Page 3 of Dreamer

Looking at the steaks one more time, he headed back inside to check the potatoes. It was strange to feel a bit lonely being in a house by himself at his age, though he was likely late to that game. It was a little odd that this was the first place he’d lived on his own.

Outside again—because what else was he going to do but watch the meat cook?—he checked the heat and saw that he’d put on two steaks out of habit. He only needed one.

Well, he guessed he had leftovers. There was no one here to split the other one with.

An odd metallic squeak came from somewhere behind him and Simon turned only to discover the hammock in the yard next door was swinging. Long beautiful legs stuck out the end nearer to his house, the soles of tennis shoes showing. As the hammock swung slightly, caramel colored curls were revealed, peeking over the top of a book that slowly lowered.

She smiled as one hand came up to wave hello.

Almost frozen, he managed a small wave back. Should he start a conversation? Ask again if she was okay? Maybe check to see if he’d made a complete idiot out of himself the night before.

Just as he was deciding what he should or shouldn’t do, the hammock swung to the side and the legs moved one after the other over the edge until her toes touched the ground. The weather was just warm enough for her shorts and tank top and lazy hammock reading. Maybe he should enjoy the view while it lasted.

Slowly, she crossed the short distance between her trees and his back patio. Well, he would have to saysomething. Luckily, she spoke first.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“Don't worry about it.”I'm used to itlingered on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to bite it back. No one wanted to open that can of worms.

“I just can’t believe I woke you up in the middle of the night! I hope it didn’t ruin your day.” She apologized, not dropping it as he had hoped she would. “Can I make it up to you?”

“Don't worry about it.” Oh good, he was repeating himself, in case his late night attempt at taking over a situation that was absolutely not his wasn’t off putting enough.

But she was pointing at the grill and asking, “Steak?”

He nodded, his silence no better than his pitiful conversation.

“I can make you a salad to go with it?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, I have—”Shit.He saw her smile bloom as his irritation and chagrin crossed his own face. “Broccoli,” he filled in. “And I forgot to fix it.”

“Give me a minute.” She smiled, seeming glad as if a salad was the appropriate exchange for a nighttime checkup.

He flipped the steaks and watched as she headed back across the lawn and disappeared into her own home. While he waited, Simon wondered what the layout of her house was. This place didn’t have a homeowner’s association, but the houses did appear to have all been built as a neighborhood all at once, a good time ago.

He tried to imagine how she’d decorated, as he’d barely seen into the living room the night before and he’d been more concerned that she’d been upright and coherent and not in need of meds or a psych hold.

Simon watched the meat grill and he waited. What else was he going to do? He couldn't duck into the house and disappear. The grill was on, and he’d paid good money for the steaks. She was back, concerningly quickly, balancing a large, pale cream china bowl in one hand, a towel loose across the top. She had a mason jar grasped in the other.

“That's awfully fancy.” He pointed at the wooden picnic table for her to set it down. It was unsealed wood. He’d just picked it up a few days ago and was still deciding what shade to stain the deck.

“I made enough for several nights for you.” She motioned with the jar before setting it down, too. “It's an avocado ranch dressing. It's my third attempt, but it's actually pretty good.”

He couldn't help but grin both at the fact that she was making her own salad dressing—living up to what he'd heard about Southern women—and that she was clearly not the kind to brag about her county fair ribbons. Not that he knew if they had ribbons for dressings.

She turned away, her step light as she headed down the wooden stairs back onto the grass.

“What about your bowl?” he asked. Was it even a bowl? It seemed far too pretty for the likes of his in-need-of-work deck.

“Return it when you're done. You know where I live.” She smiled and waved, clearly expecting nothing else other than to pay for her interruption of his sleep with a salad.

Leaning over, Simon lifted the towel, finding an expensive variety of field greens, cherry tomatoes, pecan halves and what looked like blue cheese. Strawberries and mandarin oranges made little clusters at the sides, maybe in case he didn’t like them. That was nice.

Then, unsure of why he was watching, he gazed at her back, at the long slim legs, the shoulders revealed by the thin straps of the pale tank top. He was even more unsure why he asked, “Stay for dinner?”

3

Every gift gets a thank you note. Hand written. Nothing less.

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