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“We’ll see what?” Pearl asks, joining the conversation too late, thank God.
“Nothing. Just some family politics. Don’t worry.” I lift the muslin and peek down at Maggie. She’s fallen asleep on my boob. I grit my teeth as I slip my finger between her mouth and my flesh, breaking her latched lips. “Ouchy,” I whisper, letting my top drop into place over my chest as I ease her off.
“Here,” Beau says, gently taking her from my arms so I can make myself decent.
“How did Zinnea meet Quinton?” Pearl asks, stirring her macchiato. She’s gotten over the incident last week well, thankfully. Poor thing was utterly traumatized when she stumbled into the club.
“That’s a story for Beau to answer,” Esther says, passing around napkins.
“They’re old friends.” Beau smiles fondly. “Quinton manages a hotel I stayed at?—”
“When she’d performed one of her disappearing acts,” I pipe in.
“When I needed some space from the chaos,” Beau says slowly, giving me a playful scowl. “He and Zinnea knew each other from the circuit, but Zinnea was married to Dexter at the time.”
“Oh, Dexter.” Pearl muses. “The?—”
“Corrupt cop who shot me and helped my mother fake her own murder,” Beau says so matter-of-factly. It’s such a pleasure to see her light indifference after so long immersed in the darkness.
“What happened to him?” Pearl asks innocently.
James butchered him. I watch Beau shrug nonchalantly. “He’s on the run.”
“God help him if James ever finds him,” Pearl says, dread overcoming her.
I smile, awkward, as does Esther.
“I wouldn’t want to be Dexter,” Beau says, looking down at Maggie asleep in her arms. She hasn’t had a panic attack for months. It’s not down to meds, it’s down to her inner peace. Even now, when we’ve learned Sandy isn’t dead and is threatening to pop our bubble once again, she’s so fucking chilled out. It’s the baby. She’s taking care of herself, her mind, and her body.
I check on Daniel, seeing him sitting in the window with Tank. The big guy is tucked in close to him, talking. A pep talk. Some wise words from one of the many men in his life.
“Oh my God,” Esther breathes, rising from her chair.
My heart instantly thrums. “What?” I follow the direction of her stare to the window. “Esther, what?” I stand, as does Anya and Pearl, and Beau with Maggie, all of us trying to see what’s got Esther’s panicked attention. Is it panic? I check her face again. She’s smiling. Not panic. Thank God. But what?—
I gasp, seeing Zinnea flouncing across the road, her rainbow Pride wrap flapping in the wind, her zebra-print sequin pants glistening under the sun. And attached to her hand, another hand. “Is that Quinton?” A well-dressed man with a moustache in a herringbone tweed three-piece as tall as Zinnea—and she’s wearing skyscraper platforms—strides along beside her, his chest puffed out proudly, his shoulders back, his smile broad. “What a force,” I murmur.
“Quick, sit down,” Beau orders, dropping back to her chair. “Don’t make a big deal of it.”
“But it’s massive,” I say.
“So is his moustache,” Pearl whispers. “Wow, that’s impressive.”
“It’s new,” Beau says. “He never had that when I saw him months ago.”
“Hey, Beau,” Daniel calls back. “Zinnea’s here, and she’s brought a man with a walking stick.”
“It’s a cane,” Beau replies. “A fashion accessory.”
“He looks like he’s from England,” Daniel says. “Doesn’t he, Pearl?”
Pearl chuckles. “Right out of a manor house, kid.”
We all watch through the window as they approach, and I see the handlebar moustache and round rimless glasses. What a character. Zinnea flings the door open, walks in, and throws her arms out wide. “Darlings!”
“Shhhh,” Beau hisses, making Zinnea slap a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, darn, the beast is asleep.”
