Daughters Of The Bride. Susan Mallery
go get.”
Joyce stepped back. She barely came to his shoulder and had to look up to meet his gaze. “You’re not taking the dog for ice cream. I don’t know what ridiculousness you get up to in Los Angeles, but here in the real world, dogs don’t eat ice cream.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been back thirty seconds and you’re already lying to me.”
She smiled. “All right. They do, but at home. We don’t take them out. Besides, if you take Pearl, you need to take Sarge, too. He’ll get jealous otherwise.”
As if he heard his name, a small white fluffball barreled through the open doorway and down the path. Pearl jumped out of the Bentley and ran to greet her companion.
They were an odd pair. The tall, stately blonde poodle and the small, white bichon-poodle mix. Pearl was nearly four times Sarge’s size, yet he clearly ran the show. Now they circled Quinn, sniffing and yipping. He crouched down to greet them both. After letting them sniff his fingers, he offered pats and rubs.
“Your man arrived yesterday,” his grandmother told him.
“He’s my assistant, Joyce, not my man. We’re not living in a 1950 Cary Grant movie.”
“But wouldn’t it be fun if we were? I tried to check him into the hotel, but he said he was staying somewhere else.”
Quinn straightened and closed the passenger door of the Bentley. “He is. Wayne and I work best when there’s some separation between us.”
“You’re not moving back because you think I’m getting old, are you?”
She always did like to cut to the heart of the matter. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve thought you were old for a long time now, and not everything is about you.”
She touched his face. “You are so full of crap.”
“That is true.” He held out his arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and he led her back into the hotel.
Quinn’s mother had been Joyce’s only child. He’d spent as much of his childhood with Joyce as with his mom. By the time he’d turned fourteen, his mother had abandoned him and he’d moved into the hotel permanently.
Now as they entered the lobby, he took in the high ceilings, the crystal light fixtures and the big, curving reception desk. The furniture was comfortable, the food delicious and the bartenders generous with their pours. Add in the beachfront location in quiet Central California, and the Los Lobos Hotel had nearly everything going for it.
At seventeen, he couldn’t wait to be anywhere but here. Now some twenty years later, he was grateful to be back.
The dogs led the way into the bar. He and Joyce took seats at a corner table. The dogs settled at their feet.
He was sure having a couple of canines in an establishment that served food had to violate several state ordinances, but as far as he could tell, no one complained. If they did, they were told the dogs were excellent judges of character. That tended to quiet all but the most offensive of guests. And the ones who weren’t quieted were asked to leave.
A pretty redhead appeared at their table. “Hello, Joyce. Quinn.”
He recognized her face from his previous visits, if not her name. Fortunately, her name tag was easy to read.
“Nice to see you again, Kelly.”
She smiled. “What can I get you two?”
“I’ll have a glass of Smarty Pants chardonnay.”
Quinn laughed at his grandmother. “I can’t believe you’re still bitter about what happened.”
“I haven’t forgotten because I have an excellent memory. Besides, I love my new wines. I’m serving them as the exclusive house wine in the hotel.”
A few years back, the local winery Joyce had sourced from decided to change winemakers and therefore the style and taste of their wines. Joyce had complained, the winemaker had done his own thing and, in protest, she’d gone looking for wines she liked better. Middle Sister Wines, based in Northern California, had won both her taste buds and her business.
The chardonnay was very popular with the ladies who lunched at the hotel, with a fresh, California bouquet that had hints of citrus and pear. Another of their whites, Drama Queen pinot grigio, had been racking up awards from wine competitions around the country.
“They’ve become a tradition,” Joyce added.
He squeezed her hand. “You’re my favorite tradition. I adore everything about you.”
How could he not? She was delightful, and even if she wasn’t, she was the only family he had left.
Kelly turned her attention to him. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
White wine wasn’t his favorite, but when with Joyce...
“And a cheese plate,” his grandmother added. “Quinn is hungry.”
He wasn’t, but there was no point in arguing.
“Right away,” Kelly told them.
“I’ve reserved the groundskeeper’s bungalow,” Joyce said when Kelly had left. “You should be very comfortable there.”
He knew the cottage—it was at the south end of the property, private and large. “It’s one of your most expensive suites,” he protested. “I just need a regular room for a couple of weeks while I figure out what I’m doing.”
“No. I want you to have it. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
He knew she didn’t need the money renting it would provide, but still. “Thank you.”
“I’ve blocked it for the summer,” she added.
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m forty-one. Don’t you think it’s time I moved away from home?”
“No. You’re just back and you’ll find your own place soon enough. This way you can settle in and find what’s exactly right. Assuming you really are staying.”
“You doubt me.”
“Of course. You live in Malibu, Quinn. You have a business there. Whatever will you do in sleepy Los Lobos?”
A good question and one he was looking forward to answering.
“I can run my business from here. Once I get a recording studio set up, my artists will come to me.”
“You’re really that important?”
Her voice was teasing, her smile impish. He winked.
“I am all that and more.”
She laughed. “I hope it’s true and you do stay. And I don’t even care if you’re moving because you’re worried about me. What kind of place do you need for your studio?”
“Almost anywhere would do. We’ll be remodeling regardless. So a house or a warehouse. I’d prefer a stand-alone building with good parking.” And privacy. Where people could come and go without being seen or photographed.
“Is that nice mute man going to be joining you?”
Quinn sighed. “Zealand isn’t mute. He just doesn’t talk much.”
“I’ve never heard him speak at all. Are you sure he can?”
“Yes. He’s said words at least twice.”
Zealand might not have much to say, but he was the best soundman in the business. He would be the one deciding if the space Quinn was interested in could be converted into a killer studio. One where they could work and turn sound into magic.
Movement caught his attention. He looked up and saw a tall blonde walk to the bar. She