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Quinn’s laugh sounded genuine that time. “Unless you’re actually hoping to run into Bok, how about some place that won’t give us indigestion?”

“Marcus was at the Jack Tar?”

“He had lunch there.”

That rattled Andy. He said, “I haven’t been back in four years. I don’t care where we eat. Just not somewhere…fancy.”

“Listen, we’re just two friends having dinner.” Quinn could have sounded any number of unpleasant things—impatient, irritated, derisive—but instead he’d said it casually,almost reassuringly. “What about the Doughty Duck in, let’s say, one hour? Does that give you enough time?”

“That’s plenty. I’m out on North Woods Road.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“See you.”

Andy started to click off but was stopped by Quinn’s, “Hey, Andy? One more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I promise not to jump you until you’re in the mood to be jumped.”

It took Andy a second to translate that teasing tone into actual words. “Uh…”

“You’ve got a lot going on. This isn’t the time or the place. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still interested.”

Still interested? After sixteen years? Sixteen years without a word? And still without explanation? Andy’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the crazy thing was, he wasn’t sure if he was mad or excited or both. Quinn sounded perfectly serious. Okay, maybe there was a trace of a smile in his voice, but he did sound sincere. Which was justbaffling. What the hell? After sixteenyears?

Andy made a gargling sound in the back of his throat—the closest he could get to faking radio static—and said, “Sorry. I didn’t catch that. I think we’ve got a bad connection.”

Quinn said urbanely, “Which I plan to work on,” and disconnected.

Chapter Twelve

A Beatles song was playing when Andy pushed open the door of the Doughty Duck.

If there’s anything that you want,

If there’s anything I can do…

It had taken him slightly more than an hour to shower, dress, box up all the snow globes, hide the box in the cellar, and secure as best he could every possible point of entry within Time in a Bottle’s perimeter. There were a lot of points of entry, as it turned out, and in the end, Andy had resorted to jamming splintery spindles and old knitting needles into window frames and doorjambs. His face was flushed, his hair was still slightly damp, though that was mostly perspiration from rushing to get here, and there was a streak of dust on his collar. Oh. And a still vivid black eye.

He was rattled—why?!—and he resented the fact that he was rattled.

He did not want to feel anything about having dinner with Quinn Rafferty.

He did not want to feel anything about Quinn Rafferty.

He did not have the energy to feel anything for anyone beyond worry for Uncle C. and figuring out what the hell was going on at Time in a Bottle.

Well, and the ongoing fear that Marcus would do him grievous bodily harm. But hey, nothing new there. He was used to that.

Andy’s eyes adjusted to the comfortable gloom of the crowded—surprisingly crowded—pub, and he caught sight of Quinn at the bar, joking with some of the regulars.

Quinn wore jeans and a dark sports jacket over a dark turtleneck. He looked irritatingly well-groomed and yet very…man-of-the-people. He looked like the teenaged Quinn couldonly have dreamed of looking: cool, commanding, completely at home.

And good for him. Andy was very glad Quinn had turned out to be…whatever he was. Successful, certainly. He had that easy, enviable look that came from not just being successful, butknowingyou were successful.

Whatever Quinn had said, had the other guys at the bar guffawing into their drinks. Positioned as he was—or maybe it was just knowing Quinn as well as he once had—Andy could see that though Quinn was laughing too, his amusement came from everyone else’s reaction. It wasn’t calculated, exactly, but it was considered, and Andy found it illuminating.