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'Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry.' Mary laid a small comforting hand on Candy's arm. 'How dreadful for you. Quinn never said.'
The trouble was she didn't have a clue what Quinn had told his parents—or what he hadn't told them, which was perhaps even more relevant, Candy warned herself silently.
And as the evening progressed it became apparent that Quinn's mother was very definitely sold on the idea that her son had made a love-match. Mary was discreet—the older woman didn't have an injudicious bone in her body, Candy thought fondly—but there was just the odd little remark, a glance, a certain gleam in her eyes that indicated what Quinn's mother was thinking.
And it made Candy feel conscience-stricken, ashamed, remorseful to fool such nice people, which was so unfair she told herself bitterly, when this whole giant tangle could be laid fairly and squarely at Quinn's size tens.
Mary had insisted on bringing enough food with her to feed an army for a week, and once they had eaten the evening meal—a truly delicious ham and egg pie of Mary's, with baked potatoes smothered with a blue cheese dip—the two women left the men in the sitting room watching TV and drinking port, and went into the kitchen to prepare the vegetables and stuffing they were having with the enormous turkey Quinn's parents had also provided.
They were laughing at the story Candy was telling about Quinn under the hawthorn bush when the man himself walked into the kitchen some time later, and as both women turned to him, their faces alight and their eyes bright with shared amusement, the words he had been about to say died on his lips and he stood in the doorway looking as though he was stunned.
'Quinn?' Candy stared at him, the laughter fading from her face. 'What's the matter? Don't you feel well?'
'What?' And then he seemed to collect himself, the smooth, relaxed mask he was apt to wear sliding into place as he said, 'No, I'm fine. I just came to say I've brought your case up and put it in your room, that's all.'
'Thank you.' She continued staring at him, puzzled.
'Well, once we've finished these potatoes your father and I will leave you in peace,' Mary said briskly as she glanced at her son. 'We'll be back about nine in the morning if that's not too early? That little parish church at the end of the street has a Christmas Day service at ten and I'd like to go, but of course you don't have to come if you'd rather not.'
The last few words had been directed at Candy, and her voice was somewhat vacant as she said, 'That would be lovely...' They would be back? Didn't that mean they had to go in the first place? What was happening here? 'But I don't understand—'
She stopped abruptly as she caught the quick shake of the head Quinn sent her as he looked pointedly from Candy to his mother bent over the potatoes.
What now? She frowned at him, thinking she had been so right when she had said she didn't trust him. If ever a man had his own agenda this one did.
Quinn continued to lean lazily against the door as they finished the vegetables, his conversation easy and amused as he teased his mother and made them both laugh, albeit reluctantly on Candy's part. It was only out of consideration for the feelings of Quinn's mother that she didn't speak out her misgivings, but as they finished the last of the potatoes and Mary began to wipe down the marble worktop Candy looked straight across at Quinn's dark face and said, 'I'll just pop down and say a quick hallo to the dogs, if that's all right?' knowing Quinn could do little else than accompany her.
'Yes, you do that, dear,' Mary said comfortably, 'and I'll be finished in here by the time the two of you return.'
'Right, what is this, Quinn?' Candy didn't wait until they were at the foot of the
stairs outside the flat before she confronted him. 'What did your mother mean about coming back? Where are they going?'
'To the Saddler's Arms, as far as I know.'
'The Saddler's Arms?' They had reached the hall and she stared at him, her blue eyes narrowed in surprise. Ten o'clock on Christmas Eve and they were going out to the pub? 'For a drink?' she asked warily.
'I shouldn't be surprised. Dad always likes a Guinness or two before he goes to bed, says it helps him sleep,' Quinn returned congenially. Too congenially.
'So why can't he have a Guinness here?' she asked flatly.
'Oh, he could, he could.'
She'd hit him again in a minute!
Her face must have spoken for her, because the next moment Quinn took her arm and led her quickly through the big square hall, opening the door which led into the back of the building where the surgery kitchen, operating room and animal quarters were.
'Let go of me.' She shook him off once they were in the corridor beyond the hall and turned to face him again, her blue eyes shooting sparks. 'What's going on, Quinn? And don't prevaricate!'
'Nothing is 'going on', as you put it,' Quinn said equably, 'it's just that the flat only has two bedrooms.'
'What?'
'So as the Saddler's Arms have their big double guest room free, and Mum and Dad decided they preferred that to the pad over the garages—although that's not a bad little place; I bunked down there for a time when I first came—'
'Quinn!' She never shouted; she wasn't the type of person who shouted. 'Are you telling me I've turned your parents out of their room?' she asked tightly, after a long hard breath.
'That's not the way I'd put it,' he said impassively, seemingly quite unmoved by her horror.
