Page 73 of Quinn, By Design

“Whisht, lassie. No need to apologise. You’re here now,” Mary said, revealing more shared qualities with her son. “Some of your friends visited earlier. At least, I assume they were friends because they listed you as the source of their information about the show.”

“I forwarded the invitation to a few people.” She’d created McTavish history by promoting an exhibition other than their own, but hadn’t hesitated before forwarding the invitation to her entire client list with a strong personal recommendation. “I guess I follow the music and chatter.”

The music was a subtle riff underscoring the hum of cheerful voices. Mary waved her through the door. The single large room with bare rafters, double-height windows, white-washed walls and polished cement floors didn’t pretend to be a professional gallery, but someone with a clever eye had turned it into a cathedral of art. Probably Anna, but Niall would have known the empty spaces would draw the visitor’s gaze to the elegant simplicity of his designs.

Niall was responsible for Icehouse’s national anthemGreat Southern Landplaying in the background. Australian pop royalty backed by a full orchestra and choir suited the blend of awe-inspiring old and new creations spread out before her. Niall’s skill was formidable, but his artistry stole her breath.

Despite the grandeur of the space, the Huon table attracted all eyes. Lucy recognised pieces from the storeroom, plus Liam and Kate’s table and cradle. An exquisite mirror decorated with a frieze of gumnuts was new to her. She smiled involuntarily. She’d bet Gran’s pearls he’d designed it for a child. A girl.

“Hello, Lucy.” The wrong voice spoke near her ear.

“Hello, Hunter.” She liked the man, but he wasn’t Niall. “Have you been delegated to see me out?”

“We both know you have an invitation.” He slipped an arm around her waist, as if he feared she’d disappear. “Unless you’re planning on doing something to get yourself thrown out?”

“I needed to see his success.” She surveyed the animated crowd, noting the sold dots on every item. Some really were for sale. “Itisa success, isn’t it?”

“Financially, it’s a success. Creatively, it’s a success. But there are other measures.”

“Now you’re talking in riddles.” She freed herself. “Niall deserves the creative and financial success.”

“Money and fame aren’t enough to nourish the soul.” Hunter was notoriously private, making his low-voiced reflection echo like a confession.

“Without buyers, he can’t make furniture.” She’d thought Niall had doubted he’d find buyers for his designs. Hunter upended her assumptions. Niall’s father’s debts hadn’t brought him home. They’d been his welcome. What had brought him home? “If you haven’t been delegated to throw me out, and we’re agreed I’m not here to make a fuss, why are you shadowing me?”

His dimple appeared with his grin, making her see why Anna was attracted. “Moral support. And any other support you want.”

“That’s kind. But Niall and I have unfinished business, so I’ll have to speak to him at some point.”

“And you think there’s safety in a crowd?” Hetsked. “You poor, deluded woman.”

“Is he here?” She hungered for a glimpse of him. She’d taken a happy snap of him in his workshop one day. Lucy had known she was lovesick when she’d started carrying a print copy in the sleeve of her phone, checking it more often than incoming calls.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Niall stepped onto a small stool, so he stood above the crowd.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from him. The workshop photo missed his power—a facsimile of a good-looking man. Energy and a sense of purpose bounced off him.

Please accept Grandpa’s bequest. You don’t have to deal with me if you don’t want to.

“Thank you all for coming tonight. It’s a pleasure to see familiar faces.” Niall’s gaze rested on her. “And faces I hope will become familiar as years pass. Quinn, by design is my work, but the result of the faith and support of many people. Two people not here deserve special mention. My father, Mick Quinn, who planted the passion for wood in me, and Cameron McTavish, who’s been a more generous patron than I deserve. My extended family have been relentless in helping put this show on.” A woman nearby cheered. “Liùsaidh McTavish has been an inspiration. To all of you, my thanks.”

The world stopped. The music died. Lucy could hear her heart pounding. Niall had called her Liùsaidh before his closest family.An inspiration. Mary had been generous with her welcome, but she was the greeter at the feast. It was Mary’s job to charm visitors regardless of her son’s opinion of them. Niall’s tongue had lingered over the vowels in Liùsaidh. Lucy adored the simple caring at the core of him.

“Earth to Lucy.” Hunter nudged her, and she stared at him. “Sounds like he’s ready to speak to you.”

“You’re right. This isn’t the place.” Hope was a resilient emotion, ready to overtake good sense because the man you loved called you an inspiration. “I should find somewhere without an audience.”

“Give me half an hour, and I’ll clear the place.” He sauntered toward Anna.

Lucy and Niall had each let slip small moments when they might have told each other the truth, a zero-sum game where the final outcome was a refusal by each of them to make a commitment.

“I’m thirty-four and can’t make enough to support myself much less anyone else.”

She was thirty on her next birthday and still had occasional nightmares where she stood accused in a court of law for her mum’s murder. “There’s no statute of limitations on murdering your mother,” some ghoul recited.

She exhaled, exorcising the fears and uncertainties that she’d tripped over too many times. Never murder, rather an error in judgment forgivable in a ten-year-old.

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