“Gram,” Aimee said after a moment, pondering what had been on her mind recently and the best way to bring it up. Not because she was at all self-conscious but because this was one area in which Gram had never been particularly forthcoming—which was unusual since Gram was fairly forthcoming about most everything else. Sometimes, Aimee thought with a flicker of wry affection, even when those around her would prefer she wasn’t.
“Yes?”
The best way to get a straight answer out of her might be by startling it out of her through bluntness, so she gave it a try. “Why do you like Doyle so much?”
“Me? I like everybody. Here, help me eat my winnings.” Gram pushed a chocolate towards Aimee before unwrapping one and slipping it into her mouth.
So much for catching the older woman off guard. Aimee took the proffered chocolate and tried again. “I know you like everybody and you want to adopt half the people you meet, but you’ve got a soft spot for him. Why?”
“I told you before, dear. He’s been a good neighbor to me.” Instead of expanding on that subject, Gram popped another chocolate into her mouth.
“You saving up details for a rainy day?”
Gram suddenly seemed to become very interested in the candy wrapper she held instead of in looking at Aimee. “These are very good, aren’t they? I wonder if they make these in butterscotch?”
“Gram.”
“Mmm?”
“Are you guys running a bootlegging ring you don’t want me to know about or something? Why so close-lipped?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Aimee. Why this sudden interest in Mr. Berkley? I thought you didn’t care for him.”
Aimee gathered the cards back together and began shuffling them. “You’re trying to change the subject.”
Gram toyed with the candy wrapper again before finally continuing. “I don’t get around as well as I used to, you know that, and sometimes it’s difficult to do certain things or run errands. Mr. Berkley was kind enough to help me with some of them. I know he might seem a bit standoffish, dear, but some people are just private by nature, that’s all.”
Somehow “private by nature” didn’t seem to cover it, but it was clear Aimee wasn’t going to get much more out of Gram on the subject. Not today, at least. “Come on,” she said finally, dealing cards out. “We’ve got another hour before Theodore shows up to take you to lunch. Spot me some chocolates, and we’ll go double or nothing.”
* * *
Three hours later, Aimee glanced around and reconsidered her attempt to create a romantic setting in the apartment for when Gram and Theodore returned from the lunch outing she’d suggested to them. She was pushing, Doyle had said before, and as she looked around at what she’d spent the last half hour doing, she considered for the first time that he might be right.
All right, fine. The flowers on the table could stay, but she supposed the red scarf draped over the lamp for mood lighting was a tad over the top along with the flickering candles, especially considering that it was midday. The plate of heart-shaped cookies was cordially inviting, though, so it could stay. And the tea set that sat out in plain view and ready for use might be a bit obvious as an attempt to get Theodore to linger, but Aimee could live with that.
She blew out the candles and did a last survey of the room.
Not bad.
She heard a voice outside the door then and glanced at her watch only to realize that time had flown more quickly then she’d expected. A delighted laugh followed whatever had been said, and the lunch date appeared to be going so well that Aimee was reluctant to risk disrupting its momentum, even if only for a moment. Yanking the red scarf off the lamp and shoving it underneath a chair pillow, Aimee darted into the kitchen moments before Gram and Theodore walked into the apartment.
Perhaps she hadn’t thought this one all the way through, Aimee thought as she hovered out of sight in the kitchen and wondered how to explain her behavior if they were to walk in on her. She peeked around the edge of the doorway. Theodore—ever the gentleman—was helping Gram out of her coat, and then he reached to take the older woman’s hand and bring it to his lips.
Sweet.
Gram seemed to think so, too, because she smiled at Theodore with so much affection that Aimee could have sworn she felt her own heart constrict. Then she had to duck back out of sight again as the couple turned toward the coffee table.
“Oh, look,” she heard Gram say, pleasure in her voice. “Aimee’s left us cookies. You must stay and have one, Teddy. Since she’s gone to the trouble and all.”
“My dear Delia, I don’t need any persuasion to stay besides the pleasure of your company.”
Theodore, you smooth operator…
“I’ll just make us some tea to go with them.”
Aimee’s burgeoning smile vanished. It was a little late to explain her lurking now without running the risk of making one or both of the lovebirds self-conscious, so she reacted on impulse—or maybe panic—and slid open the window that led to the fire escape before slipping outside. With a speed and stealth that any cat burglar would have been proud to call her own, Aimee closed the window and squatted down and out of sight about two seconds before she heard Gram’s voice in the kitchen.
Good save.
Although it would have been an even better one if she’d managed to bring a coat with her. February was not the warmest of months. It was, however, a very wet one, and the sprinkling of slushy raindrops that Aimee hadn’t noticed when she’d first popped outside became harder to ignore as they fell faster and harder.
Shivering in her long-sleeved shirt, Aimee rubbed her arms for warmth. She basically had two options now: up or down. Down made the most sense, so she headed in that direction with the intention of reaching the bottom and going in search of a coffee shop or someplace else warm in which to hole up for the next hour or two. But as she reached the next floor down, she paused by the next window that the fire escape passed and glanced inside.
In some ways, waiting outside in the winter rain might actually be cozier than being inside Doyle Berkley’s apartment, but Aimee gave in to another impulse and rapped briskly on his windowpane before resuming rubbing her arms.
A minute later, Doyle appeared in the doorway beyond the window. His eyes widened with astonishment as he saw her.
Shivering even more now, Aimee flicked her hand up in a brief wave and then tucked her arms around herself, wincing as rain trickled down the back of her shirt and plastered it against her skin.
Doyle slid the windowpane upward. “What in God’s name are you doing out there?”
“G-giving Gram and Theodore some p-privacy,” she replied, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“And yourself pneumonia.” He motioned for her to come inside, and she reached to brace herself on the widow frame, only to have her shivering hand slip on its wet surface. Before she could topple inward, Doyle caught her and scooped her up to lift her inside as easily as if she weighed nothing. Her arms wrapped quite naturally around his neck as he did so, and Aimee couldn’t help but notice that there was a lot more solidness to his frame than his usual scholarly sweaters and tweed had suggested, and not in a bad way at all.
She was rather sorry when he set her down, and her feelings about the matter must have showed on her face, because he caught her expression and frowned. “What?”
“I’m cold,” she said reasonably. “And you feel nice and warm.”
“I was warm. Now I’m just wet.” Doyle glanced down at the sizable damp spot she’d left on the front on his sweatshirt.
“Not nearly as wet as I am.”
“I’d have a lot more sympathy for you if it wasn’t your own fault.”
“I told you it was for a good cause,” she protested, still shivering if not quite as much as before.
“Right.” They stood there and stared at each other until Doyle finally added, “I don’t suppose you’d consider going back to your apartment for dry clothes?”
She shook her head.
>
“Of course not. Come on,” he told her—mildly enough for him—and she followed him out of his kitchen and into his living room, where he pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
She did, and he disappeared down his hallway, leaving her to study her surroundings. Not surprisingly, his living room was light on furniture and heavy on books, which overflowed his bookcases and sat in stacks against the wall. A couple of portraits of people Aimee didn’t recognize hung on the otherwise bare walls, although she suspected they were famous people in history.
There weren’t many personal mementos that she could see, although she noticed a few small, framed photos resting here and there on the many shelves, and she got up to inspect them more closely. She recognized Theodore in several of them, and in others a much younger Doyle stood beside an older, smiling woman who looked enough like him for Aimee to guess that she was his mother.
My late sister’s boy, Theodore had said…
She peered closer at the younger version of Doyle. How strange to see him smiling, even if he wasn’t exactly beaming from ear-to-ear in the photo. He smiled even less in the next photo, one in which his mother looked thinner and more ashen than previously, as if battling some disease. Cancer, maybe? Aimee felt a surge of sympathy.
There were no pictures of a father from what she could tell, or siblings. An only child, then? If so, he and Theodore were very possibly the only living relatives each other had. Suddenly his protectiveness toward his uncle was more understandable.
“Here,” came Doyle’s voice from behind her, and Aimee turned around to see him holding out a sweatshirt.
“Thanks,” she told him as she took it, meaning it.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. You can change in there.”
“Thanks,” she repeated, venturing in the direction he gestured and finding the bathroom nearly identical to hers and Gram’s in fixtures although more masculine in color. It was also as bare in decoration as the living room had been. The whole place would greatly benefit from a little more life and color.
Closing the door behind her, she wasted no time in peeling off her soaked shirt and using one of Doyle’s plain, dark towels to dry first her skin and then her hair as best she could. Then she slipped on the sweatshirt he’d lent her.
It was so large on her that she practically swam in it, but it was warm and dry, and she was a thousand times more comfortable than she had been a moment ago. Wringing out some of her own shirt’s moisture in the sink, Aimee searched for an appropriate place to hang it and finally settled for the doorknob before examining herself in the mirror. The collar of the borrowed sweatshirt slipped just enough to one side to reveal her bare shoulder. She tugged it back into place only to have it do the same thing on the other side. After two more attempts, she finally gave up and left the bathroom.
“So can I hang out here for a while?” she asked, returning to the living room and loitering at the entrance to the hallway. “Just until I think it’s safe to go back upstairs?”
Doyle looked up from where he sat on his couch with a red pen in his hand and a stack of papers before him on his coffee table. His gaze landed on her bare shoulder before abruptly returning to the papers in front of him that were waiting to be graded.
“You won’t even know I’m here,” she added, hoping it was true. “I promise.”
He grunted in a vaguely incredulous manner but didn’t point to the door, so she took it as permission to stay. She sank down onto a leather armchair that squeaked and creaked with her movements and received a dirty look from her reluctant host. Giving him wide, innocent eyes, she curled into a comfortable position and resolved to be as quiet as she’d promised since he had, after all, been nice enough not to leave her outside in the rain.
At first she tried to pass the time by silently reading the titles of the books on the nearest bookshelf and then by studying the few pictures that were in the room, but her attention very soon found its way back to the brooding man on the couch. Doyle’s brow furrowed in concentration as he read over a piece of student work, and now and then he paused to jot a note on it. He was very thorough, she noticed. Nothing half-hearted about it. Almost as if he intended to drill history into his students whether they cooperated or not.
So serious, she thought, but today it struck her as more endearing than usual.
He glanced up then, and his brow furrowed even more. “What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Was I? I’m sorry. Was it too loud?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he returned his attention to his work.
What was it about Doyle Berkley that made it impossible for her not to want to play? Something about the man seemed to bring it out in her more than most, but she redoubled her efforts to behave herself and not intrude on his day anymore than she already had, even biting her lip to stop herself from blurting out occasional observations that popped into her head as she watched him.
Like his hair, for example. It really was very striking with that true coal-blackness that was so rare, but it could definitely benefit from just a little trim. A few snips in the right places, and he’d look a lot more like the man in his photographs. She’d be willing to take a whack at it herself, if he had a pair of scissors handy—
She almost blurted that one out but stopped herself just in time.
Doyle’s lips moved then, but no sound came out, and Aimee realized he was mouthing the words that were on the paper in his hands. Judging by the skeptical look that came into his eyes, the student that had penned that particular paper had missed the mark. By a mile, Aimee thought as she saw Doyle shake his head and set the paper aside with a sigh that she doubted he was aware he made.
He reached for the next paper in the stack and leaned back to read it, but Aimee soon got the distinct impression that what he was actually doing was trying very hard not to look at her. The red pen he used to jot notes tapped restlessly against the paper until he finally dropped both items back down onto the coffee table and pushed himself off the couch.
“What?” Aimee’s eyes followed him as he disappeared into the kitchen. “I was being good.”
He muttered something she couldn’t make out over the sounds of him opening the fridge and rummaging through it. A few moments later he returned empty-handed and sat back down on the couch, running the fingers of one hand through his hair before picking up his pen and trying again.
Aimee rested her chin on her hand and watched him.
After a moment, Doyle set his pen down. “You’re staring.”
“You’re interesting to look at.”
He blinked at her and didn’t seem to know how to respond. Then the collar of her borrowed sweatshirt slipped again.
“Now you’re staring,” she told him.
Doyle abruptly looked away, and she could have sworn he reddened. “Read a book,” he suggested after a moment, his voice sounding strained.
“Mmm,” was all she said in response as she eyed the stacks around her.
“Something wrong?” Doyle asked.
“No, why?”
“I’ve never seen anyone look at a pile of books with quite that expression before.”
“It’s just—there are so many of them. How do you find time to do anything else? Or don’t you do anything else?”
He raised his eyebrows, his expression turning wary. “You have something against reading, Miss Beasley?”
“Only if that’s all you do.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he fixed her with a cool stare. “Reading broadens your horizons and expands your thinking.”
“So does life,” she countered.
“One doesn’t preclude the other, does it?”
She probably ought to be keeping her mouth shut, considering that she was an unwelcome guest, but he had asked, after all. “You tell me. What kind of living do you do exactly, Doyle?”
A strange look crossed his face, and he didn’t answer. Then ag
ain, maybe his silence spoke volumes.
“You tell your students to pay their respects to the people in your history books, but what’s the point of admiring those folks for how they lived if you’re not out there doing any real living yourself?”
“You mean like you,” he said, his tone implying that he didn’t see it that way. “Is that it?”
“Why not like me? What is it about me exactly that drives you so nuts, Doyle?”
“You’re disruptive, Miss Beasley. To everything and everyone around you.” Abandoning his papers, he rose from the couch and started in the direction of his kitchen. “Sound and fury don’t necessarily mean substance.”
“Neither does sitting on your butt with a book all day.” Scrambling out of her chair, Aimee blocked his path. “What is it about ‘disruptions’ that scares you so much?”
“Scares me?” He looked down at her in disbelief.
“Yes, scares you. Gram seeing Theodore, that’s a disruption, and you don’t like it. Me doing anything, that’s a disruption—and you really don’t like it. You know what life without any disruptions is, Doyle? It’s boring,” she said flatly.
“And yet I wish you’d give me the chance to find that out for myself.”
“What a crock. I think the real reason you don’t like me is because I remind you every day of what you’re missing out on.”
Doyle reacted as if she’d struck him, which was not what she’d expected at all. The words hadn’t seemed that harsh to her, or offensive. Just plainspoken. “What?”
“I’m living proof that there’s life outside of your books—outside of these walls.” She gestured at the room around them. “Come on, Doyle. It’s like you’re hiding out in this place.”
He stared at her.
“In fact, I’ll bet deep down you know I’m right, and on some level you wish you were a little more like me.”
“Oh?” he said tersely.
He was clearly growing more tense by the second, but there was precious little apparent in the way of actual emotion, and it was starting to drive her crazy. Did the man feel nothing? “Yeah, because I know how to get out there and live life, and you don’t. There’s no fire in your belly, no spontaneity in your life. Nothing to wake up and feel excited about. Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong.”
The Heavenly Bites Novella Collection Page 18