Her Best Friend

“As a member of the New South Wales Bar Association, it behooves me to inform you that purchasing alcohol from a licensed facility for consumption off premises is a crime,” Quinn said in the same tone he’d used to destroy Reg Hanover and Barry Ulrich earlier in the evening.

“So you want me to run in and get it, then?”

“Nah. It’ll be good to catch up with Phil,” Quinn said with a quick grin.

A rush of warm emotion washed over her. It was only now that Quinn was sitting beside her, so familiar and dear, that she was able to acknowledge how much she’d missed him. How painful her self-imposed isolation had been. His laugh, his dry sense of humor, his honesty, his patience and kindness—she’d missed him like crazy for every second of the eighteen months she’d tried to cut him out of her life.

Which went to show how effective her cold-turkey regime had been.

“Lisa must have been pretty pissed with you for canceling Hamilton Island,” she said.

Good to remind herself of Lisa. Quinn’s wife. Her friend. Good to always keep those two very important facts top of mind, before she got too caught up in the feelings swamping her.

There was a short silence as Quinn pulled into a parking spot outside the pub.

“The old oak’s gone,” he said.

She glanced at him, aware that he hadn’t responded to her comment. Did that mean he was in the dog house over helping her out? She hoped not.

“It fell over in a storm last year.”

“Must have been some storm.”

They got out of the car and Quinn took a moment to scan the town’s main thoroughfare.

She looked, too, and wondered what he saw. The heritage shopfronts, or the fact that there was only one butcher? The well-tended flower beds and handmade park benches, or the fact that the post office doubled as a news agency as well as a lottery outlet?

“I suppose it must all seem pretty tin-pot compared to the bright lights of Sydney,” she said.

He met her eyes across the car.

“It’s home, Ames. That’s what it seems like.”

His mouth tilted upward at the corner, but he looked sad. Or maybe lost. Amy frowned, suddenly remembering the long silences during their recent phone conversation.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if anything was wrong but Quinn turned away and started walking toward the pub.

“Phil still trying to give up smoking?” he asked.

“Every year. Last time he held out a whole month.”

“Wow. That’s got to be a new record, right?”

“No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ‘95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”

“Right. My mistake.”

Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.

And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.

The news of her successful purchase of the Grand had spread through town and it was twenty minutes before she’d finished accepting congratulations from her friends and acquaintances. Phil handed over a bottle of his best

French champagne but refused to accept any money for it.

“Against the liquor laws, Amy,” he said with a wink at Quinn. “Plus I figure I’ll hit you up for some free movie tickets when you’ve got the old girl up and running again.”

“You’re on,” Amy said.

He loaned them a couple of champagne flutes and she and Quinn left the pub and began walking up Vincent Street to where the roofline of the Grand soared over its neighbors.

By mutual unspoken consent, their steps slowed as they approached and they craned their necks to take in the faded grandeur of the facade.

“I’d forgotten how imposing it is. It really is grand, isn’t it?” Quinn said.

“Yep,” she said around the lump in her throat.

She sniffed as quietly as she could and blinked rapidly.

She could feel Quinn looking at her and she turned her head away slightly, trying to mask her tears.

“You crying, Ames?”

“Yep.”

Quinn’s laughter sounded low and deep. “I think we need to get some champagne into you.”

“Let’s go inside first.”

“You’ve got a key already?” He sounded surprised.

“Don’t need one. The back door hasn’t shut properly since the last tenant moved out.”

“Our second crime for the evening—breaking and entering. I’m starting to feel like Bonnie and Clyde. We’re on a rampage.”

She started up the alley that led to the parking lot at the rear of the cinema.

“Technically, it’s only entering, since the door is already screwed,” she said.

“Those are the little details that make all the difference in court.”

“If you’re afraid, Whitfield, you can wait outside.”

“Nice try, Parker, but I’m not letting you swill all the champagne on your own. I’ve developed a taste for the finer things in life over the past few years, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“City slicker.”

“Yokel.”