Chapter Eleven
When he got downstairs, Gideon realized he shouldn’t have been surprised by her gym equipment. Top-of-the-line weight bench, elliptical, the rack of dumbbells, the kettlebells, medicine balls.
Tall, slim, long-limbed, but he’d noted those long arms had tone.
The space needed sections, and a fireplace. And a big-ass flat-screen. The bathroom, unlike the rest of the house? Stuck at builder grade.
But she had plenty of light, and a nice lead out to a patio.
He could see her there with the dog. Throwing the ball with those long, toned arms. And the dog racing after it, rounding back to drop it at her feet.
He watched while she pointed, and the dog ran out. She winged it—good arm—high and long. The big Lab followed the ball—an outfielder ready to make the out.
He leaped, snagged it in midair. And the side retires, he thought as Arden applauded.
She—or someone—had trained the dog well. He figured she had. He recognized a bond when he saw one.
He had a soft spot for a good dog. The demands of the job and the small house, smaller yard, in LA hadn’t allowed for one.
She’d switched to a Frisbee as he started back up to the third floor.
Upstairs, he took care of an empty room, door, closet, the hall bath. Then came to her office and wondered how anyone got work done facing that view. Another good space, but the stark white of the built-in cabinets jarred with her setup.
He’d have gone dark and moody, but it wasn’t his house.
Her desk didn’t offer much of a clue as to what she worked on, and he admitted to curiosity on that.
A good desk, good high-backed swivel chair, the computer, a big chunk of some sort of stone with waves of blues and greens, a touch of purple.
A spiral notebook—closed—a file folder, also closed. A blank notepad, a green pottery cup holding pens and pencils.
Between his mother and father, he’d grown up in houses with staff. Cooks, housekeepers, groundskeepers.
As far as he’d seen, they had nothing on Arden Bowie as far as keeping a home clean, tidy, and organized.
He did another bedroom—still in progress by the lack of a dresser, the painting leaning against the wall.
When he walked into the primary bedroom, he nodded.
Yes, her space. The interesting bed—simple but not staid. The obligatory heaps of pillows.
He could hear his grandfather.
Jesus, Colleen, what’s the point of all these damn fussy pillows?
They’re soft and pretty, Joe. A bedroom needs the soft and pretty.
You’re soft and pretty enough for me!
Nearly two years now, Gideon thought, she’d been gone nearly two years. And every night, his grandfather took all those pillows off the bed. And every morning, he put them back on again, just as she had.
That was love. Deep, enduring, real.
He got that odd sensation when he saw his lamps. He didn’t make things to sell things. He made them because he could, because he liked working with wood. He liked the process, the feel, the challenge.
But he couldn’t deny they really worked with the bed, the nightstands.
He figured the dresser belonged in the in-progress guest room, but that was her choice.
The tall, gooseneck lamp in the corner added, he supposed, a touch of Bohemian. And it worked.
Needed a chair. Two would be better, with the lamp between and just behind.
Though he’d seen the outerwear in the coat closet downstairs, the walk-in surprised him. He’d expected big. He hadn’t expected her clothes to not fill even a quarter of it.
He’d never known a woman unable to fill a closet, regardless of size.
He’d investigated a murder where the victim’s wife had a closet nearly as big dedicated to shoes and bags alone.
Give her time, he decided.
When he finished the last knob, he went down, loaded up his tools, loaded up the boxes of old knobs, then went back in to tell her he was finished.
Finally.
He found her in the kitchen, at the island, doing something on a tablet while the dog lay comatose at her feet.
She rose.
“I got your keys, front, side, and back, and the tool to unlock the interiors. You know how those work?”
“Sure. The little thing you stick in the tiny hole and wiggle.”
“Yeah, close enough.” He set them on the counter. “You missed some knobs.”
“I … Damn it, I counted three times.”
“Linen closet pulls, lower bath, built-in pulls, your office. If you want consistency, and it feels like you do.”
“Oh. Whew! I’m leaving the downstairs until I decide how I want to finish it, and I want to have the office built-ins painted. That white’s just too bright. I’ll figure out the knobs when I figure out the paint.
“Do you know somebody for painting, who knows what they’re doing, and won’t take weeks to do that job?”
“Not me.”
She smiled at him; he watched her lips curve.
“Understood.”
“Yeah, actually. My grandfather will send you the contact.”
“Great. That’s next on my list. I’ve been ignoring that blinding white, but it’s all kinds of wrong. Right for a playroom, but wrong for my space.
“I really appreciate all this. I know it took a big chunk out of your day.”
She reached in her pocket, pulled out folded bills.
He said, “No.”
She looked a little pained, a little uneasy. Then her eyes—a deep true blue—held steady on his.
“I have Oreos.”
“What kind?”
“Double Stuf.”
“I’ll take them.”
“They’re fresh,” she said as she walked around the island to open the fridge. “I’ve only had two.” She handed him the package. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
She walked him out, and he heard the lock snap when she closed the door behind him.
He thought he had a good handle on her now, though no doubt, more lurked under the surface.
Take the photos—a number of framed photos throughout the house. Most with the same group, or individuals from that group. Some with other women. A few of a couple—tall man with reddish hair, a pretty blond woman with those deep blue eyes.
He’d pegged them as her parents even before he’d seen another of them with the gangly redheaded teenager Arden had been.
But not a single photo of her with a man who wasn’t part of that group. Which told him no serious relationship at this time.
Which didn’t matter. She wasn’t his type.
He liked her house, he liked her dog, and he supposed on such short acquaintance he liked her well enough.
He checked the time, saw that his grandfather would close up shop within a half hour. No point in driving back, so he’d head home, put something together for dinner.
Since they were right there, he pulled out a cookie while he considered. Whatever he tossed together wouldn’t include radicchio and sprouts.
Maybe fry up some potatoes, toss some burgers on the grill. And because the spirit of Colleen Cullen Riley would haunt them both otherwise, he’d add some sort of vegetable.
He and his grandfather tended to trade off cooking detail, or they’d grab something in town, maybe bring home takeout. They shared cleaning and laundry duties, but that didn’t amount to much, as they had Janey come in every other week to do the serious stuff.
Though he’d initially come to Riverbend because Pop had needed him, and his career in LA was over, he’d found contentment.
He missed the work, no question, but he didn’t miss LA. Not anymore.
He turned toward home and the little farmhouse where he’d often spent a week or two, sometimes longer in the summer, as a boy. He’d liked feeding the chickens—still did—and didn’t mind working the vegetable garden.
As far as actual farming, that had been all of it.
His great-grandfather had had the working farm, but had sold most of the land long before Gideon was born.
Now vineyards, other houses, a horse farm surrounded the house and the two acres remaining. And that suited them all.
Joe Riley hadn’t wanted to farm. He’d liked building things, working with wood, and had converted the barn that remained into a workshop, again before Gideon was born.
But Joe, a born shop owner, craved his own. He liked people, liked helping them figure out or find what they wanted. He needed the interactions, the conversations, not the solitude.
Gideon pulled up to the house on the gentle hill with its working blue shutters against walls of butter yellow.
A little sunshine, his grandmother had claimed, through rainy winters.
He skirted the house to deal with the chickens first, found himself, as always, amused by the chicken palace he and his grandfather had built for the six spoiled hens.
On the ground level, they squawked in greeting when they saw him. A ramp led them up to the actual house—with a window and a tin roof.
When he’d seen to them, he walked by the—much smaller now—vegetable garden, up the couple of steps to the deck he’d helped build the summer before college, then in the back to the kitchen.
And poured himself a glass of local red.
His grandmother had pushed to have the kitchen updated about five years before. It looked like her, Gideon thought now. Warm with her favored yellow walls, the cherry cabinets Janey kept gleaming, the big farm sink and sturdy old kitchen table she wouldn’t part with.
So neither would Pop.
No stainless steel appliances for Gram. She’d wanted that retro blue, and got them.
He scrubbed and prepped the potatoes, then got out his gram’s old cast-iron skillet before stepping out to start the grill.
He made the patties—she’d taught him how, just as Pop had taught him how to work with wood.
He didn’t start cooking until he heard his grandfather’s truck. Joe would never turn a customer away, even if they lingered past closing. Or if they knocked after he put up the Closed sign.
Joe came in with Elvis, who immediately walked over to sniff at his empty food bowl.
“Good thing I didn’t bring home a pizza.”
“That sounds like tomorrow’s dinner to me.”
“You got it. All right, Elvis, I got you covered. How’d it go at Arden’s place?”
“All in. I’ve got her old knobs in the truck. She said to pass them along to whoever needed any.”