Page 15 of A Night to Remember

8

Kayla

Meg agreesto let me off early from the café so I can rush home to get the house in order before Gabe drops by. I don’t tell herwhyI need to rush home, of course. I don’t need any more advice about my love life, or lack thereof. I just tell her that my mom needs me, and she understands. Meg is a great boss—and friend.

What I told her is true, of course: if Gabe is right that the bank messed up the foreclosure procedure, then meeting him reallywillhelp my mom.

Assuming he doesn’t kill me, of course. I’m ignoring a lot of red flags to go through with this. I can’t forget that he took advantage of Allison at that party. And now, eight years later, he’s suggested meeting mealoneat myhouseatnighton a rather vague pretense.

Okay, so meeting him alone at my house at night was my idea. I didn’t want to involve other people because I’m embarrassed by our predicament. I didn’t want to meet him inpublic because I don’t want rumors to fly. I couldn’t meet him during the day because I work all the time. I know, of course, that these are not good reasons to compromise my safety. But my stupid brain cannot convince my stupid body that I reallyamcompromising my safety. My stupid body is quivering with excitement at the idea of being alone with a very attractive man in about half an hour.

Half an hour! As usual, the house looks like it was ransacked by raccoons. With my schedule and my mom’s physical limitations, it’s next to impossible to keep up with household chores. I scramble around the living room, collecting abandoned water glasses, stacking Mom’s library books (surprisingly steamy romances, which I sometimes let myself peek into), stowing shoes and jackets in the hall closet. I attack the kitchen next, overloading our tiny dishwasher and angling countertop canisters to hide our mousetraps. Extraneous papers get stuffed into the spare room, which is also where I keep all of our important documents. It’s stacked practically to the ceiling with my mom’s old artwork and the art supplies she’s collected over the years. We both use this room for storage now.

I debated how much to tell Mom about what’s happening here tonight. She’s at water aerobics at the YMCA, as it happens. Most of the other women in the class are twenty or thirty years her senior, but her rheumatoid arthritis makes her move like a much older person.

In the end I told her nothing. Which makes me feel guilty, but I already feel guilty for taking on debt of my own and for leaving her to go to college. I’m hoping that if Gabe can help us save the house, I will at least feel marginally better.

At 8:55, I pace the front hall, waiting for him. I steal a glance at myself in the hall mirror. I’m a hot mess, predictably—all sweaty and rumpled, like a woman who served sandwiches for three hours, then frantically cleaned the house. I try to neatenmy ponytail, but give it up as a lost cause. Besides, it’s not like this is adate. I have no plan to latch onto Gabe like he’s my knight in shining armor. And I’ll never make the mistake my mom did. She believed my dad when he told her he’d support her painting career. And what happened? He walked out on her. I have a few memories of her trying to paint when I was a kid, but she gave it up entirely not long after he left.

I take a deep, shaky breath and remind myself not to expect too much from Gabe Wilson.

The doorbell ringsat exactly 9:01. I open it to find Gabe standing on the doorstep in a long greatcoat and the suit he was wearing earlier. His hair is neatly combed, and he’s got a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He looks good. He smells good. I smell like french fries, and I can feel my hair sticking to my neck. My pulse starts to race.

“You can come inside if you want,” I say, then instantly flush. Oh God, that didn’t sound like a double entendre, did it? Surely not. Surely it was a totally neutral statement made by a person who is not the least bit attracted to the man on her doorstep.

He nods courteously at me, then steps inside. His manner is noticeably reserved.

“Leg feeling better?” I ask, attempting to regain my composure.

“Much, thanks,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I really do need to watch where I’m going.” He seems to relax a bit, allowing me a glimpse of the boy I once knew, which flusters me again.

I take his coat, mostly as an excuse to turn away from him, then fumble in the closet for a free hanger for what seems like anhour. I should have known that I can’t handle this. Every fantasy I’ve ever had about him is rushing to the front of my mind. As I guiltily throw my mother’s Carhartt overalls into the back of the closet to make room for his coat, I catch a whiff of his subtle, but probably very expensive cologne. It smells like… wood smoke? A pine forest? I have a sudden image of him in plaid, sleeves rolled up, splitting wood. Nora Roberts would be pleased.

When I turn back to him, I see that he’s examining one of my mother’s paintings that hangs in the living room. It’s a large portrait in oils of a pioneer woman with a weathered face and a child on her hip.

“This is amazing,” he says. “It reminds me of someone. Is it an original?”

“Mm-hm,” I say, walking over to stand next to him. “My mother painted it. She used a photograph of her mother and herself as a child as reference.”

“It’s quite striking,” he says. “Your mother is very talented.”

I feel a swell of pride.

“Yes, she is,” I say. “It’s such a shame that she never had an art career. We might not be in this situation then.”

He turns to me, and we make eye contact for a moment. A shiver runs through me. I’m tall, for a woman, but Gabe is taller. This close, I can see the amber flecks in his brown eyes, and the beginning of stubble along his jawline. He must have put in a long day. I can’t help but feel touched that he seems to genuinely admire my mom’s art. He had never been a snob, though, and maybe he isn’t now.

The silence between us fills and expands. His whole bearing is so different that I find myself mourning the goofy boy I knew in school. Against all my better judgment, I want to reach out and caress that stubbly cheek to soothe the hurt I see in his eyes. Finally Gabe looks away. “About your situation,” he says, taking in the rest of the room. “Did you find the documents?”

I nod.

“They’re on the kitchen table. I didn’t know what you might need, so I just gathered everything together.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”

I lead the way into the kitchen, ask him if he’d like anything to drink, then panic slightly. We have milk that’s probably expired, my mom’s Folgers, and a bottle of Bloody Mary mix that’s older than both of us. And my tea, of course. I’m relieved when he simply asks for a glass of water, then turns his attention immediately to the papers.

“I’m looking for the current loan balance…” he says, leafing through the stacks.

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