The Dream Unfolds Page 7

  He hitched his chin toward the restaurant.

  With an effort, it seemed, Chris nodded again, then looked down to make sure that she had her bundle safely tucked under her arm.

  “Can I carry that for you?” he asked.

  “Uh, no. It’s okay.”

  They started off. “What did you buy, anyway? Or is it a secret, maybe something black and sexy for your mom?” He faltered, suddenly wondering whether he’d put his foot in his mouth. “Uh, she’s still around, isn’t she?”

  Chris smiled. The affection she so clearly felt for her mother brought added warmth to her eyes. “Quite. She’s an energetic fifty-five. But she’d be embarrassed out of her mind to get something black and sexy. She doesn’t define herself that way. No, this is for another relative. Something totally different. As a matter of fact, I don’t know what to get my mother.”

  “What does she do?” Gideon asked, hoping to get hints about Chris through this mother she cared for.

  “She reads, but books are so impersonal.”

  “What else does she do?”

  “Needlepoint, but she’s already in the middle of three projects and doesn’t need a fourth.”

  “What else?”

  “She cleans and cooks—” this was offered facetiously “—but I don’t think she’d appreciate either a bottle of window cleaner or a tin of garlic salt.”

  Gideon was picturing a delightful homebody, someone he’d feel comfortable with in a minute. “How about a clay pot?”

  Chris drew in her chin. “Clay pot?”

  He’d seen them advertised on the back of one of the dozens of unsolicited catalogues that came in the mail every week. Rolled tight, those catalogues were kindling for his fire. Once in a while, something registered while he was doing the rolling. “You know, the kind you cook a whole meal in, kind of like a Crockpot, but clay.” They’d reached the restaurant. He held the door for her to go through first.

  “How do you know about clay pots?” she asked, shooting him a curious glance as she passed.

  He shrugged. With a light hand on her waist, he guided her toward the hostess, who promptly led them to the quietest table in the house. Unfortunately, that wasn’t saying a whole lot. The restaurant was filled, even at two, with a cross of business types from nearby office buildings and shoppers with kids. The business types were no problem, but the kids and their mothers were loud. Noting that the table the hostess had given them—a table for four, at that—was set slightly apart from the others, Gideon felt his money had been well spent. Every little bit of privacy helped when a man was pursuing his cause.

  “Would you like me to hang up your coat?” he asked just before Chris slid into her seat.

  She glanced at the nearby hooks. “Uh, okay.” Depositing her bag and purse on one of the free chairs, she started to slip the coat off. Gideon took it from her shoulders and hung it up, then put his own jacket beside it. When he returned to the table, she was already seated. He took the chair to the right of hers, which was where the hostess had set the second menu, but no sooner had he settled in than he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Chris was sitting back in the pine captain’s chair with her hands folded in her lap, looking awkward.

  “Is this where I’m supposed to sit for a business lunch?” he asked, making light of it. “Or should I be sitting across from you?”

  “I think,” she said, glancing out at the crowd, “that if you sit across from me, I won’t be able to hear a word you say. I thought most of the kids would be gone by now, but I guess at Christmastime anything goes.”

  “I take it you’ve been here before.”

  “Uh-huh. My family comes a lot.”

  “Family,” he prodded nonchalantly, “as in mother and father?”

  “And the rest. I’m the oldest. The youngest is just fifteen. It’s harder now than it used to be, but we still try to do things together whenever we can.” She opened her menu, but rather than looking at it, she took a drink of water. “The club sandwiches are good here. So are the ribs. I usually go for one of the salads. There’s a great Cobb salad, and a spinach one.”

  “I hate spinach.”

  The blunt statement brought her eyes finally to his. “Like you hate silk flowers?”

  “Pretty much.” He paused, held her gaze, watched her cheeks turn a little pink and her slender fingers tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. Unable to help himself, he said, “I like your outfit. You look nice in navy.” He paused again. “Or aren’t I supposed to say that at a business lunch?”

  She looked at him for another minute, then seemed to relax. “Technically, it is a sexist thing to say.”

  “It’s a compliment.”

  “Would you give a compliment like that to one of your men?”

  “Like that? Of course not. He’d think I was coming on to him.”

  She arched an eloquent brow.

  “I’m not coming on to you,” Gideon told her, and in one sense it was true. He’d complimented her because he really did like the way she looked, and he was used to saying what he thought. “I’m just telling you you look pretty. It’s a fact. Besides, I do give my men compliments. Just not like that.”

  “Like what, then?”

  “Like … hey, man, that’s a wild shirt … or … cool hat, bucko.”

  “Ah,” she said gravely. “Man talk.” She lowered her eyes to his shirt, then his sweater, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “I’ll bet they had choice words to say about what you’re wearing now.”

  Feeling a stab of disappointment, he looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing. It’s a gorgeous outfit. But it’s way different from what I’ve seen you wearing at the Rise.”

  It’s a gorgeous outfit. Did that ever make him feel good! “Thanks, but I wasn’t working in this.” He snickered. “You’re right. The guys would have kidded me off the lot. No, I went home to change.”

  She was silent, almost deliberative, for a minute before asking, “Where’s home?”

  “Worcester.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Worcester? That’s halfway across the state. You’re not actually commuting from there to Crosslyn Rise every day, are you?”

  He nodded. “I can do it in an hour and a quarter.”

  “Speeding.”

  He shrugged.

  “And you drove all that way this morning, then drove home, then drove all the way back to meet me?”

  “I couldn’t very well meet you in my work clothes. You wouldn’t have wanted to sit across from me, much less next to me. Besides, I didn’t have to drive all the way back. Crosslyn Rise is still farther on up.”

  “But I would have picked some place even closer, if I’d known.” Her voice grew softer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey,” he said with a puzzled smile, “it’s no big thing. I asked you to name the place, and you named it.” He looked around. “This is a nice place.”

  “Hello,” the waitress said, materializing between them as though on cue. “My name is Melissa, and I’ll be serving you today. May I get you something from the bar?”

  Gideon raised his brows toward Chris.

  She shook her head. “Tea for me, please.”

  “And you, sir?”

  He wanted a beer, but that wasn’t part of the image. Then again, he couldn’t see himself ordering wine. So he settled for a Coke. “And maybe something to munch on,” he said, waving his fingers a little. “What do you have?”

  Chris spoke before Melissa could. “We’ll have an order of skins, please. Loaded.”

  The minute Melissa left, he asked, “How do you know I like skins?”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Sure.”

  There was satisfaction in her smile. “So do my father and brothers, and they’re all big and physical like you.”

  Gideon was thinking that being like her father and brothers was a good thing, since she clearly lik
ed them, when he had a different thought. “What about your boyfriend? Does he like them?”

  “My boyfriend? Oh, you mean Anthony. Uh, actually, he doesn’t.”

  “So what does he eat when he comes here?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t eat?”

  “Doesn’t come here. He lives in Boston. And he’s really not my boyfriend. Just a friend. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I told you that. I’m not interested.”

  “A girlfriend then?” he asked before he could think to hold his tongue.

  She scowled at him. “Why are you so offensive.” It wasn’t a question.

  He held up a hand and said softly, “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just that I like to know what’s going on. I mean, why is a woman as beautiful and talented as you are still single?”

  She threw the ball right back at him. “You’re still single. What’s your excuse?”

  “I told you. I blew marriage once.”

  “A long time ago, you said. But you haven’t tried again.”

  “But I date. I date a whole lot. There’s just no one I like well enough to want to wake up to in the morning.” He let the suggestiveness of that sink in, along with all the sexy images it brought. He could picture Chris in his bed, could picture it easily, and wondered if she could picture it, too.

  She didn’t look to be panting. Nor did she speak right away. Finally, slowly she said, “Then you live alone?”

  He fancied he detected interest and grabbed onto the thought. “That’s right.”

  “In an apartment?”

  “A house. That I built.”

  A small smile touched the edge of her mouth. “Mmm. I should have guessed.” She paused, seemed deliberative again. He guessed that she wasn’t sure how personal to get.

  “Go on,” he coaxed gently. “Ask. I’ll answer.”

  Given permission, she didn’t waste any time. “You live all alone in a big house?”

  “It’s not big. But it’s nice. And it’s all I need.”

  “And you take care of yourself—cook, clean, do laundry?”

  “I cook. I have someone come in to do the rest.” He didn’t see anything wrong with that. She couldn’t expect that he’d do everything for himself when he had important work to do every day.

  “You really do cook?”

  “Enough to stay alive.” He wondered what she was getting at. “Why?”

  “Because you know about clay pots,” she mused, and seemed suddenly, seriously pleased. “That’s not a bad idea. My mother doesn’t have anything like it. It’s really a good idea. Thank you.”

  Gideon grinned. “Glad to be of help.” Then his eyes widened at the sight of the skins that suddenly appeared on the table. They looked incredible and he was famished.

  “Are you ready to order the rest?” Melissa asked.

  Chris looked inquiringly at Gideon, but he hadn’t even opened his menu. “Some kind of sandwich,” he said softly. “You choose. You know what’s good.”

  She ordered a triple-decker turkey club for him and a Cobb salad for herself. Then she hesitated, seeming unsure for a minute.

  “Sounds great,” he assured her, and winked at Melissa, who blushed and left. When he looked back at Chris, she was reaching into her purse and pulling out a notebook. Tugging a pen from its spiral binding, she opened to a page marked by a clip.

  “What are you doing?” Gideon asked. He was being the gentleman, waiting for her to help herself to a potato skin before he dug in.

  “I have questions for you. I want to make notes.”

  “About me?”

  “About Crosslyn Rise.”

  “Oh.” He looked longingly at the skins. Taking the two large spoons resting beside them, he transferred one to Chris’s plate.

  She protested instantly. “Uh-uh. Those are for you.”

  “I can’t eat them all.”

  “Then you’ll have to take them home for supper. All I want is a salad.”

  “Aha,” he breathed, “you’re one of those women who’s always on a diet.” He shot a quick look at her hips. “I don’t see any fat.”

  “It’s there.”

  “Where?”

  “There.” She sat back in her chair and stared at him.

  Fantasize all he might, but that stare told him she wasn’t saying a word about her thighs or her bottom or her waist or her breasts, if those were the spots where she imagined there was fat. So he helped himself to a skin and said, “Okay, what are your questions?” He figured that while he was eating, they could take care of business, so that by the time he was done they could move on to more interesting topics.

  He had to hand it to her. She was prepared. She knew exactly what she wanted to ask and went right to it. “Will you consider putting wood shingles on the roof?”

  “No.” He said. “Next question.” He forked half a skin into his mouth.

  “Why not?”

  “Mmm. These are great.”

  “Why not wood shingles?” she repeated patiently.

  “Because they’re expensive and impractical.”

  “But they look so nice.”

  “Brick does, too, but it’s expensive as hell.”

  She held his gaze without so much as a blink. “That was my next question. Couldn’t we use brick in a few select areas?”

  “That’s not part of Carter’s concept. He wants clapboard.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you should talk with Carter.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we can do very well without that expense, too. Next question.” He took another skin, cut it in two, downed the half.

  “Windows. What about some half-rounds?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’d look spectacular over the French doors in the back.”

  Gideon had to agree with her there, but he was a realist. “It’s still a matter of cost,” he said when he’d finished what was in his mouth. “I based my bid on the plans Carter gave me. Half-rounds are expensive. If I go over budget, it’s money out of my pocket any way you see it.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to go over budget,” she said hopefully, “not if you get a good deal from a supplier.”

  “You know a supplier who’ll give us that kind of deal?”

  Her hope seemed to fade. “I thought you might.”

  He looked down at his plate as he cut another skin, arching little more than a brow in her direction. “You’re the one with connections in the business. Me, I’m on my own.” He popped the skin into his mouth.

  “You don’t have any relatives in construction?”

  After a minute of chewing, he said, “None living. My dad was a housepainter. But he’s been gone for ten years now.”

  She sobered. “Ten years. He must have been very young.”

  “Not so young overall, but too young to die. There was an accident on the job. He never recovered.” Gideon sent her a pointed look. “That’s one of the reasons I go berserk when I see carelessness at my sites.”

  After a minute’s quiet, she said, “I can understand that.” She’d put down the notebook, had her elbows on the arms of the chair and was making no attempt to look anywhere but at him. “Were you working with him at the time?”

  “No. I worked with him when I was a kid, but I was already into construction when the accident happened. He did a lot of work for me in those last years, but when he fell, it was on another job. The scaffolding collapsed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and sounded it. “Were you two close?”

  “Growing up, he was all I had.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Left when I was three.”

  “Just left?” Chris asked, looking appalled.

  “She met someone else, someone with more promise. So she divorced my dad, married the other guy and moved to California.” He put down his fork. “She did well. I have to give her that. She’s become a very nice society lady—with silk
arrangements all over her house.”

  “Ah, but not good silks, if you thought they looked fake.” She smiled for a second, then sobered again. “Do you see her often?”

  “Once, maybe twice a year. She keeps in touch. She even wanted me to come live with her at one point, but I wasn’t about to betray my dad that way. Then, after he died, I wasn’t about to move. My roots are here. My business is here.” He smirked. “She isn’t wild about what I do. Thinks it’s a little pedestrian. But that’s okay. California doesn’t tempt me, anyway. I’m not the beach boy type.”

  Chris mirrored his smirk. “Not into surfing?”

  “Not quite. Softball and basketball. That’s it.”

  “That’s enough,” she said with feeling.

  “Your father and brothers, too?” he guessed.

  “Brothers,” she answered. “They’re basketball fanatics.”

  “How about you? Are you into exercise?”

  “Uh-huh. I do ballet.”

  Ballet. He might have known. He had about as much appreciation for ballet as he did for Godiva chocolates. He was a Hershey man all the way. “Do you dance in shows?”

  “Oh, no. Even if I were good enough, which I’m not, and even if I were young enough, which I’m not, I wouldn’t have the time. I go to class twice a week, for the fun and the exercise of it. In a slow and controlled kind of way, it’s a rigorous workout.” She took a fast breath. “So why did you move from painting to construction?”

  He wanted to know more about her, but she kept turning the questions back at him, which bothered him, on the one hand, because he wasn’t used to talking about himself so much, at least not on really personal matters. For instance, he didn’t usually tell people about his mother. Then again, Chris seemed genuinely interested, which made it easy to talk. She wasn’t critical. Just curious. As though he were a puzzle she wanted to figure out.

  So he’d be her puzzle. Maybe she’d be as intrigued with him as he was with her.

  “Painting to construction?” He thought back to the time he’d made the switch, which had been hard, given his father’s preference. “Money was part of it. The construction business was booming, while painting just went along on the same even keel. I also had a thing for independence. I didn’t want to be just my dad’s son. But I guess most of it had to do with challenge.” He narrowed an eye. “Ever spend day after day after day painting a house? When I first started, I thought it was great. I could stand up there on a ladder, goin’ back and forth with a brush, listening to my music from morning to night. Then the monotony set in. I used to feel like I was dryin’ up inside. I mean, I didn’t have to think.”