CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday morning, Lisset and I pop into Beth’s Bakery, our favorite coffee shop on Main Street. I’m in the mood to treat myself to a coffee and almond croissant. Lisset lingers in front of the glass display case, agonizing over which pastry to select. Eventually, she settles on a chocolate chip cannoli.
I’m at the till paying when Lisset says excitedly, “Mom, there’s Gideon and Uno!”
Heart sinking, I turn and spot my neighbor tucked away at a table in the corner of the café, the greyhound lying on a blanket at his feet.
Lisset’s already made her way over to them. I follow more slowly. In the café’s overheated air, Gideon has taken off his jacket and his arms strain the sleeves of his white T-shirt. The sight of his ruggedly handsome face smiling at Lisset stalls the breath in my lungs.
The first time I saw Oliver he took my breath away, and I never quite got it back all through our whirlwind dating, courtship, and marriage eight months later. Our love was intense and intoxicating. In the end, though, the only intoxicating thing about it was the toxic part.
At Lisset’s approach, Uno lifts his head from where it was resting on his paws, but he doesn’t get up. Now he decides to be well-behaved.
Gideon closes the book he was reading and places it face down on the table. “Hi, Kate.”
“Hi.” I gesture to his book and the title he’s hidden from me. “We’re interrupting you.”
“Not at all.” He turns to Lisset. “Hello, Lissy.”
He’s given my daughter a nickname. I feel something move in my chest.
She offers him a shy smile. “Hi, Gideon.”
“You’re not at school today?”
“It’s a teacher development day,” she tells him, stroking the greyhound’s head. “We get to stay home.”
“Nice.”
“Mom has to work later, so I’m going to Grandma’s house.”
Before Lisset blurts out our life story, I hastily ask Gideon, “What about you? Are you not working today?”
“No.” When he says nothing more, offering no explanation as to why he’s in a coffee shop on a workday reading a book, I’m left with more questions than answers.
I look down at the greyhound, whose eyes are closed in bliss while Lisset strokes him. “How’s Uno doing?”
“Recovering nicely. I’m using a colloidal spray that heals wounds quickly.”
“Will you be at the library tonight?” Lisset asks Gideon. She knows what happened with the greyhound’s tail, although I downplayed how much blood there was. Only Tess knows the full story, and she was laughing so hard I had to hang up on her.
Gideon shakes his head. “Not tonight. But Uno will be back on track next week.”
A server materializes at my side. “I have your coffee and pastries,” she says, holding the mug and plates. “Where are you sitting?”
I look around the coffee shop. All the tables are occupied.
“You’re welcome to join me,” Gideon offers.
There are two empty chairs at his table. How...convenient. His eyes dance at the hesitancy that’s clearly playing out across my face.
“Yes, please,” declares Lisset, promptly seating herself in one of the chairs.
Holding back a sigh, I shrug out of my jacket and settle in the chair next to her. I’m starting to believe his dog and my daughter are in cahoots. “Thank you,” I say to Gideon.
“No problem.”
The scent of him—cedar with a hint of citrus—fills my nose and curls through my body.
It’s a trivial thing, but I’m suddenly pleased I made an effort with my makeup today. I’m also working with a particularly demanding client this afternoon and I dressed for the occasion in a form-fitting black top and black cargo pants. It’s my don’t-mess-with-me outfit.
Judging from the almost languid way Gideon’s eyes roam over me, he appears more than willing to mess around with me. I straighten in my seat, uncomfortable with the wild direction my thoughts have suddenly veered in. What on earth is going on with me?
“How did Uno become a reading dog?” Lisset asks Gideon, nibbling at her cannoli.
He puts his coffee mug down. My attention is drawn to his forearm, corded with muscle, and the margins of a tattoo on his upper arm covered by the sleeve of his T-shirt. I can’t work out what the ink is.
“First, Uno had to be checked out by a vet,” Gideon answers. “Then he had to go through special training and pass a number of tests before he could become certified.”
“What kind of special training?” Lisset asks.
“He had to learn to obey basic commands, not to react to crowds and loud noises, and to take food gently from someone’s hand.” Gideon scratches his beard. “But you know what the scariest part of the training was?”
“What?” Lisset breathes out the word, leaning forward in her chair.
I find myself leaning forward too, eager to hear the answer. I’ve always been fascinated by tests—physical, emotional, psychological—and how people pass them. Maybe because life itself is a test. And I’m not sure whether I’m passing or failing.
“A trainer shouted directly in Uno’s face to see how he would react.”
Lisset glances down at Uno, her fierce frown showing her outrage on the greyhound’s behalf. “What happened? Did he pass?”
“He passed,” Gideon confirms.
“I thought he would.”
“That still wasn’t the most important lesson Uno had to learn though.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope.”
He smiles into his coffee, drawing the moment out. My own smile itches to escape, but I keep it in. Lisset’s on the edge of her seat in suspense.
“The most important lesson Uno had to learn,” Gideon says, “was that he’s not allowed to eat anyone’s homework.”
Lisset giggles.
When I realize I’m still leaning toward Gideon, I make myself sit back. “How did you get into this? The whole therapy dog reading work?”
“I wanted to do something different with my life,” he responds after a moment. “Uno is good with people, especially kids, so it seemed a natural fit. I guess Uno kind of chose therapy work for me.”
“What line of work were you in?” I ask.
His shrug is dismissive. “Strategic consulting work. Nothing very interesting.”
I cradle my coffee in my hands. It sounds like there’s a history there, one he’s not inclined to delve into. I deliberately squash my curiosity. We all have our secrets. And if I pry too much into his, that might give him license to pry into mine. I’m okay to leave our status quo at half-truths.
“Mom, can I get a glass of water?”
“Sure.”
Lisset skips away to the water station near the counter.
When she’s out of hearing range, I say, “I spoke to Laura Bilson, Lisset’s teacher, and Lisset will be joining your reading session at school next week.”
If Gideon is surprised, he conceals it well. “That’s great. I look forward to having her there.”
“She’s nervous.” Actually, what I mean is, I’m nervous .
“A lot of the kids start off nervous,” he says.
Yeah, but she’s not just any kid, she’s my kid. I tear off a piece of my croissant and chew it slowly.
Uno chooses that moment to rest his head gently on my feet. It’s not a heavy weight, but it feels strange. I shift my feet and tuck them under my chair, out of his reach.
“Kate, I don’t want you to worry,” Gideon says quietly. “I’ll look after her.”
Lisset returns to the table with her water glass. I focus on her, buying myself a moment to collect my thoughts. I can’t seem to think straight when he looks at me like that.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Kate Miller.” The nasally voice cuts through the hum of activity around us. It’s a voice I haven’t missed. “It’s been a while since I bumped into you. Where have you been hiding?”
“Hello, Suzan.”
I make no effort to smile or answer her barbed question. Suzan was in my class at school and the self-appointed leader of the popular clique. I was the girl she and her friends ignored all through high school. When I returned to Brown Oaks, Suzan showed up at my front door to invite me to a cheese and wine evening at her house. The gang will all be there, she said, her patronizing tone declaring I finally made the cut. I declined her invitation. I have no desire to try to ingratiate my way onto her good side or be included in her posse. The mob always eats its own at some point.
She regards me with naked speculation. “I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for little old me?”
She’s all angular cheekbones and knife-sharp jaw, long auburn hair falling in uncompromising lines down her back. Her sharp eyes sweep the table. I don’t introduce her to Lisset. I want to keep my daughter far away from her caustic tongue.
But with Gideon I have no such compunction. I have a feeling he can handle her. “Suzan, this is Gideon. He’s new to Brown Oaks.”
“One step ahead of you, darling,” Suzan drawls. “We’ve already met. Haven’t we, Gideon?”
He looks up at her, his expression unreadable. “Was it at the grocery store?”
For the first time, her expression falters. “We met at the library.”
“We did?” He palms the back of his neck. “Apologies, the only person I remember meeting at the library is Kate.”
I sip my coffee, fighting a smile, my body warming at his words. Oh, yes, he’s more than capable of dealing with the likes of her.
“Well, I better be off,” Suzan announces irritably. “I’m as busy as Kate says she is, although for the life of me I can’t remember what it is you do for a living.”
“My mom’s a food stylist,” Lisset pipes up.
“How interesting,” she drawls in a decidedly uninterested tone. Then she smirks in a manner I don’t like. “I hear food stylists use a glue gun for everything.”
“Not everything,” I say. Although, as I stare at her pursed red lips, a satisfying and fitting use for my glue gun springs to mind.
Suzan arches an eyebrow. “What exactly does a food stylist do again?”
I look directly at her. “I take boring, average, everyday food and make it look amazing.”
Kind of like what your hairdresser does with your hair , are the words hovering on my tongue. I want to utter them, to take off the gloves and step into the arena with her, but then I’ll be as cruel and cutting as she is. And that’s not how I want my daughter to view me.
Lisset looks up at Suzan in wide-eyed innocence. “Do you need Mom’s help to make your food look amazing?”
Gideon’s bark of laughter turns heads at the other tables.
Seeming to realize she’s outnumbered, Suzan mutters something and flounces off.
Gideon leans back in his chair, lacing his hands across his stomach. “So, a food stylist.”
“Yes.” I brace myself for his follow-up comment. He’ll either assume I’m a chef (false) or I’m the reason food never looks as good in reality as it does in the picture (true).
After a thoughtful pause, he says softly, “You’re an artist and food is your medium.”
I’m struck speechless. Food styling is a job where art and food collide, and not many people get that. Gideon, however, seems to understand a lot about me. More than what feels comfortable. In contrast, I’m struggling to figure him out. At work, I’m surrounded by a mix of artsy and corporate types, and Gideon is... I’m still not sure what type he is. He doesn’t appear to fit any mold.
There is something about him, though, that flusters me. And I’m not a woman easily flustered. I wonder briefly if it’s his looks. But I’m used to being around attractive men—Joel and Aaron are two who immediately come to mind—and they don’t affect me like this.
Lisset tugs on my arm. “Mom, can we go? I want to see Grandma.”
“Sure.” I stand. “Thank you for sharing your table with us.”
“Anytime.” One word, but it feels as though he’s attached so much significance to it.
“See you Saturday,” he adds.
“Yes, Saturday,” I echo. Dinner with my sister and Aaron and Gideon. It’s not that I forgot. It’s just that I pushed it so far to the back of my mind I hoped it would magically go away.
“Bye, Uno!” Lisset calls out, already heading toward the door. “Bye, Gideon!”
“Bye, Lissy.”
They’re so casual and at ease with one another. I don’t know how to feel about that.
As I exit the coffee shop, I catch Gideon’s reflection in the glass window. He’s staring at me, a soft smile on his lips and a look on his face so heated it soaks into my skin, settling in all the cold places. He doesn’t seem embarrassed to be caught staring, and I’m the first to look away, confused and unsettled, my heart pounding.