Ciara followed Mark down the steps as the doors opened. Her father got out on his side, stretched then grinned and grabbed Mark for a quick, one-armed hug. After releasing his grandson, he held out his arms, and Ciara threw herself into them.
She hugged him back, tears burning in her eyes. “Daddy,” she whispered into his chest.
And he said softly, “Ciara girl. You don’t know how much we’ve missed you.”
He gave her another squeeze, which she returned then stepped back.
Mark, of course, was talking a mile a minute. Her mom was trying to get a word in edgewise, not trip over an excited Watson and open the back door to let Bridget out.
“Hi, Aunt Bridget,” Mark said. “This is Watson. He’s my dog. Mom has her own dog, but she’s waiting on the porch ’cuz she’s old, and she doesn’t go up and down stairs very well. But she’ll like it if you pet her. And look! There’s horses in the pasture. They’re the neighbor’s, but we get to ride them. Aurora is the brown one, and Hoodoo is her son. I’ll bet you can give them carrots, too, if you want.”
Ciara hugged her mother, too, whispering, “Motor mouth,” and her mom laughed. And then she faced her sister, who had her arms wrapped tightly and was darting looks around as if she expected small explosives to go off. Which they were, in a manner of speaking, thanks to dog and boy.
Seeing Bridget, Ciara felt a little shock. It was easy to forget how much they looked alike, how obviously related. Her hair, more brown than auburn, was short, because she had no patience for the care longer hair required; she was a couple inches shorter than Ciara and a little plump, but her eyes were the same color, and then there was the shape of her face, even the freckles.
“Hi, Bridget,” Ciara said, keeping her voice soft. “This is my house. I’m glad you could come for a visit.”
“This isn’t your house. I’ve been to your house.”
“Mark and I moved. We wanted room for dogs and maybe, someday, horses.”
“Okay.” Bridget looked at her mother. “I want to go home now.”
“We’re here to stay for a few days, honey. Remember us talking about it? It takes so long to get here, we can’t visit and go home the same day.”
“I want to go home,” she repeated, her voice rising. “Goodbye, Ciara. We have to go home.” She had begun to rock.
Ciara braced herself. Bridget would start screaming any minute. Maybe throw herself on the ground. Have to be restrained so she didn’t hurt herself.
I can still call Gabe and tell him tonight isn’t good, she thought in panic. Bridget is tired. He’ll understand.
It was hard enough for Bridget to accept new surroundings, never mind to have a stranger sprung on her. One with a beard. The beard might scare her. Tomorrow would be better.
But the coward in Ciara was thinking Bridget might be so upset, tomorrow Mom and Dad would apologize but say they had to take Bridget home, and when Gabe came to dinner it would be just the three of them, like always.
“Come inside and see Ciara’s house,” Mom said calmly. “Don’t you need to use the bathroom?”
Still rocking, Bridget stared at the house. “I do have to use the bathroom.”
Whirling by, Watson bumped into Bridget, and she recoiled. “I don’t like dogs! You know I don’t like dogs, Mom!”
“You do like dogs,” Ciara said. “Do you remember Charlie, the golden retriever that used to go for walks with us?”
Charlie had belonged to a neighbor who tried everything from six-foot board fences to a collar that gave an electric shock to keep the dog in his own yard. Eventually, he had to give up. Charlie was such an extrovert, he just wanted to be with people. Whoever barbecued outdoors had a temporary dog. He waited for the school bus with neighborhood kids, went for walks with anyone, looked both ways before crossing streets and lived a long, happy life. Ciara hadn’t thought of him in a long time, but maybe Charlie explained why she’d always wanted a dog for Mark.
Bridget crimped her lips and glared at Watson, still racing around and letting out an occasional bark. “I liked Charlie,” she agreed grudgingly. “That’s not Charlie.”
Although Ciara tried to explain, she doubted her sister understood the concept of Watson being young and not very well-behaved yet. Their mother coaxed her into climbing the porch steps, however. She balked at the sight of Daisy, but relaxed when Daisy didn’t get up. Her tail thumped as she gazed at the visitors with her milky eyes.
“I like this dog,” Bridget declared at last.
Ciara smiled. “Me, too.”
Bridget used the downstairs bathroom and then announced again that she wanted to go home. Somehow Mom kept distracting her. Every so often she remembered that she was glad to see Ciara, and she’d say, “Hi, Ciara. Bye, Ciara. We have to go home now.”
But she was hungry, and Ciara had been careful to make a meal she knew her sister liked. The last time she remembered Mom trying a new casserole, Bridget had screamed and thrown handfuls of it, making a truly awful mess and burning her hands, besides.
In the kitchen she paced restlessly while Mark set the table and Mom took salad makings from the refrigerator.
“Six places?” her mother murmured.
Ciara knew her cheeks were heating. “I invited our next-door neighbor to dinner, so you could meet him.”
“Is this the Gabe we’ve heard so much about?” Mom said in amusement.
“Motor mouth at it again. Yes, it’s the famous Gabe. He’s been amazing with Mark.”
“I see,” her mother said, and Ciara was afraid she really did.
“Bridget,” Ciara said, “a friend of Mark’s and mine is coming to dinner. He’s a nice man. The horses you saw outside are his. His name is Gabe.”
Bridget looked alarmed. “I don’t have to talk to him, do I?”
“No. He’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
“Besides,” Mom pointed out, “who’ll have a chance to talk with Mark around?”
Even Bridget said, “That’s funny, Mom. He does talk a lot.”
From beyond the swinging door came her son’s voice. “He’s here, Mom! I see him coming. I’ll go let him in.”
Ciara’s heart performed some gymnastics beyond her level of conditioning. She yanked open the refrigerator and let the chilled air wash over her as she struggled for calm. I can do this.
Only...it might have been better if she’d warned him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WITHOUT REALLY THINKING through why he was doing it, Gabe shaved his beard off the day Ciara’s family was expected.
Frowning at himself in the mirror once it was gone, he decided all he’d wanted was to look respectable. Not everyone admired beards. He didn’t like the idea of her parents looking at him askance.
Now that it was too late to change his mind, he kept staring at himself, tilting his head this way and that, disconcerted by how unfamiliar this face seemed. Feeling uncomfortably exposed, he rubbed his hand over his chin, even the contours strange to his touch. Was this how he’d looked five years ago, when he first grew the beard?
Not exactly, he was loath to admit. Five years took a toll. Lines that didn’t use to be there had formed on his face. Ones that were there had deepened. Damn, he was getting something like crow’s feet beside his eyes.
And now his face and neck felt cold.
He should have done it a couple days ago, he thought uneasily, let Mark, at least, see him in advance of the big family occasion. Crap. Now his face wasn’t the only part of him that was cold. His feet were, too.
Yeah, and what was he going to do? Not show? Right. He wouldn’t do that to Ciara and Mark, even if a powerful curiosity wasn’t driving him.
“Damn it,” he growled at the mirror then flipped off the bathroom light.
He’d decided to walk. It was just plain silly to drive around now that days lasted long enough for him to make it home before dark. Hoodoo and Aurora seemed to enjoy the stroll, too. From experience, he knew they’d hang around
at that end of the pasture, waiting to amble home with him, too.
Careful not to step in a pile of manure as he crossed the pasture—now, that’d be a social faux pas, stinking when he showed up—Gabe felt as nervous as a teenage boy heading out on his first date. He assumed he hadn’t been expected to dress up, but her father was white collar, probably well-to-do, not a man who worked with his hands, so Gabe had changed from his usual T-shirt to a button-up sports shirt. Defiantly, he’d stuck with jeans. That’s who he was. Work boots, too. He couldn’t hide the calluses on his hands, either, and wouldn’t want to try.
Didn’t mean he looked forward to seeing disdain on the faces of Ciara’s mother or father. Something told him they didn’t know he was anything but a neighbor, though, who was spending some time with Mark and coming to dinner now and again, so maybe they wouldn’t be judging him the way they would if they knew he wanted to marry their daughter.
God. His stomach was so tied up in knots, he didn’t know if he’d be able to eat a bite. It had been a long time since he’d felt inadequate, and he didn’t like it one bit. As down to earth as she was, Ciara had never made him feel this way, but he had the feeling her parents were from a whole different world.
One she’d run away from, he reminded himself.
No, he wouldn’t be apologizing for who he was. They could like him, or not. If Ciara chose to take a look at him through their eyes...well, what would be, would be.
Man, he desperately wanted to have a do-over. Never get involved with the new neighbors. Go back to vaguely thinking the woman was pretty, but never even dreaming he’d kiss her, much less be willing to expose himself to this kind of apprehension.
Yeah, except he’d still be dead inside. He wouldn’t have made passionate, searing love with her.
He cursed as he ducked through the fence at the top of the pasture, unaware he’d been spotted until the front door of her house opened, and Mark and Watson came out.
“Gabe!” The boy waved as if Gabe wouldn’t see him. “Hi, Gabe!”
Mark hovered on the porch, but Watson raced to meet Gabe. The horses, heads hanging over the fence, didn’t even bother to shy from the rambunctious dog.
Gabe had reached the foot of the porch steps before Mark’s mouth fell open, his lips slack. It wasn’t a good look for him.
“What happened to your beard?”
“Weather’s warming up.” A stupid thing to say. It was July. The weather had been warming up for some time now. “I decided to shave it off.”
“You look different.” It was an accusation.
“Still me,” Gabe said shortly.
“But—”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Everyone’s here,” Mark said unnecessarily. Voices could be heard through the open door, and Gabe hadn’t missed the shiny black SUV sitting out front beside Ciara’s Dodge Caravan.
“Figured that.”
“Oh. Well.” He eyed Gabe as if he were a stranger. “Um, I think dinner’s ready.”
Mark had to turn back, whistling for his idiot dog. As Gabe entered, a man rose from an easy chair in the living room, setting aside a newspaper.
He was tall and thin, his dark brown hair receding. Gabe was relieved to see that his khaki pants were wrinkled and his sportshirt nothing special. He dropped a pair of reading glasses on top of the newspaper and held out a hand. “Ben Malloy. I’m Ciara’s dad.”
Gabe felt a small shock at the blue eyes so much like hers.
“Good to meet you.” They shook. “Gabe Tennert.”
“We talk to Mark at least once a week. We’ve been hearing nothing but Gabe, Gabe.”
Relaxing in the face of obvious friendliness, Gabe smiled. “Nothing about Hoodoo and Aurora? Maybe a little about Watson?”
Her dad had a laugh that sounded like hers, too. “Could be. Sounds like he has some new friends, too.”
“He does seem to be making friends.”
Despite the smile, those eyes studied him keenly. “That’s been a relief to hear.” He cocked his head. “I think we’re being called to dinner.” He raised his voice. “Mark?”
Watson galloped in to greet Gabe anew, and then tried to brace his feet when Mark grabbed his collar and led him to the stairs.
“Has to be shut in when the family is eating,” Gabe explained, seeing Ben’s surprise.
“He begs?”
“I hear he steals food right off the plate.”
Ciara’s father laughed. “Okay. I’d as soon not see that.”
In the dining room, a pretty, older woman was setting a salad on the table. Ah, Gabe thought, seeing copper-colored hair threaded with silver, worn in a long braid—hippie, he remembered with amusement. Her smile was like her daughter’s. The lines that crinkled beside her eyes suggested she often smiled. Her husband made the introductions, and Janet Malloy, too, appeared relaxed and friendly before saying, “Sit down. We’ll have dinner on the table any minute.”
The knots in Gabe’s stomach might have unwound, if he could forget Ciara’s odd behavior this past week and her obvious constraint when talking about these people.
He hesitated, not sure where to sit. Usually, he had a place, but with six place settings...
The swinging door opened and Ciara appeared, carrying a casserole dish in mitted hands. “Gabe— Oh!” Like her son, she stared, although her mouth didn’t hang open. “You shaved,” she said finally.
Aware of her father’s interest, he nodded, repeating, “Weather was warming up.”
“Oh,” she said again. She tore her gaze from his long enough to set the casserole dish down before staring some more. Then, slowly, a smile curved her mouth. “It’s you.”
He touched his jaw self-consciously. “I guess so.”
Foolish thing to say, but she didn’t seem to find it so. But the door opened behind her, and her smile vanished as if it had never been. He didn’t like the fleeting expression of despair he’d have sworn he saw on her face before she said stiffly, “You met my mother?”
He agreed he had. But then he saw Ciara’s mother returning with another woman, who looked...scared to death? She didn’t want to meet his eyes, that was for sure.
He started to rise in automatic courtesy, before understanding slammed into him. Immediately he sat back down in an effort to make himself less imposing.
“Who is he?” the other woman asked in a high, agitated voice. “I don’t know him.”
“Remember?” Janet said gently. “Ciara told us she’d asked her neighbor to join us for dinner. This is Gabe. Gabe, Ciara’s sister, Bridget.”
“I’m glad to meet you,” he said, by instinct keeping his voice equally gentle. “Bridget. That’s a pretty name.”
Bridget swung around as if to bolt back to the kitchen, but her father moved swiftly to urge her to a chair. “Look, Ciara made your favorite dinner, honey.”
Gabe checked: macaroni and cheese that didn’t smell much like the kind he cooked up out of a box. “It’s one of my favorites, too,” he said.
She plopped gracelessly into the chair, and he realized all her movements had been awkward. She looked a lot like Ciara, but the way she walked and held her shoulders made her seem heavier than he thought she really was.
Mark burst into the dining room, and she jerked, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Gabe shaved his beard off,” he announced. “Did you see, Mom?”
Ciara’s gaze stole back to his face. “I saw. Did you wash your hands, Mark?”
“You already asked.” He sounded offended.
“I’m sorry. Oh—the peas.” She fled for the kitchen.
Eventually, they were all seated, food being passed around. Janet served Bridget, who clutched her fork as if she was going to stab someone with it but seemed to do okay getting food to her mouth. She didn’t have a lot to say, and her sentences never seemed to be more than three or four words. His gaze wasn’t the only one she avoided meeting, he realized; she didn’t like looking directly at anybody, family or not. He
r glances at their faces were quick and furtive.
She hadn’t eaten more than half her dinner when she suddenly jumped to her feet. “I’m done. We can go home now.”
“No, honey,” her mother said, “but you don’t have to stay at the table.”
“Okay.” She marched toward the living room. After a moment, they all heard the television come on. It sounded as if she was flicking through stations without stopping at any of them.
Janet Malloy looked across the table at Gabe. “I imagine Ciara told you Bridget is autistic,” she said quietly, confirming his guess. “High functioning and quite verbal, but she finds new surroundings difficult.”
“And meeting new people, I bet,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Is she younger than you, or older?” he asked Ciara.
She didn’t want to meet his gaze, either. “Younger. Three years.”
Pieces to the puzzle she’d presented were effortlessly dropping into place. And Mark—she was in deep denial about the echoes of her sister she couldn’t help seeing in her son. Now he understood why she didn’t want to accept the diagnosis that put Mark somewhere on the Asperger’s spectrum.
Had she not wanted to tell him about her sister because she was afraid that would have him jumping to conclusions about Mark?
“Mark tells us you’re a cabinetmaker,” her mother said, smiling at him.
“That’s right. One of the barns is my workshop. I specialize in solid wood cabinetry for historic renovations or custom-built homes.”
“He makes gorgeous furniture, too,” Ciara put in. “You should see the dresser—” Now her mouth formed an O of alarm.
You should see the dresser in his bedroom. That’s what she’d been about to say. Gabe would swear he saw a twinkle in her mother’s eyes.
More Than Neighbors Page 20