Reason to Breathe Read online

  He dialed the number from Meg’s email, not sure if it was a work phone or her cell. Last he’d known, Phylicia worked for Langhorne Blooms, the flower shop downtown. But according to Turner, all three of his daughters had taken some time off to help during their mom’s last days, and he didn’t know if she’d gone back to work or not.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello, this is Phylicia.”

  “Hi there. Phylicia? . . . This is Quinn Mitchell. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  “No. Not really.” She sounded a little cool. Not the friendly girl he remembered from a few years ago.

  “Did your dad mention that I’d be calling?”

  “He did.”

  He waited for more but didn’t get it. And the silence grew awkward. “I don’t know if you and your sisters have had a chance to visit about everything yet, but I assume your dad told you he asked me to help out with the sale of the house?” Quinn became aware of an irritating tapping noise. Then realized he was the culprit. He placed his pencil back on the desk.

  “Yes, he mentioned it when he called on Saturday.” A sigh filled the connection. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He braced himself.

  “I know you and my dad talk a lot. Or at least you used to. Do you know how long Dad has been… seeing this Karleen?”

  Whoa. Turner was seeing someone? He hadn’t seen that coming. “I … don’t know who that is. Did I miss something?”

  “I assume Dad told you he’s getting married.”

  Quinn squinted at the phone. Surely he’d misheard her. “Married? No. He didn’t say anything about that. Is … that what he told you?”

  “Yes. Karleen was one of my mom’s hospice nurses.”

  “I think maybe your dad introduced me to a hospice nurse at the … at your mom’s funeral. But I didn’t know she was anyone … special.” He cringed at his poor choice of words. Besides, that couldn’t have been her. The woman he’d met was closer to his own age.

  “Well, apparently she was … special.”

  Turner had been understandably scarce at work, staying home the last few weeks before Myra’s death. Then he’d gone to Florida to work on a project with their Orlando affiliate. As far as Quinn was aware, there was no other reason for his boss’s transfer. But then he and Turner hadn’t talked as often, or as personally, since Myra’s death. Quinn had chalked it up to grief. But now he wondered.

  He struggled to process the news. It had to have happened practically overnight. But he had a hard time believing it had happened before Myra died. Turner was not the kind of man who would cheat on his wife, no matter the circumstances. The man had never had anything but praise for his wife, and he’d been devastated when Myra was first diagnosed with cancer. Quinn could understand why. Except for his own mother, he’d never known a more selfless and charming woman.

  Myra Chandler had taken Quinn under her wing that first year he couldn’t go home to Asheville for Thanksgiving, insisting he join the Chandler family at their holiday table. He’d loved Myra like a favorite aunt ever since, and though he doubted anyone else would understand why—he wasn’t sure he fully understood himself—he’d taken her death hard.

  Phylicia cleared her throat politely on the other end of the line, and he realized she was waiting for a response.

  “I’m sorry … I truly didn’t know anything about this. Except for meeting her at the funeral … assuming that was her. Did your dad say when he’s getting married?”

  “No, but even if it’s next year, that doesn’t change the fact that he got engaged two months after Mom passed away.”

  “I didn’t know.” He grasped for something that might comfort her, but it was an effort when his own suspicions began to seep in. “Phylicia, your dad never spoke to me about anyone but your mom. And that was always in glowing terms. Right up to the end. I’m sure you know this, but your dad loved your mom very much.” Every word was the truth as far as he knew, but how hollow those words would ring if he was defending a guilty man.

  She stuttered, started to say something, then breathed out a sigh that tugged at his heart. Turner getting married. He still couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t picture his boss with anyone but Myra. If this was hard for him, how must Turner’s daughters feel? It was difficult enough that they’d lost their mother, but they must feel as if they were losing their dad now too.

  And now the man had left Quinn with the task of helping the sisters sell the home they’d grown up in? It was a dirty trick. Until this moment, hearing the bitterness in Phylicia’s voice, it hadn’t occurred to him that they might resent him for being involved in what must seem to them to be a forced sale.

  “I’ve never questioned that my dad loved Mom. But I’m really struggling with … what he’s doing now. Two months? What is he thinking?” She seemed to be talking to herself as much as to him.

  “I’m sorry, Phylicia. I really am.” The words sounded trite. He grappled for something better, but finally just went with honesty. “I wish I could say something to help, but frankly, I’m still trying to digest the news myself.”

  “Well, don’t tell Dad I told you. I don’t think he said not to tell anyone, but we were all so shocked, I may not have heard him. I just don’t get it.” She took a shaky breath.

  “No, I don’t understand it myself.”

  “Well, that makes two of us … four if you count my sisters.”

  How he wished he knew the words that would remove the pain from her voice. Thinking about the whole situation now, he had to admit that Turner had seemed different after Myra became ill. Guarded, and a little cynical at times. And while his boss’s outspoken faith had never seemed to waver, his joy had. Understandably so.

  Quinn had prayed fervently over the years while Myra was battling cancer. He’d prayed boldly for healing, and his prayers had been full of hope till the very end. Because hope had been rewarded in his own brother’s fight against cancer—a fight Markus had won in the most miraculous of ways. Even Markus’s doctors had called it a miracle. A miracle that—ironic as it seemed now—had planted the first seed in Quinn’s journey of faith.

  When Myra died, Quinn’s faith was more mature, and it hadn’t faltered, but he had suffered surprisingly deep … disappointment with God. Myra’s death had dredged up his confusion about so many things. The whole fiasco with Heather. And then losing his own parents. Two funerals barely a year apart. He still questioned why God chose to answer equally fervent prayers so differently. Why had God healed Markus, who didn’t even claim to believe in Him, but taken Myra who’d honored Him with her life—and who had three daughters that still so obviously needed her. And Turner too.

  Quinn prayed he would never be in Turner’s shoes. It was a selfish prayer—not that he had a wife to lose, but he hoped to one day—and he’d always taken an honesty-is-the-best-policy stance when it came to God. Now that he was talking to Phylicia, he wondered if maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to apply that same honesty with people. But how else would he broach the subject with her?

  He sighed. “Do you and your sisters want to sell the house? Your dad seemed to think that was a given, but … maybe not?”

  Phylicia cleared her throat. “It’s not that we want to. We don’t really have a choice. We’re each getting some money from my mom’s estate, but we’d have to pool our money—all three of us—to buy the house, and it’s not like we all want to live in our childhood home forever. Especially not together.”

  He curbed a grin. “I understand. Your dad said something about Brittany still living there now though.”

  “Britt, you mean?”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought it was short for Brittany.”

  “No. Just Britt. And yes, she left college and moved back home once Mom … was bedridden. She’ll probably go back to school at some point, but I doubt she’ll want to live in the dorms. She’ll have to find an apartment and—” Her voice broke.

  “I’m so sorry.” He spoke softl
y. “I’ll be glad to help however I can. Your dad thought it might be easier if someone else handled the details of getting the house listed.” He was tiptoeing around, but Turner had warned him to ease into the other proposition.

  “Could I talk to my sisters first and get back to you? I don’t think we know what we want. It’s all still kind of a shock. Maybe we could come down to the office to meet with you tomorrow after we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “Of course. That works for me. And … I’m so sorry. This can’t be easy.” He sighed, wishing he knew the right thing to say in light of everything they’d been through, everything they’d lost.

  “No. It’s not easy.”

  “I just think he’s … trying to help. Your dad, I mean. Trying to patch things up. For needing to sell your house. And for leaving town at such a bad time.”

  She huffed. “You don’t patch things up by sending your—”

  He wasn’t sure what she’d started to say, but it was obvious she’d caught herself.

  “What I was going to say—” Her voice softened. “You don’t—or shouldn’t—send your employee to do your dirty work. But that’s not your fault. We’re grateful for your help.”

  He couldn’t quell a smile, thankful she couldn’t see it. But he chose not to acknowledge her little rant. “Would you be willing to meet me at your dad’s house? We could take a look at what all needs to be done before we list it. In the meantime, I’ll check on some rental options for your sister … for Britt.” He committed the names to memory in order: Phylicia, Joanna, and Britt. Not that he’d ever forget Phylicia’s name. But Turner usually just lumped the sisters together as “my girls” when he spoke of them. And the younger two had still been in school last he’d seen them.

  “Could you meet us there tomorrow evening? Jo and I are going over then anyway. I could probably get off a little early and meet you at, say four thirty, so you can see the house in the daylight. Will that work?”

  So much for finishing the tile in his kitchen. “I’ll make it work. See you at four thirty then.” He wasn’t sure how he would accomplish it, but he wanted to help Phylicia and her sisters out of a tough spot if he possibly could.

  And frankly, right now, he wanted to read Turner Chandler the riot act for not being there for his daughters when they needed him most. And for not mentioning the rather significant detail that part of his reason for transferring to Florida was to get married.

  Chapter 4

  Phee handed off the winter floral arrangement she’d been designing to a coworker and left the flower shop a few minutes after four, hoping to freshen up a little before Quinn Mitchell arrived. But when she pulled into the driveway at her parents’ house, he was already there, standing at the curb beside a navy-blue SUV, blowing on his gloved hands and stamping his feet in the thin dusting of snow on the street. She wondered why Britt hadn’t let him in, but maybe he’d only just arrived.

  Joanna’s car wasn’t in the driveway, but then, she was notoriously late. Dad had always teased her that she’d never make it as a lawyer because she’d never get to court on time.

  Phee parked in front of the garage, and by the time she turned off the ignition and quickly slicked on some lip gloss, Quinn was beside her car.

  He opened her door. “Good afternoon.”

  “You too. Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.” He looked up toward the house. “I wish it wasn’t closing in on sunset. The house looks great with snow on the eaves like that. For the listing photos.”

  “You weren’t going to shoot photos tonight, were you? It doesn’t seem like January is a very good time to try to sell a house.” No time was a good time to sell this house. Their house.

  “It’s not the best. Not for photos for sure, but this would make a nice shot.” Tucking the manila folder he was carrying under one arm, he held up his hands, thumbs together, framing the shot like a movie director. “The snow kind of makes up for what’s missing in flowers and greenery. The light is good for indoor shoots this time of year though.”

  “Well, come on inside.”

  He followed her up the walk. “I hope it wasn’t a problem to get off work.”

  “No. Things are kind of slow at the store right now.”

  “You still work downtown?”

  “At the flower shop, yes. We’re doing flowers for a wedding this weekend, and things will pick up in a couple of months.”

  “Ah. That’s good.”

  She hadn’t seen him since Mom’s funeral, and that day was such a blur in her memory that she wouldn’t have sworn for certain he was there. But she remembered addressing an envelope to him and writing a thank-you note for Mom’s memorial. Quinn’s donation had been notably generous.

  “I think Britt is here already.” She unlocked the front door, calling out to her sister. “Joanna is never on time. But come on in. You can take a look around the house before it gets dark.” She hadn’t thought to ask Britt to have the house cleaned up, but she had no doubt it would be in good shape. Britt was a bit of a neat freak anyway, and one of the things the three sisters had done together during the long vigil with their mom was deep-clean the house. They’d thought they were doing it for Dad’s sake—not staging their childhood home to sell.

  Over the last few months of her life, when she’d still been mobile, Mom had distributed many of her belongings to her daughters and her closest friends—yet another gift she’d left them, since it meant they’d had very few personal items to go through after the funeral.

  Sometime during those final days, after Mom had slipped into a coma, Dad had packed up the last of her clothes and toiletries and disposed of them. All except her favorite blue dress that she was to be buried in. At the time, Phee thought it was because it hurt too much to see Mom’s things in the house—that the purging was part of the grieving process for him. And it shouldn’t have bothered her so much. After all, Mom had doled out her jewelry and other personal items to Phee and her sisters months ago. All that had been left when Mom died were the colorful scarves she’d worn to cover her bald head. And none of them had wanted those reminders of the indignities their mom had endured.

  Joanna contended Dad was just being his practical self in taking care of things even before Mom was gone. Now, Phee wondered if it had all—everything—been about Karleen.

  “Sis? Britt, are you here?” She started back to the kitchen. “Come on back, Quinn.”

  He followed her, his boot heels echoing on the hardwood floors. Britt appeared from the hall, far more dressed up than Phee had seen her in a while. “Quinn, you remember my sister Britt.”

  “The baby sister, right?” He reached to shake her hand.

  Britt laughed. “I probably was a baby when we first met.”

  “You were all babies when I first met you.”

  Phee straightened. “I’ll have you know I was a young woman of sixteen.”

  “Really? You remember?”

  Her cheeks prickled with heat. “I do. Only because our mother was so taken with you.” That was true enough, but Phee had also developed a schoolgirl crush on her father’s handsome coworker the first time Dad brought him home. As she matured, she realized how ridiculous it was, given how much older Quinn Mitchell was.

  “The feeling was mutual, I assure you. Your mother was quite a woman.”

  It warmed Phee to know that he remembered Mom that way. “Let’s sit at the kitchen table.” She led the way.

  Melvin greeted them in the dining room, tail aloft, quickly choosing Quinn as his shedding post. Phee gently shooed him away. “Sorry. This is Melvin. Not in the market for a cat, are you? He’s an equal-opportunity shedder.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Phee laughed. “Whether you’re wearing black or white, he’s got fur to contrast with your outfit.”

  The tuxedo cat looked up, tipped his head, and gave Quinn one of his heartbreaker stares.

  Apparently unmoved, Quinn sidestepped the cat as if it were a skunk. “No
thanks. I already own a cat-eating dog.”

  “Seriously?” Britt looked worried.

  Quinn laughed. “Mabel has never actually eaten a cat. At least to my knowledge. But she would make this one wish he’d never met her. No offense to your cat.”

  “Melvin,” Phee supplied, feeling suddenly defensive of Mom’s cat. “His name is Melvin.”

  “Melvin, my man.” Quinn tipped an imaginary hat and took another step in the opposite direction.

  “Why don’t you sit there.” Phee pointed to the head of the table where Dad usually sat.

  Quinn started to sit down, then straightened again as the front door opened and Joanna breezed in.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Quinn extended a hand. “I don’t know if you remember … I’m Quinn.”

  “Of course I remember.”

  His gaze swept the room, encompassing the three of them. “Your mother was very kind to me. I’ll always remember that about her.”

  “Thank you.” Phee swallowed back the unexpected lump in her throat. The house suddenly felt hollow and empty without Mom here. Or Dad. Maybe it would be a good thing to get untangled from this place that held so many memories, both sweet and painful.

  As if she sensed Phee’s emotion, Joanna motioned for Quinn to sit. “Or would you rather look at the house first?”

  “Let’s talk first.” It sounded as if he had a plan. Good. Somebody needed to.

  They all took seats around the table and Phee offered drinks.

  Quinn waved her off and her sisters declined too. Her mouth felt like cotton, so she quickly poured herself a glass of water and set it on the table.

  Melvin headed for Quinn again, the swish of his tail saying his goal was Quinn’s lap. Britt intercepted him and settled the cat on her own lap.

  “I guess, first, I should make sure you’re all on the same page about selling the house.”