CHAPTER TWELVE
After dropping Lisset off at school on Friday, I’m browsing the Farmer’s Market on Main Street, looking for fresh produce to accent the dishes we’re featuring for a client shoot today, when my phone starts to ring, loud and demanding. My gut says this is a call from Tess. Sure enough, there’s my sister’s name lighting up the screen. I’m like one of those farmers who can predict an approaching storm.
“I can’t talk for long,” I say the moment I answer. “My phone’s about to die.”
There’s a brief pause before Tess scoffs, “Nice try. You forget you told me your trick.”
I curse under my breath. Not my wisest move, telling my sister my hack for how to get off the phone quickly.
“I’m phoning to confirm dinner Saturday night at our place.”
I start coughing. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Fortunately, you’re a better food stylist than an actor.”
I give up on the coughing. “What’s the point of this dinner?”
“I want to spend time with my sister and my niece over a delicious meal,” she says.
“Then why is Gideon invited?”
Tess is silent.
“Stop trying to set me up.”
“He seems nice.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Give him a chance.”
“Stop.” I need an offramp to this insane conversation.
“Kate, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think it’s time you moved on,” Tess tells me, recalibrating to her default personality of Nurturing and Bossy. “Why not start with Gideon?”
I move to a quiet spot in the market. “I fell in love with a man who hurt me,” I say in a low voice. “I won’t make that same mistake again.”
“How do you know Gideon will be a repeat of what you had with Oliver?”
“How do you know he won’t?”
“I don’t,” she replies, “but why not take a chance and find out?”
Because, my happily married sister, I became so small in my marriage. I became small so I’d be less of a target. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you feel threatened. Head down, chin tucked in, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. Make yourself smaller and smaller. Until one day you realize you’ve made yourself so small you’ve nearly disappeared.
I never want to be small again.
And I don’t know how to explain that to my sister whose husband makes her feel like his universe.
“You can talk to me, you know,” Tess says, a thin thread of what sounds like pleading in her voice. “Why do you believe you have to carry hard things alone?”
Because even an injured animal will hide when it’s hurt. A twinge of guilt plucks at me, but I ignore it and allow annoyance to leak into my voice. “Enough, Tess. I don’t want to talk anymore about him.”
She’s quiet. She knows exactly which him I’m referring to.
“Remember that horror movie, Candyman, we watched when we were teenagers?” Tess asks.
“I remember,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this. Mom had expressly forbidden us from watching that horror- slasher film, which meant, of course, we were absolutely going to watch it behind her back.
“If you said Candyman’s name five times while facing a mirror, you summoned him,” she says. “Remember?”
“I do.”
I remember the two of us being so terrified after watching the movie that we covered up every single mirror in the house, making it ridiculously easy for Mom to realize we’d disobeyed her. Tess and I were grounded for a week.
“What’s your point?” I ask Tess now.
“You never mention Oliver’s name,” she stresses in a soft voice. “It feels a bit like he’s the Candyman to you.”
There’s an uncomfortable truth to her words. If I say my ex-husband’s name, it feels as though I’m giving him power and weight in my life, and I won’t grant him that again. Although I’m not generally a suspicious person, I nevertheless try to avoid saying his name out loud.
“I have to go,” I say to Tess.
“Look,” she says hastily, “even if no great, ah, love affair occurs between you and Gideon, maybe he can still be a friend.”
“Maybe,” I say to appease her, but a friendship with Gideon feels impossible. How can I be friends with a man who makes my pulse race and my heart pound every time I run into him?
It’s after five when I pull into my driveway. Lisset is sleeping over at a friend’s house, so there’s no rush to get dinner started. I’m about to head inside when I spot Gideon relaxing on the large, upholstered bench he’s bought for his front porch.
There’s something so inviting about him sitting there in the winter chill, surrounded by the sounds of children playing nearby and the occasional rumble of passing cars. The sounds of people living their lives, while he sits with his thoughts in the growing darkness.
He sees me looking at him and raises a casual hand in greeting.
All of a sudden, I have no desire to enter my too-empty house and be surrounded by a silence filled with whispers only I can hear.
Before I lose my nerve or second-guess myself, I cross the street to Gideon’s front porch.
A slow, pleased smile splits his face as I climb his porch steps. He’s in jeans and a thick navy sweater. A beer is cradled loosely in his hands and his legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles.
Beards and tattoos and big men aren’t my thing. My ex-husband was lean, clean-shaven, and fancied himself an intellectual. But standing here on Gideon’s porch with butterflies in my stomach and my blood fizzing in my veins, I’m hit again with the realization that I have a thing for Gideon and his close-cropped beard, mysterious tattoo, and powerful body.
“Can I get you a beer or a glass of wine?” he asks, as if my presence here is no big deal, simply a habit we’ve casually fallen into.
“Wine, please.”
“White or red?”
“White is good.”
He pushes himself to his feet and disappears into the house.
I sit on the far end of the padded bench, resting my back against a thick cushion. Gideon has only been in his house for two weeks, but he’s made an effort with this space. New lighting fixtures, potted plants in pretty planters, round side tables, and a cozy bench with patterned throw pillows.
Uno is stretched out on a stylish daybed, looking comfortable and thoroughly spoilt.
“Seriously?” I say to the greyhound. “You have your own outdoor bed?”
At the sound of my voice, he lifts his head and his tail gives three lazy thumps. After acknowledging my presence, he drops his head back down again and closes his eyes.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “It must be exhausting maintaining your princely status.”
He doesn’t stir and I pull myself up short. What is happening here? Am I really talking to a dog?
Gideon returns with a glass of white wine. His fingers brush mine as he hands it to me and goosebumps dance over my skin. The hint of spice in his aftershave unfolds memories of childhood Christmas get-togethers, of log fires, frothy hot chocolates, and raucous laughter.
“How was your day?” Gideon asks, settling on the bench and facing me.
“I had a tortilla chip shoot this afternoon,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “It was a success, but I had to make so much guacamole I never want to see another avocado again.”
He gives a half-grimace, half-smile. “I love guacamole. Don’t ruin it for me.”
Oh, there’s no way I’m passing up this opportunity. “So I shouldn’t tell you that no one could eat the guac because of all the lime juice we had to put in it to stop the avocado from becoming brown.”
“You couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Nope,” I reply unapologetically.
“What other food will you try to ruin for me?”
“Be careful,” I warn him. “I have quite the list.”
His eyes gleam with the challenge. “What about raspberries?” he throws out. “I should mention that raspberry smoothies are my go-to breakfast.”
I don’t even have to think about it. “I once had to pluck the hairs off an entire bowl of raspberries. It was my most boring food shoot to date.”
He laughs. “You win. I guess it’s blueberry smoothies from here on out.”
I swallow back the laugh in my chest. This feels easy and comfortable. Dangerously so.
I take another sip of my wine. “This is delicious,” I say, the wine in all its complex flavors sitting smoothly on my tongue.
He holds up his beer. “Here’s to the weekend.”
I tap my glass to his bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, enjoying our drinks.
“What about your day?” I ask him.
He gives a relaxed shrug. “Just a day of answering emails and getting on top of admin.”
An interestingly vague answer. But suspicion is not the mood I want to sit in tonight. I sip my wine and instruct my wary mind to take a breather for a short while.
“Where’s Lisset?” Gideon asks.
“At a sleepover.”
“An evening all to yourself. Anything planned?”
I give a rueful laugh. “I’ll probably be asleep before ten. The life of a single mom.”
The statement slips out of me and I can’t take it back. His eyes are brimming with questions and I stiffen, fully expecting him to pursue the opening I inadvertently and stupidly gave him.
Instead, he asks, “I’m curious, what’s been your toughest food shoot?”
My shoulders relax a fraction. I’m relieved not to have the evening spoiled. “Are you interested in my work, Gideon Walker?”
“I’m interested in everything about you, Kate.”
Our eyes hold for a heartbeat. A new kind of tension spreads through me. This man. Forever flicking a lazy finger at the boundaries I keep having to prop up.
“Toughest shoot?” he prods.
Right. Toughest shoot. “I worked on a refrigerated set once for an ice cream commercial,” I say. “It took us hours to shoot and I’ll never forget how frozen I was.” Even talking about it sends a shiver through me.
“Cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I imagine talking about an ice cream shoot doesn’t help,” he comments with a smile, like he’s reading my mind. He reaches into a large wicker basket on his side of the bench and pulls out a soft gray throw blanket, handing it to me. “Here you go.”
Although I’m wearing a jacket, I take the blanket gratefully from him, wrapping it over my legs. I’m instantly warmed. The winters in Brown Oaks are mild, but there’s still a chill in the air. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
The wine has mellowed me and I’m feeling uncharacteristically playful. “You don’t seem the type to keep blankets on your porch.”
He looks amused. “I don’t?”
“It feels like a feminine touch.”
“It’s winter. It’s a practical touch.”
“An outdoor heater feels more your style.”
“I haven’t got around to buying one yet.” He puts his beer to his lips, his smile lingering. “Is this a subtle way of asking me if I’m seeing anyone?”
I sense my cheeks reddening. “No! Not at all. I mean, obviously you can see whoever you like. It has nothing to do with me. And I’m not curious about whether or not you’re seeing someone.”
Well, maybe I am, just a little .
Gideon watches me while my mouth takes on a mind of its own and rambles away, finally coming to an embarrassing stop. I lower my eyes and stare at my knees. This is not me. This feels like a moment Tess would totally own.
“Kate,” he says softly.
He says nothing else, simply waits in silence until I finally raise my eyes to meet his. He pins me with his gaze.
“I’m not seeing anyone.” His voice is both deeper and rougher than normal.
There’s a sudden thickening in the air. I have to take a moment to remember how to breathe.
As the night closes in on us and the porch lights switch on, he says amiably, “I assume you have a reason for coming over.”
I’m thankful for the change of subject, but also a little surprised. How does Gideon know when to nudge and when to retreat with me? It’s as though we’re dancing to a tune only he can hear and I’m the oblivious amateur clumsily following his lead.
“Maybe I’m here because I’ve run out of wine at home.”
A quiet chuckle rolls out of his chest. “If you were that desperate, you would have driven to the grocery store.”
“True.”
I tuck a leg underneath me and take a small, careful sip of my wine, knowing how easily I can shift from buzzed to tipsy to my filter crumbling, and who knows what truths will spill out of me then. I receive the impression Gideon is equally careful. He’s nursing that beer like I’m nursing my wine. Both of us so careful with how much we consume. Both of us guarding our secrets.
So much for temporarily putting to rest my mistrustful mind.
I pick at a loose thread on the blanket. “I came over because I’d like to know more about the Reading Dog Program you’re involved in.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to understand it better,” I answer, trying to tread delicately. “Do you see much success with it? I like dealing with facts and if I have more information about your sessions maybe I’ll have a better grasp of how the program works.”
After a weighted pause, he says, “You’re worried about Lisset and how she’ll do in the program.”
I decide to be honest. “Yes.”
He drags a hand down his beard. He’s silent for a moment, as though he’s debating how to answer, and then he starts talking.
“Some of the children who read with Uno struggle with low self-esteem or they’re shy and quiet. Some of them have learning disabilities or they’re older students who are learning English as a second language. And then there are the children who have other issues and we don’t always know the cause of them.”
Lisset . A knot starts to form in my throat. I take a quick swallow of my wine to stop it from choking me.
“But whatever their background or struggles,” Gideon continues, “they all need someone who believes in them and Uno gives them that. He doesn’t judge, he doesn’t laugh at them or criticize them. He simply accepts them for who they are.”
I lean back against the thick cushions and let Gideon’s voice pour over me like smooth, rich maple syrup.
“Yesterday, a little boy said he wasn’t afraid to make mistakes anymore,” he says. “I have two boxes full of handmade cards from kids thanking Uno for helping them.”
He tells me how he’s trained the greyhound with subtle hand signals. If a child gets a word wrong, for example, he gives a signal and Uno knows to cock his head to one side to appear confused. He then asks the child to please repeat or explain the word so Uno can understand.
And I get it. The children aren’t under the impression the adults are correcting them. Instead, they’re helping the dog to understand. The child moves from passive reader to active teacher. It’s simple, but ingenious.
I thought a slick presentation with statistics and facts would alleviate my worries, but Gideon has won me over with personal testimonies.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you feel better about Lisset being part of the program?”
“A little better.”
He leans forward to set his beer down, only I’m not prepared, and the sudden movement startles me. Muscle memory, or some other kind of memory kicks in, and I flinch.
Gideon notices. Of course, he notices. The man appears unfathomably skilled at decoding nuances in nearly everything I do and say.
Our eyes meet. Several silent, tense seconds tick by while something unspoken passes between us.
“Hey,” he says gently.
I close my eyes. In that one flinch, I’ve revealed far too much.
“Kate.”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“Please.”
He sighs.
And I hear everything I’m begging him not to say in that soft, resigned sigh.
The apprehension brewing in my chest begins to build. Getting to my feet, I swallow before speaking. “Thank you for the wine and for the company. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I flee his porch and head home.
All this time, I thought I was done running. I was deeply mistaken.