Gabe waited a few moments after hearing the upstairs bedroom door close before ditching the clammy washcloth and thawing bag of peas. If he’d really hit his head, he probably would have gone to the doctor. If he’d hit his head. He burrowed deeper into the down-filled cushions of Martha’s old couch. He was glad Stephanie hadn’t gotten rid of it. It was still the same bottomless well of a comfort as it had been when he used to crash here as a kid. Not a kid, really, though it felt like that now.
He hadn’t been in this side of the building since Martha died. Stephanie wasn’t home enough to break anything or even wear out the faucet washers, so there’d been no need. And unlike Mrs. Spangler, Stephanie probably changed her own light bulbs. He glanced around the room. Other than Martha being gone, little had changed in two-and-a- half years.
Including Stephanie’s work ethic. What the hell was she doing home on a Saturday, anyway? He recognized the smell and look of a hangover. That was unusual enough, but he didn’t think it would keep her from going to work. It had to be something else.
And what was with the giant dog? Gabe couldn’t decide which was stranger—Steph being home, the hangover, or…what had she called him? William the Conqueror?
Whatever it was, she’d be starving in a little while and in need of a good breakfast. He got up and returned the peas to the freezer, noting that the only other things in there were a pizza, a box of fish sticks and too much frost. The fridge wasn’t much better. He checked the pantry, made a mental list of what he needed, and headed to the store.
Within the hour, Gabe had a pot of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling in a pan, bread slices poised in the toaster’s slots, onions, garlic, and peppers sautéing, eggs whisked. The smells should wake her soon.
And then what?
He thought about their earlier exchange. What had possessed him to rattle off his entire name? And be defensive about it like a … kid?
She’d always done that to him. His brain cells took a hike, his tongue swelled up, his lungs shriveled. Nothing had changed since they were teenagers except they were thirty years older.
Except that he’d never heard of her missing work, drinking too much, or having time for a pet. Stephanie O’Hanlon had eyes only for her career. He’d kept tabs on her through her mother. Martha had always encouraged him to call Steph, but it had never seemed like the right time. When Mrs. Spangler casually mentioned The Lady of the House hadn’t yet surfaced this morning and perhaps he should check on her, he’d been genuinely concerned. Then…things had gotten out of hand. Not without a little help from Mrs. Spangler, who’d forever been in league with Martha to foster a relationship between him and Steph.
Which was exactly what he’d always wanted and exactly what he’d always avoided.
Movement upstairs and the unmistakable clang of the pipes as the shower started alerted him that she was awake.
The eggs joined the veggies. The bread went into the toaster.
The monster dog bounded down the steps, into the kitchen, and put his hairy front paws on the edge of the counter, sniffing and snuffling.
Steph followed shortly after, minus the bounding, sniffling, and snuffling. She wore baggy sweats, a sleeveless thermal shirt that drifted off one shoulder, and had her hair wrapped in a towel. The plain scent of soap preceded her into the room. Gabe’s heart stopped.
Her eyes widened. “What are you doing up?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
He gestured with the spatula to indicate breakfast, as if that clearly answered both questions. They stared at each other for a few moments while the dog looked from one to the other, probably trying to figure out which of them was going to toss him a piece of bacon.
Gabe took a sip of coffee to jumpstart his brain and reconnect it to his mouth, but he only managed to burn his tongue.
“I made coffee,” he said. “Feel better?” He turned his back to her to gather his wits. Jesus, he hadn’t been in the same room with her for years, but she was as gorgeous as ever—even without makeup—no, especially without makeup. Maybe not quite as skinny, but that was a good thing. Her eyes were as big and brown as ever even if they now sported a few crinkles at the corners. They gave her face character. The thought of her straight from a hot shower sent his temperature soaring.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, this time with an edge. “You probably have a concussion. You should lie down. You said yourself you needed to rest.”
He liked that she was worried about him. Probably honesty was best, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d faked the whole thing.
“It wasn’t as bad as you thought, really. And you looked like you could use a good breakfast.” He’d started sounding defensive again and forced himself to face her. “Both of us needed a good breakfast.”
Her eyes drifted from him to the stove to the set table and settled on the vase of fresh flowers. The ghost of a smile lifted one corner of her mouth, and he began to relax.
“Are you saying I looked bad?” she asked.
Gabe’s heart rate kicked up again. “Um…no…I mean…I meant—”
“Coffee smells good,” she said, getting a cup down from the cabinet.
This was not going how he wanted. But she didn’t seem offended. “It’s the one thing you had in stock.”
“Yeah, I’m not home much.” She reached for the pot, then froze, her eyes on the open container where he’d found the coffee beans. “You used that coffee?”
He tried to catch up with why this might be a problem. He was sure he hadn’t mistaken a crazy note of alarm in her voice.
She snatched up the pink tin box. “You used up all this coffee.” An accusation, now. “How could you?”
“I—”
“This was my mother’s.”
Of course it was. He and Martha had often shared a pot. She had loved a strong cup of coffee. She’d found the set of canisters at a yard sale. They were beat up when she’d gotten them, but he hadn’t done anything other than open it and scoop the beans into the grinder. What the hell? Why were there tears in Steph’s eyes?
“Who do you think you are?”
“I—”
“Get out.”
“But…I don’t understand. The canister is fine.”
She shoved the container in his face. “Not this, you idiot. It was the last of my mother’s coffee.”
All he could do was blink at her as a tear ran down her cheek. She swiped at it, turned away and threw the metal box across the counter. It skittered into the toaster with a loud bang. The toast popped up.
She spoke quietly. “I make a pot every year on Mother’s day with a few of the beans. It’s like…like we’re together for a little while.” She whirled on him. “Now, you’ve ruined it. I’ll never be able to do it again. You’ve ruined everything. Get out.”
Dumbfounded and confused, Gabe made for the door. Stephanie followed and slammed it behind him. He stood on the porch staring at it, noting the frame needed painting. Old feelings of abandonment tried to rise, but he pushed them down. His mother had said almost the exact same thing years ago when she’d thrown him out in favor of her boyfriend.
Martha had been the kind neighbor who’d paid him too much to do chores around her place. She’d let him stay at her house when he’d needed it, made sure he had clean clothes and a decent meal. That’s when he’d developed his crush on Steph. But she’d always been busy and then had gone to college early. If she noticed him at all, she never showed it. Apparently nothing had changed.
Since then, there’d been other women, and he’d even tried marriage. That lasted as long as the balance in his bank account. Martha had warned him. And she’d been there when it fell apart.
Martha’s door had always been open.
He wasn’t about to let Stephanie slam it in his face.
Chapter 4
The Man, The Dog, His Owner & Her Lover, a Witting Woman novella Page 3
