinner. I suppose you haven’t had a very enthusiastic welcome in town. But our family really doesn’t set much store in that curse. Charlotte, offer the man a drink.”

“Curse?” Ronan asked.

“Is this the Quinn?” A young woman, about nineteen or twenty came running into the room. “I’m Abigail. Gosh, I almost expected you to have horns and a forked tail. You’re totally hot.” She turned to Charlie. “Good move, sissy.”

“Charlie, if that’s you, I need you in here right away.”

“That’s my dad,” she said. She grabbed Ronan’s hand and pulled him along through the spacious living room. “Come on. Let’s introduce you to the big guy. Then I’ll get you that drink.”

When Charlie had called her father the “big guy”, she’d used an apt description. The man sitting behind the desk in the library was tall and broad-shouldered. He struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “Peyton Sibley,” he said.

“Daddy, this is Ronan Quinn. He answered the ad I put up at the visitor’s center. He’s from Seattle and he knows a lot about boats.”

“Well, Charlotte, that was a lovely introduction,” Peyton said as he sat down again, “but maybe we should let this young man speak for himself. You say your name is Quinn?”

Ronan nodded.

“I suppose you haven’t had a very enthusiastic reception here in Sibleyville.”

“Nobody has really explained that to me, sir. Maybe you could.”

“No, no, no. We don’t really believe in all that silliness. So, you think you can help us out here?”

“Yes, sir.”