CHAPTER SEVEN
“I don’t want to be here,” Lisset mutters, a sullen downward tilt to her lips.
My hands tighten on the wheel and I take in a slow breath through my nose, leashing my irritation. My daughter has been clutching her attitude tightly to her chest ever since I picked her up from school and announced we’re heading to the library.
It’s been a week since my conversation with Laura, Lisset’s teacher. During that week, I’ve alternated between trying to give Lisset her space and not push her, to leaving books on her bedside table and checking in with her the following morning to see if she’d read any of them. She hadn’t.
Laura informs me Lisset is still hostile to any form of reading at school. When a substitute teacher tried to pressure her to read, she became so upset she had to go to the nurse’s office to calm down.
All in all, a crappy, unproductive week, culminating in this urgent, last-ditch trip to the library.
I’m not a hundred percent sure what my plan is here. Maybe I’m hoping Lisset will feel inspired when she’s surrounded by hundreds of books. Or maybe I’m wishing her passion for reading will be reignited by her being around other readers. Worst case, I’ll simply load her down with books and save the problem of getting her to read them for another day.
“I know you don’t want to be here,” I say. “We’re just going to get something to eat from the café and then pick up a few books.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms, looking defiant. “Are you going to read them?”
“Watch your tone, Lis,” I warn.
“Sorry,” she whispers, looking stricken.
Sullenness is a coat my daughter rarely wears. She’s typically cheerful and easygoing. While not quite the unicorn and rainbow girl my sister believes her to be, since Lisset is often on her best behavior for the aunt she adores, this extended stubbornness is definitely not her.
“The books are not for me,” I tell her. “They’re for you.”
“I don’t want them.”
I glance at her in the rearview mirror. She looks so small sitting there. “I thought you liked reading.”
Her shoulders deflate. “I liked it when I was young. Not anymore.”
She sounds like an exhausted, stressed-out, thirty-one-year-old woman carrying too much on her shoulders. She sounds like me.
“Adults still read, you know,” I point out.
“You don’t read.”
“I do read! I have a book on my bedside table.”
I hear the censure in her tone when she says, “Mom, that book has been sitting there since Auntie Tess bought it for your birthday last year.”
I forget sometimes how uncannily observant my daughter is and how incapable she is of keeping those observations to herself.
Honestly, I would love to read more. But between working a full-time job and housework and caring for Lisset, reading a novel is a sad bullet point at the bottom of an endlessly long list.
“I’m slowly making my way through the book,” I tell her. She doesn’t need to know it’s at a pace of one page a month, if I’m lucky. Maybe it’s time to change that. “The point is, I don’t dislike reading. I sometimes don’t have enough time to read.” I gentle my voice. “You have enough time, though.”
She shrugs, looking mulish and miserable. “Reading is just dumb.”
It’s like an alien has taken over my child, which I thought only happened when they become teenagers.
“You’re being silly,” I say as we pull into the library parking lot. “We just need to find you the right book. Come on.”
To my relief, she doesn’t argue as we climb out of the car and make our way to the café outside the library. It’s open late on Thursdays, coinciding with the library’s 9 p.m. closing time. We order juice and toasted paninis, and I keep our conversation centered on neutral topics, like her friends at school and our plans for the weekend.
When we’re finished eating, we push through the double glass doors into the library. The residents of Brown Oaks are proud of their library and justifiably so. They’ve thrown a lot of money at it over the years. The library is spread over two levels. The children’s section is on the ground floor, while the adult section is mostly on the second floor with quiet areas and workspaces for private study.
At the entrance I pause briefly, soaking up the atmosphere. I love the quiet that feels a little like reverence, the smell of paper that teases the intellect with the wealth of knowledge inside these walls, the heady possibility of escaping into other worlds.
Because yesterday was Valentine’s Day, there’s a huge display of romance novels at the entrance. My eyes fall on the rows of bright spines and radiant colors lining the shelves. All those love stories and happy endings.
For some reason, a lump forms in my throat.
I don’t take bookings for Valentine’s Day. Instead, I keep busy catching up on admin, uploading photos to my website, and avoiding people.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Lisset asks.
Clearing the sentimental lump from my throat, I offer her an approximation of the truth. “I guess I realize how much I miss coming here, how much I miss reading.”
Lisset slants me a sly look. “You can read my books then.”
I ruffle her hair. “Nice try, my little schemer.”
We traipse over to the children’s section. It’s a delightful area of the library, full of color and dotted with small desks and chairs, reading nooks, and even kid-sized bleachers for story time.
I’m surprised to see that those bleachers are currently filled with children of all ages. Even more surprising is the small crowd of smartly dressed ladies hanging out in the children’s section, either sitting awkwardly on tiny chairs, standing on the periphery or leaning against the bookshelves. I suddenly remember that Thursday evening is story hour, which generally gathers a crowd, but this crowd seems bigger than it usually is. And the women nearly outnumber the children.
Frowning, I follow their enthralled stares. When I glimpse what’s holding their attention, I go rigid with disbelief.
A familiar-looking, powerfully built man wearing dark jeans and a red T-shirt is sitting on a stool with a black dog at his feet.
Lisset notices him at the same time. “Mom, isn’t that our new neighbor across the street?”
“I believe it is,” I say, trying to hide my dismay.
What did Tess say the man’s name is? Gideon Walker.
For the past week, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid bumping into him. No walks around the neighborhood. Closing my curtains early. Taking the trash out in the afternoon. And now here he is. In the library, of all places.
“What’s he doing here?” Lisset asks.
Good question. I take in the scene in front of me. “It looks like he’s reading to the children. No, wait,” I amend, “they’re reading to him.”
I study the man again through narrowed eyes, cataloguing his dark blond hair and short-trimmed beard. His strong profile. He’s certainly a compelling figure, I admit, watching him listen to a young ginger-haired boy next to him reading a book out loud. Waiting her turn is a girl with pink-framed glasses clutching a sparkly pink book. The expression Gideon wears is serious and attentive. Every now and then, he flashes a warm, engaging smile, triggering a collective sigh from the ladies closest to me.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Are we that hard up for entertainment in Brown Oaks?
“Mom, you’re wrong. The boy isn’t reading to the man”—there’s a note of curious wonder in Lisset’s voice—“he’s reading to the dog.”
That gets my attention. I look more closely. She’s right. The boy keeps shooting glances at the dog—I think it’s a greyhound—who’s staring intently at the boy, occasionally cocking his head to the side when the boy stumbles over a word. Gideon is keeping quiet, seemingly okay to let the boy and dog interact.
When the boy finishes reading, Gideon smiles and congratulates him, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling through the library.
I feel a stirring across my skin, a sensation I haven’t felt in so long I almost don’t recognize it for what it is. Interest.
Oh, no . No . My interest is...theoretical. Merely curiosity about the new owner of the house directly opposite mine. Let the women in here fawn all over him. I won’t be one of them.
Abruptly, Gideon Walker lifts his head and his eyes collide with mine. His stare is so intense it feels as though he’s stripping me bare. I want to desperately look away, but I can’t shake off the sense that if I drop my gaze first it’s a concession of some sort. I hold his stare, even though my skin is burning and discomfort sits like a rock in my chest. We’re stuck in a childish staring game that doesn’t feel in any way childish.
“Isn’t he the yummiest morsel to move into Brown Oaks?”
I startle, glancing over at Janine, who’s materialized next to me. She’s the estate agent who sold me my house. A mom of three teenagers, she has a personalized Hot Mom license plate and favors sharp, colorful business suits. More importantly, she cannot, for the life of her, keep a secret.
I tilt my head at the throng of ladies in the children’s section. “He’s certainly generating a lot of interest. I’ve never seen story hour so full before.”
She lets loose with a belly laugh. “Yep, news travels pretty fast around here. Especially if it involves a handsome bachelor.”
I make a noncommittal sound.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asks, smiling. “To also check him out?”
“Me?” I feel my eyes widen. “No! Uh-uh! Absolutely not!”
Janine’s blue eyes widen too. Perhaps I was a little too vehement.
“It’s okay if you are,” she says kindly. Janine might have a big mouth, but she also has one of the biggest hearts in Brown Oaks. I’ve never forgotten how she helped Lisset and me settle in, smoothing over a lot of the paperwork while we were both so shell-shocked.
“Lisset and I are just here to pick up some books,” I tell her.
“Books I don’t want,” Lisset mutters.
“Books are important, hon,” Janine says absently to Lisset. Then she leans a little closer to me. Not too close, since she’s aware of my feelings on personal space. “His name’s Gideon Walker and he’s even nicer in person.”
There’s only one way she could know that. “Did you sell him the Martinez house?” I ask.
“I did.” There are a number of estate agents in Brown Oaks, but Janine is one of the more popular ones. “I spent a great deal of time with Gideon Walker. And let me tell you, he’s a real charmer.”
Charmer . A ripple of nerves travels through me. If there’s one word that’ll raise a red flag with me, it’s that one.
“Mom, can we go?” Lisset pipes up, tugging on my shirt sleeve.
“Soon,” I answer distractedly.
She exhales dramatically. My daughter may have inherited her organizational skills from me, but the drama is all Tess.
“You know, there was something so interesting and a little strange about that sale,” Janine informs me in a hushed voice, looking like she’s ready to burst if she holds her secret in any longer.
“What was it?” I ask, my interest roused.
Before she can say anything further, however, the man in question appears in front of us, his greyhound at his side.
“Hi, Janine.” He greets her with a brief kiss on her cheek.
Her face reddens a little. “Gideon, hello!”
Up close, with his disheveled dark-blond hair and unexpectedly full mouth, he’s more attractive than I first thought.
A prickle of heat touches my face.
Janine gives his arm a playful swat. “Look at you, Gideon Walker, causing an uproar in the library.”
Smiling, Gideon gestures to his dog, who is wearing a working vest the same shade of red as Gideon’s T-shirt. “I think everyone is really here to see Uno.”
“He’s a cutie pie, all right,” she responds. “Have you met Kate yet?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says smoothly, turning to face me. The bright lights in the library bring out the green flecks in his hazel eyes, shades of intensity and playfulness in their depths. Eyes like that have no business being in a library. They feel irreverent, somehow.
“Gideon, this is Kate,” Janine announces, looking eager to make the introductions. “Kate, meet Gideon, the newest resident of Brown Oaks.”
He inclines his head, seeming to know instinctively not to offer his hand for me to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Kate.”
My name coming out of his mouth gives me a weird, fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach.
His statement is my cue to respond with the usual social pleasantries. Pleased to meet you too or Welcome to Brown Oaks . I can’t bring myself to voice either of those lies.
“Is Kate short for Katherine?” Gideon asks into the awkward silence.
I freeze. A wild guess that happened to hit home. “Just Kate,” I say shortly.
He gives a small nod of acceptance, but I can’t shrug away the unsettling feeling there’s an argument inside him, one he’s reserving for another time and place.
“Where are you from, Gideon?” I ask, only because I’m a collector of information that might prove useful at some point.
He smiles. “Nowhere interesting.”
“Surely it’s more interesting than Brown Oaks.”
His eyes fix on mine. “On the contrary, I’m finding Brown Oaks extremely interesting.”
I’m abruptly aware of Janine watching us with avid interest on her face, as if she’s a witness to something we’re not privy to.
I wait for more of the charm Gideon appears to be throwing around like confetti at a wedding, but he turns his attention away from me and focuses on Lisset, who has her arm wrapped around my leg.
Huh.
“Hi,” he says to her.
She looks up at him in wide-eyed astonishment. In her mind, adults tend to stick to the usual script of ignoring children in an absentminded, benign sort of way. Gideon Walker is deviating from the script, surprising her. And me.
“Hi,” she responds in a wary voice, pressing a little closer to my leg. I’d like to believe her wariness is due to a mistrust of strangers, a message I’m forever drumming into her, but I think it’s due more to the fact she associates him with a library and her newfound dislike of reading.
“My name’s Gideon and this handsome rascal here is Uno.” He strokes the greyhound’s bony head. “What’s your name?”
“Lisset.”
“Uno, say hello to Lisset,” Gideon instructs his greyhound, gesturing in Lisset’s direction.
Uno offers her a gentle nudge with his head.
“Greyhounds have trouble sitting because of their long spine and muscular hindquarters,” he tells my daughter. “So Uno can’t give you his paw, but this is his way of greeting you.”
Lisset, predictably, melts. I see it written all over her face. She’s fallen in love. While I’m grateful she’s distracted from her resentment at being in the library, I also know I’m going to hear it from her all the way home that greyhounds are the absolute best and we have to get one.
As Lisset tentatively strokes the greyhound on his head, imitating Gideon’s motion, the dog flicks his eyes up at me in quiet curiosity. I make no move to touch him. I don’t do dogs.
Also, I haven’t finished digging for information. “What brings you to Brown Oaks?” I ask Gideon.
“Change of pace,” he replies casually.
“Is that all?” I ask, equally casual.
“Is that not enough?”
“Most people prefer a coastal town if they’re retiring.”
His lips twitch, acknowledging the dig.
Janine laughs nervously, picking up on the tension coloring the air. “Gideon volunteers at the library once a week. Isn’t that right, Gideon?”
She glances over at him for confirmation, but it’s me he’s staring at when he answers, “Yes, that’s right.”
Janine fluffs her hair. “At first, I was like, what’s a dog doing in the library? I thought it was only guide dogs allowed in here. But then he tells me Uno is trained as a reading therapy dog. I never heard such a thing before, but it sounds like a wonderful program.”
Unease peppers my skin. I have to clear my throat before I can address Gideon. “Are you also involved in the Reading Dog Program at Brown Oaks Academy?”
He nods. “I have my first session next week.”
I don’t know how to translate what I’m feeling right now. The man has moved into the house directly across from me. He’s in my local library gathering up a female fan club, of which Janine appears to be president. And now he’s working at my daughter’s school.
How did Gideon Walker suddenly become the sun we’re all orbiting around?
I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.
“The program is aimed at assisting students who are reluctant readers,” he explains in his smooth, deep, charming voice. “Uno and I are here at the library every Thursday night.”
Well, now I know where we won’t be every Thursday night.
Lisset glances up from her blissful stroking of the greyhound. “We live right across the road from you, Gideon,” she offers eagerly.
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to close my eyes.
“Do you?” Gideon responds, and I swear I glimpse the shadow of a smile. “So, we’re neighbors.”
Before my daughter divulges any more personal information, like our bank account details or the password to my phone, I state firmly, “We better get going.”
Gideon holds my gaze for a beat, the warmth in his expression unsettling me. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” My voice lacks conviction, my meaning clear as ice in that one word.
And Gideon responds to my abruptness in the strangest way. He smiles at me, his hazel eyes taking on a gleam as though he’s looking forward to the challenge of proving me wrong.