Ciara had listened with horror. Of course he’d never been the same! If Mark was killed, what would she have to live for? And his wife and child both? For the first time, she fully understood the desperate reluctance she’d seen on his face when Mark had been so insistent on being friendly. It was a miracle that Gabe had let down his guard as much as he had.
“That poor man,” she murmured.
The next second, she also understood the odd flash of resignation she’d seen in his gray eyes when he saw Audrey getting out of her car. He must have guessed she’d fill Ciara in on his history, if she hadn’t already. Ciara wondered how a man as private as he seemed to be endured the pity he must see on people’s faces every time they saw him. And the knowledge that, in a community this small, everyone knew his tragic story and probably whispered about it when he appeared in the grocery store or post office. In his place, she’d have been tempted to move away.
She winced at what she’d just said. That poor man.
She would have to be very careful not to look at him any differently when he and Mark came in.
“Did you grow up around here?” she asked. “Have you known Gabe long?”
“Not that long. No, I’m actually from Moses Lake. I met my husband when we were both at WSU. He went to Gonzaga for law school, so we stayed in the area.”
Ciara nodded. Gonzaga was in Spokane.
“He grew up in a small town and wanted his own practice. Of course he has to be in Colville a lot, since that’s where the courthouse is, but, with an office here, he attracts clients from this part of the county. Goodwater is a great place to raise our kids.”
Ciara already knew that Audrey had three, ranging from a two-year-old to a third grader. The two-year-old was currently at a playgroup, Audrey had told her.
“Are you waiting until fall to start Mark in school here?” she asked, her curiosity inevitable. “Our school is small, but we’ve been really happy so far. Small is good when it comes to class size.”
“I’ll bet.” Ciara smiled. “I’m homeschooling to finish this year. Then we’ll see.”
“Well, check it out—” She broke off. “Your intrepid workmen are coming in out of the cold.”
Ciara, too, had heard the front door opening. Mark burst precipitately into the kitchen. “Mom, come see! We finished the steps already.”
“Aren’t you freezing out there?” Audrey asked in her good-natured way.
“Nuh-uh.” He barely spared her a glance. “Mom, you got to come look.”
Taking her cue, Audrey said it was time she should be getting home, and walked out with Ciara. They were immediately breathing in the pungent scent of freshly cut lumber.
They had to step around Daisy, who wagged her tail in apology but made no attempt to heave herself to her feet. Watson greeted them with his usual enthusiasm, which had Audrey laughing. Ciara’s gaze was drawn straight to Gabe, who was crouched on the porch, apparently stabbing a screwdriver into a board. She couldn’t help noticing his powerful thigh muscles with the denim stretched taut.
He rose lithely, his unreadable gaze flicking from Audrey to Ciara. “We’re going to need to replace the porch boards, too.”
She made a face. “Figures.”
She said her goodbyes to Audrey. Gabe dipped his head and said her name. Both stood watching as Audrey descended the next steps and went to her car, accompanied by Watson. It was Gabe who whistled sharply when Watson started to give chase to the car.
“Thank God the road isn’t busy,” Ciara exclaimed, having a sudden vision of what Watson’s new hobby would have been.
“If it was, you might have to keep him tied up,” Gabe said. His tone was very restrained.
So restrained that she said cautiously, “Has he been after the horses again?”
“Yeah. They didn’t seem all that disturbed, though.”
“He wouldn’t hurt them!” Mark insisted.
Gabe didn’t say anything.
“You’ll let me know...?” Ciara said.
“I will.” He sounded rueful.
Her son reclaimed her attention, and Ciara duly admired the raw porch steps. “Did you do some of the cutting?” she asked Mark.
“I did all of it.” He stole a glance at Gabe. “Well, almost all of it.”
One of Gabe’s faint smiles warmed his eyes. “He did.”
“I hope you’re being careful.”
Not listening, Mark leaped down the steps with his usual impetuosity, calling over his shoulder. “Can we keep working?”
Gabe’s hesitation was brief but telling. “I don’t see why we can’t finish the job today,” he said. “Your mom can decide whether she wants to stain the boards or paint them, but we’ll need a little warmer weather for that.”
For him, it was a long speech.
“Um...what’s better?”
Apparently, there were pluses and minuses to each. She admitted to liking the look of paint, and he said it preserved the wood better than a semitransparent stain, although the wood didn’t “breathe” as well through it.
Who knew wood breathed?
She told him she was planning to have the house painted once the weather warmed up a little, too. “I haven’t decided what color yet. But definitely not white.”
He gazed contemplatively across the pasture toward his own house. “You don’t like white, huh?”
“I work with color.” She was a little chagrined at having sounded as if she was denouncing his taste. “I won’t go too gaudy, I promise.”
He was definitely smiling. With that blasted beard, it wasn’t always possible to be sure, but this time she was. “I’ll consult you the next time I paint.”
Would they stay friendly? She felt a funny little pang she didn’t quite understand at the idea of the years passing with him occasionally having dinner with her and Mark. Would she want to stay here, once Mark had gone off to college?
“How often do you have to paint a house?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose. “Haven’t you had it done before?”
Having lost patience in the adults, Mark and Watson were wrestling and chasing each other on the rather ragged-looking lawn. Gabe had propped a shoulder against the square porch upright and seemed to be watching boy and dog. She kept her gaze on them, too, although she was awfully conscious of him beside her.
“Actually, I haven’t,” she said. “Well, my parents did when I was growing up, but I didn’t pay attention. My husband and I—” She stopped, shrugged and resumed. “We’d only owned a home three or four years when we got divorced. I’ve rented since then.”
“The divorce recent?” he asked.
Did he care, or had he felt civility demanded he ask?
“No, it’s been almost seven years.”
Lines seemed to have formed on Gabe’s forehead. “Where’s Mark’s dad live?”
She could guess what he was thinking. She had provisionally become the evil witch, keeping a boy from his father.
“He’s in Seattle. The thing is—” She crossed her arms tightly, not looking at him. “He never had time for Mark anyway. I thought it might be less hurtful for Mark if he can’t see Jeff, instead of knowing his father just can’t be bothered.”
“His loss,” Gabe said after a minute.
The sting of tears took Ciara by surprise. “Yes,” she whispered.
Laughing and backing away from Watson, Mark crashed into one of the sawhorses set up on the grass. It tipped over, him on top of it. In a ripple effect, the second sawhorse fell over, too.
Gabe didn’t so much as twitch.
Mark scrambled up, his face suddenly stricken. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’ll put them back up. I didn’t break anything, did I?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” With a barely heard sigh, Gabe straightened away from the porch support. “You need to be careful on a work site, though. You could get hurt if you don’t pay attention.”
“And you’re letting him use a saw,” Ciara mumbled.
&nb
sp; With a low, rough chuckle, Gabe said, “Don’t worry, I’m hanging right over him. Got to say, though, he’s good with tools so far.”
“Who’d have thunk?”
His second laugh sounded as rusty as the first, making her wonder if they came rarely.
“I’ll make lunch,” she said.
Mark put the sawhorses back more or less in the same position they’d been and picked up a hammer and pair of leather gloves that had fallen, too.
“Why don’t you give us another half hour or so?” Gabe suggested. “We can get most of these floor boards pulled.”
“Deal.” She looked fully at him. “Have I said thank you?”
“As often as you’re feeding me, it’s the least I can do.”
“You mean my bribes are working?” she teased.
His gray eyes met hers. “Is that what all those desserts are?”
“Maybe.” Why was she embarrassed? “No,” she said hastily. “They’re more another way of saying thanks. I doubt you really wanted to take Mark on as a project.”
“Can’t say I realized he’d be a project, not that first day. But—” His expression had closed utterly, although clearly he was picking and choosing what he was willing to say. “He’s a good kid,” Gabe said finally. “Doesn’t hurt to encourage someone as eager as he is.”
“I wish his father felt the same.” The words were torn from her.
“I don’t understand a man not wanting to be around to raise his son.” The one next to her didn’t give away the pain he must feel, but after hearing what had happened to him, she knew it was there. She had no doubt he’d have given anything in the world to be able to raise his daughter.
She smiled shakily at him. “Fortunately for us, we hit the jackpot in the neighbor stakes. You’re a good man, Gabe Tennert. But that doesn’t mean you owe us anything. If you ever want to back off—”
She’d have sworn a hint of color touched his cheeks above the close-cropped beard. “I’ll tell you.” He nodded and started down the steps.
Before she reached the kitchen, she heard the ripping sound of the first board being pulled up.
She wondered what Gabe would have done if she’d gone up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. And whether his beard would be stiff and scratchy or silky under her lips.
And, oh God, what would have happened if he’d turned his head at that precise moment, and her kiss fell on his lips instead?
She hadn’t felt this kind of honeyed warmth low in her belly in longer than she could remember.
It was foolish beyond words to let herself develop some kind of crush on her reclusive next-door neighbor, who would probably be appalled if he knew.
Thoughts jumping, she wished she’d asked Audrey how long ago he’d lost his wife and child. Opening the subject again would make it sound as if she was interested in him. Ciara knew she’d never dare ask him, not when their conversations hadn’t approached personal yet.
At least, not until today, when the word divorce crossed her lips.
Yes, but that had to do with Mark, not me, she told herself. So it didn’t count.
Lunch. Think about lunch. Not the quiet, powerfully built man with remote gray eyes.
Who had said the astonishing words: He’s a good kid.
This warmth seemed to envelop her heart.
* * *
“I’M SURPRISED MARK didn’t want to come.” His fingers flexing on the steering wheel, Gabe was careful not to look at the passenger in his pickup truck. It was a week later, his suggestion that they might combine planned trips to Spokane casual.
“I am, too,” Ciara admitted. Then, “Normally, he hates shopping, but I thought he’d want to look at wood with you.”
And, damn, but Gabe had been relieved when Mark decided to stay home. Because of the kid’s nonstop mouth, he told himself, not because he’d wanted to spend the day alone with Ciara.
“You don’t worry about him home by himself?” he asked.
“Why should I? He’s twelve. He’s not into partying, drugs—”
“Rock and roll?” Gabe said, with a tinge of humor.
Her chuckle was contagious. “Actually, he likes late sixties, early seventies music. Grateful Dead, Simon and Garfunkel, Cream. My mother thinks it’s a hoot. She grew up in the San Francisco Bay area, and went to concerts at the Fillmore and Winterland. I, of course, rolled my eyes at her music. Now here’s her grandson, awed because Grandma actually saw Sons of Chaplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jefferson Airplane before they became Jefferson Starship.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “My father would have said something scathing about long hair and draft dodgers. My mother would have called it hippie music.”
“It was. I don’t know if Mom exactly qualified as a hippie, but there are pictures of her looking raggedy, wearing ponchos and giving a peace sign.”
The highway ahead was mostly empty. He let himself glance at her. “And now?”
“She still mostly wears jeans and wears her hair in a long braid, so maybe there’s a little hippie lingering in her.”
“Your father?” This wasn’t like him, wanting to know everything about another person. He preferred to believe he was just being polite, making conversation, but knew better.
She laughed openly. “Oh, he’s a stockbroker. He was working on his MBA when they met at Berkeley. Mom swears he was wearing a white shirt and tie when a former girlfriend dragged him to an organic foods café where Mom worked part-time. She claims it was love at first sight anyway. Dad grunts but says, ‘Maybe.’”
Gabe wondered if her parents’ votes in major elections canceled each other out, too. The thought amused him.
“Where do they live?”
“Bellevue. Across Lake Washington from Seattle.” The change in her voice was subtle, but there. The openness was gone. She’d been willing to talk about her parents past tense, but wasn’t as happy about present tense.
Knowing he was pushing it, Gabe still asked mildly, “You didn’t want to stay near them?”
“Oh, we mostly email and talk on the phone anyway.” Her tone had become vague. “What about your parents? You sounded as if...” She hesitated.
“They’re both gone.” Gone. Nice euphemism. “Dad owned and managed a small airfield. He gave lessons, offered charters.” Gabe had to swallow to say the bad part. “Mom liked to go up with him. There was a mechanical failure. Plane went down and they both died, along with another couple who was with them.”
“Oh, my God,” Ciara whispered. “I’m so sorry. And sorry I asked.”
“It’s okay.” He shook his head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Were you an adult?”
“Yeah, early twenties.”
“Did you learn to fly?”
He shook his head. “Don’t much like heights.” His father, of course, had been disgusted. His son’s unwillingness to face his fears head-on like a man and learn to fly anyway had been a major bone of contention between them. It hadn’t been the only one. Gerrit Tennert had been a voluble man who was well liked by almost everyone. He’d never understood his son and only child’s introverted nature.
“Bet that caused some conflict,” Ciara said softly.
He grunted agreement.
“I don’t actually like to fly very much, either. I haven’t had occasion to have to very often, fortunately.”
He’d like to think she wasn’t offering that tidbit as a sop to his admission of an unmanly phobia, but knew she was kind enough to do just that.
He made a sound that, hell, was probably another grunt.
“You’ll find plenty to do while I’m browsing?” she asked after a minute.
“Chances are you’ll have to wait for me,” he said honestly. “I like to handpick my wood, especially the accent pieces.”
She smiled at him. “So you’ll be fingering chunks of wood while I’m doing the same to fabrics.”
“Guess there are some parallels,” he admitted. Unfortunately, he could all too well i
magine her stroking velvet or silk with a delicate touch. And damn, lately he’d caught himself a few times, when he ran his fingers over a finely sanded piece of wood, wondering if her skin would be even silkier. It would certainly be warmer, more giving. The curves softer, less predictable. And shit, he was getting aroused, thinking about her skin and her touch. He hoped she didn’t glance toward his lap.
“Woodcraft has some specials right now on woods I like to have on hand in my lumber room.”
She coaxed him into talking a little about what woods in particular he was looking for. He told her how Chechen had gotten the secondary name of Black Poisonwood, and that boxwood castello wasn’t really boxwood at all. She liked the names: Zapote, Granadillo, Brownheart. By the time they reached the outskirts of Spokane, he was sorry they were splitting up until lunchtime, after which they’d agreed to go to Costco before going home.
When he dropped her in front of Hancock Fabrics, Ciara gave him a cheeky smile and said, “Have fun,” before hurrying toward the entrance.
He carried a funny feeling under his breastbone as he made his way across town to his own destination, and even as he began shopping. He still didn’t know what impulse had made him ask yesterday if she had any errands in Spokane to do this weekend, but the drive had seemed to pass a lot faster than usual, and he was already anticipating sitting across a table with her while they ate lunch. Talking some more on the drive back to Goodwater. Not like this was a date, of course, but...it was something. Friendship, maybe, although if that was what it was going to be, he’d have to quit thinking about how much he’d like to see her naked.
By the time he helped her pile bags and bags of fabric and what she called “notions” into the canopy-covered bed of his pickup, Gabe had admitted to himself that they were already friends. He’d had half a dozen meals at her house now; he fed her kid lunch several days a week, and even his solitary meals were much improved these days, given the home-baked goodies that wrapped them up. If he didn’t watch it, he was going to have to let his belt out a hole or two pretty soon.
More Than Neighbors Page 8
