Down the Shore Read Free

bright upstroke that changes the temperature around it.
    â€œTom Alison,” I said, offering my hand, which Mr. Quinn shook without looking at me.
    â€œWhere’s Paige?” he asked, coming back into himself, remembering his duties as a guardian. “In the car?”
    â€œIn the back,” I said. “Asleep.”
    â€œYou drove?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell, at least you made it. Let’s get her inside.”
    I hung back as we headed for my car, trying to get Clare’s attention and to understand why this man was interested in anything besides his semiconscious stepdaughter. Mr. Quinn took Paige in his arms and crossed the lawn with her head against his chest, one high-heeled shoe swinging from her foot by the strap across her toes. Paige stirred and her stepfather whispered something to her as he turned and paused for me to get the door. He raised a finger on the hand under her knees, and mouthed “wait here” before he climbed the stairs.
    â€œClare,” I said, when Mr. Quinn was out of earshot.
    Clare was watching the place where he had disappeared.
    â€œHey, do you two know each other?”
    â€œDo you know who he is?” Clare asked.
    â€œHe’s her stepdad. He said that.”
    â€œWe have to leave.”
    Clare took a step toward the door, just as Mr. Quinn appeared on the landing above us.
    â€œI have beds for you two,” he said, as he descended. “I appreciate you bringing her home, but I don’t want you back on the road tonight. Sleep it off, take off in the morning. Can I get you some water?”
    I looked at Clare, whose eyes were flitting between my face and the door as if he were contemplating a twenty-five-yard dash for the car.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said.
    â€œOK,” Mr. Quinn said, as he shot the deadbolt back into place. “Follow me.”
    I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Clare was still with us as we started up the stairs. Our room for the evening was halfway down the hall. Mr. Quinn waved us inside.
    â€œYou boys need anything else?”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “We’re good.”
    He said goodnight and closed the door. There were two beds against the far wall, both covered in madras pillows. Clare sat down on a window seat as if someone had kicked out his knees.
    â€œClare, what the fuck is going on?”
    Clare stood up and cased the room, looking for a way out. It was a sheer drop from all the windows, and what might have been another exit led only to an empty closet. There was a crisp knock on the thinnest panel of the door.
    â€œCome in,” I said.
    Mr. Quinn did not come in. He stood in the hall, and shook a big watch down his wrist.
    â€œLet’s talk,” he said to Clare.
    Clare followed him down the hallway and the stairs. Suddenly I could hear them again, and I realized that they were on the deck behind the house, just below the guest room. I slid the window open very gently so that the only thing between us was a screen. Clare sat on the edge of a lounge chair facing the yard, Mr. Quinn in a rocker beside him.
    â€œHe left Lehman way before I did,” Mr. Quinn was saying. “We know a lot of the same people, which is how I heard.”
    Clare said nothing. Mr. Quinn dug into his pocket, produced a soft pack of Marlboro Lights, and shook one loose. He offered it to Clare, who shook his head.
    â€œYou doing OK?” he asked, his teeth clamped down on the filter. “You’re not going to get sick on me, right?”
    â€œI’m fine,” Clare said.
    â€œLook, I’m sorry for what your family’s going through. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. You look a hell of a lot like your dad.”
    â€œI know,” Clare said.
    A door opened down the hall, and I planted my ass on the bed, pretending to untie my shoe. Someone took the stairs very slowly, listening, assessing. I went back to the window in time to hear Mr. Quinn