Chapter 12
“He’s staring at you again,” Sylvie said, not bothering to lower her voice.
“He’s not.” Maris didn’t look. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to look, and she’d already broken the promise four times, which felt like enough for one night.
“He is. He’s standing there in the corner as if no one is going to notice someone that size holding a beer he hasn’t touched and staring at you.
” Sylvie leaned across the little table, mahogany-and-green hair swinging, and grinned.
“I’ve never seen anyone brood that hard.
It’s actually kind of impressive. Like a professional athlete but for feelings he won’t admit to. ”
“Leave her alone,” Sara said, which would have been kinder if she hadn’t been biting her lip to keep from laughing. “She’s having a nice night.”
“She’s having a great night,” Robin corrected.
She had one leg tucked up under her on the chair, her charcoal-smudged fingers wrapped around a glass of cider.
She looked at Maris with warm amber eyes and a knowing smile.
“And she’s going to have an even better one if a certain someone ever remembers he has legs and can walk across a room. ”
And that was the problem, she thought. Not the teasing—the teasing she could handle.
If she was honest, the teasing was wonderful.
Not only Sylvie, but the two other women acted as though she’d always sat at this table.
The problem was that they weren’t wrong.
She was aware of him the way she’d have been aware of a fire in a cold room.
Her body kept angling towards the corner without her permission, seeking that warmth.
And she’d worn the dress. She’d closed the shop and taken a long bath and scrubbed her fingernails until they were spotless.
Then she’d stood in front of her closet going through every single option until she’d finally pulled out the green dress.
She’d put it on and done her makeup, and she’d told herself the entire time that it was for herself.
Because it had been years since she dressed up.
Because a woman ought to put on a dress now and then and remember she was a woman and not just a pair of hands with dirt under the nails.
She had not admitted, even to herself, that some traitorous part of her had done it in case he came.
He’s not even here for you, she reminded herself. He came to hear Ben. Everyone did.
“So,” Sylvie said, propping her chin on her hand. “The garden. All those long afternoons in the shrubbery with Fairhaven’s most eligible gargoyle. You going to tell us anything, or do we have to guess?”
“There’s nothing to tell. We’re restoring the grounds. It’s a job.”
“Uh-huh.” Sylvie sipped her drink. “And does the job involve a lot of—what did you call it, Robin? A lot of him watching her work?”
“He watches me because he wants to make sure I don’t structurally compromise a wall,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage, which was not a great deal.
“Oh, I bet he’s real concerned about your structure.”
Robin choked on her cider. Sara turned bright red. She felt her own face go hot and reached for her drink to have something to do with her hands. That was, of course, the exact moment a small green hand landed on her shoulder.
“Girls.” Flora had appeared out of the crowd the way she always appeared—from nowhere, looking pleased with herself.
Tonight she was in a hot-pink tracksuit with a fist throwing the horns across the front in silver rhinestones.
She squeezed Maris’s shoulder and beamed around the table.
“Now this is a lovely sight. Four of my favorite ladies out on the town.” Her gaze returned to Maris and her eyes sparkled.
“And this one in a dress. I nearly didn’t recognize you without the wheelbarrow, dear. ”
“Flora.”
“Green suits you. Very fitting.” The old woman patted her cheek. “Ferns and roses. You’ve got a whole garden going on over there, from what I hear.”
She opened her mouth to ask exactly what she’d heard and from whom, and then shut it again, because she suspected the answer would make things worse.
“If you want my advice—” Flora went on.
“I really don’t—”
“—a male that size doesn’t sit in a corner all night nursing one warm beer for the music, dear.
” Flora leaned in, and dropped her voice to something that was still audible to at least three neighboring tables.
“He’s got the patience of stone, that one.
Which means when he finally decides to move, he doesn’t tire out.
” She winked, an enormous, unsubtle wink, straightened up, and sailed off into the crowd towards the bar before Maris could die of embarrassment.
There was a beat of silence at the table.
“Did she mean…” Sara asked, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” Robin and Sylvie said simultaneously, and Sara started to laugh.
“Did you see what was written on her sweatshirt?” Sylvie added. “Rock Hard? I don’t think she was talking about music.”
Maris buried her face in her hands as the other three women exploded with laughter, and told herself that it had nothing to do with her. She also told herself, firmly, that she was going to enjoy the rest of the night like a normal adult woman and not spend it monitoring a corner.
She lasted about ten minutes.
When she finally let herself glance over—casually, she thought, very casually—the corner was empty. The untouched beer stood alone on the little shelf against the wall. He’d gone.
Her stomach dropped, sudden and stupid and out of all proportion, and she was furious at it. I didn’t want him to come, she told herself. I didn’t. And now he’s gone, and that is exactly, precisely fine, and I’m going to finish my drink.
“He left,” Sylvie observed, following her look.
“Did he?” she said. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Nobody at the table believed her, and to their credit, nobody said so.
Robin just gave her a small, sympathetic smile and refilled her cider.
Sara started a story about a five-year-old who’d tried to smuggle a live frog into circle time, and she laughed along and told herself she wasn’t disappointed. She got about halfway to believing it.
Then a big, wall-sized shadow fell across the table and she looked up, and her heart skipped a beat.
Garrick stood there. He’d ducked back in from the porch and she could feel the coolness of the river coming off him.
He looked, for a male built out of granite, distinctly uncertain.
She had never seen him look like that before, not in the garden, not in the greenhouse, not anywhere.
He was holding two drinks, and he set one down in front of her.
Cider. Her cider. He’d noticed what she was drinking from a corner, across a crowded room, and gone and gotten it right.
“You looked lovely,” he said.
Which wasn’t a full sentence, and wasn’t smooth, and came out about three degrees too formal, and her stomach flipped anyway.
“Looked?” Sylvie said. “Past tense? Buddy, she still does. Your eyes work fine.”
“Sylvie,” Robin murmured.
“This is girls’ night,” Sylvie went on, with the air of a woman lodging a formal complaint she has no intention of winning. “There are rules. It’s a whole thing. No boys. It’s practically written on the door.”
“Is it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, and Sylvie sighed.
“It’s implied on the door. No boys.”
Which was the exact moment Eric appeared. He dropped into the empty chair beside Robin, kissed the top of his mate’s head, and stole a chip off her plate all in one easy motion.
“Evening, ladies,” he said.
Sylvie threw up her hands. “Oh, great. Sure. Everybody bring a male. Girls’ night’s over. Might as well hand out cigars.”
“You said I could come get you at eleven,” Eric said mildly to Robin.
“It’s eleven. My mother has Birdie, and she’s in no hurry to give her back.
” He glanced up at Garrick, still standing there with his beer.
Something passed between the two males, and then Eric grinned at him.
“Sit down, Garrick. You’re blocking the stage. ”
Garrick sat. Beside her. The chair creaked under him and the whole table shifted a little with his weight.
His shoulder was suddenly very close to hers, warm and solid, and she was aware of it the way she’d been aware of the corner all night.
Except now the fire was six inches away instead of across the room, and it still wasn’t close enough.
Ben came back to the stage before she had to figure it out.
He settled onto the stool, worked his ears back, and said something dry into the microphone that made the whole room laugh.
Then he started to play, his voice low and rough and good, the kind of voice that made a crowded loud room go quiet in pieces.
Sara went soft-eyed watching her husband.
Robin leaned into Eric. Sylvie stopped heckling and just listened.
She sat in the crowded, cheerful bar with a cider she hadn’t asked for and a wall of quiet gargoyle at her side, his knee not-quite touching hers under the table.
And for the length of one song and then another, she simply let herself be happy.
It was such a small thing, but it felt enormous.
She hadn’t sat in a room full of music and friends and a male whose shoulder she wanted to lean into since before Toby, and the urge to lean against him was so strong it frightened her.
She didn’t lean.
But somewhere in the last song, his hand came to rest on the back of her chair. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel his hand against the bare skin of her shoulder, cool but slowly warming, and so light she could have told herself she imagined it.
She didn’t tell herself that.