When You Knew

by Jamie Beck

  Some people? A sufficiently vague response. He’d noticed this about her in the short time they’d spent together. Evasive when it came to admitting to any imperfection or lack of control. He wanted to know what happened, but she craned her neck in search of Colt. “Where’s my son?”

  “Asleep.” The little fusspot had kept him hopping. Countless dirty diapers, hours of crying, and two spit-ups. But Ian still managed to keep the place clean and throw something together for dinner. His success made him grin.

  She bugged her eyes. “Already?”

  “Yes.” Was she pissed off? “A few minutes ago.”

  “How?” Her posture deflated. “He’s usually ramping up into a good evening fit right about now.”

  “Guess I wore him out.” Ian hadn’t considered that she might want to spend time with him. “Sorry. Did you want me to keep him up to see you?”

  “No. I’m sure he’ll wake up before long, anyway.” As her gaze roamed the spick-and-span condo, it grew even gloomier.

  Good thing he’d never needed much praise. He glanced around, unable to guess the source of her mood. When he looked back at her, her dewy eyes stopped him cold. “Is something wrong?”

  “Of course not. What could possibly be wrong? Everything here is perfect.” She marched into the kitchen and yanked a fresh bottle of wine from the refrigerator, then paused with the door open. “What’s this?”

  She removed the kale and quinoa chicken salad he’d tossed together.

  “Dinner.” He rested his hands on his hips, confused. Would this state be his new norm until he returned to Haiti?

  The Tupperware landed with a plunk on the counter as tears pooled in her eyes. “Excuse me.”

  She brushed past him in a blur of confusing fury and sorrow, racing into the powder room.

  He froze. Contrary to her claims from last night, maybe Gentry Cabot was crazy. Closing his eyes, he considered some options. A: bolt to his room to avoid what promised to be a weird cyclone of emotion, because if Gentry was anything like Farrah, he was in a lose-lose situation no matter what he said to soothe her. B: attempt to validate whatever problem had sent her running. Not his strong suit, but surely the nicer thing to do.

  He drew a breath before padding over to the powder room and tapping on the door. “Gentry? You okay?”

  She opened it almost immediately, unable to mask her red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

  Ian didn’t know a single man who didn’t falter in the face of a teary woman, and he was no exception. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Nope.” She slipped past him and returned to the kitchen, where she filled her wineglass.

  She hadn’t bitten his head off or blamed him—a positive sign that perhaps he’d picked the right option. He’d roll with it and try to help her relax.

  “It’s nice out.” He approached her with caution. “Go sit on the deck and get some fresh air. I’ll fix you a plate.”

  She kept her eyes on her wineglass, which remained on the counter, and nodded. She must’ve needed the pampering, because he doubted she caved often. “Okay.”

  He arranged the chopped chicken salad on a plate, sprinkled it with pomegranate arils and goat cheese, then went to the deck. Gentry had her chin on her knees, like a young girl who’d lost her best friend. He wanted to help but didn’t think he’d be welcome. He set the plate in front of her. “Would you prefer to be alone?”

  “No.” She picked up the fork, flashing a sheepish grin while still not quite meeting his gaze. “But you might.”

  Another surprise, but not even as big as finding himself in want of a little adult company as well. Specifically, hers. Her unpredictability intrigued him. He didn’t want to examine that too closely, but he took a seat.

  “Thanks,” she said, before trying her first bite. Her brows rose. “This is good.”

  “Whole Foods makes it pretty easy to throw together a dinner salad,” he confessed.

  “Easy for some.” Her gloomy expression returned.

  “It was a joke, Gentry.” Their conversation reminded him of the mirror hall in a fun house, where nothing appeared as it was.

  “How’d you even get there without a car? It’s like two miles from here.” She continued eating.

  “I took Colt out in the stroller and used its bottom rack to carry the bags.”

  She attacked that salad like a refugee who hadn’t eaten in days. The mysterious emotions rumbling behind her green eyes turned them as gray as storm clouds.

  He could sit here guessing, or he could ask. “It seems like I’ve upset you somehow . . .”

  “Look at the place,” she said, having barely swallowed her last bite before snatching another with her fork. A pomegranate seed fell off the fork onto her shirt, adding a pink stain to the beige one.

  He held his breath, expecting more tears.

  Instead, she plucked it off her chest and flicked it into the woods, snickering as if that seed had proved some point. She finally finished her thought, her voice filled with discouragement. “It’s spotless, and Colt’s sleeping.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “First, I screw up at work. Then I come home to all this. Either you and Sara are some kind of super-parenting geniuses, or I’m inept. Either way, Colt’s stuck with a crappy mother.” A dry chuckle emerged, but she kept her gaze on her plate. “The fact that I’m spilling my guts to you proves I’m totally losing it.”

  Her ruddy cheeks told him she immediately regretted her confession. If he thought she was throwing a pity party, he might’ve been annoyed. Instead, her sincerity shone through like a flashlight.

  Without thinking, he clasped her hand in a firm grip. Her gaze dropped to their intertwined fingers, but she didn’t withdraw. He held her hand longer than he’d planned. Another thing he didn’t want to think too hard about. Reluctantly, he released his hold. “You’re a good mother. I’ve seen you with Colt. Your love is obvious.”

  “Love’s the bare minimum he deserves. I can count on one hand the number of days where I showered, kept the house clean, ate well, and dealt with him all day.” She stabbed at her salad.

  “I’m glad I’m not that kale.” When his poor joke didn’t work, he said, “It’s easier for me because I’m not his mother.”

  Her expression turned to panic. “Did you let him cry himself to sleep?”

  “No. I promised I wouldn’t.” He sat forward. “But you love him so much his crying probably paralyzes you.”

  “Gee, thanks.” A wry cover. She did that often, too.

  “All I’m saying is that if you spend all your time cuddling and soothing him, it makes it harder to get other things done.”

  She sighed and looked down at the lake for a moment before returning her attention to him. “What did you do?”

  “Distracted him with activities—reaching games and rolling him over out here on a blanket. Texture stimulation. Whatever I could think of to surprise him and keep him moving.”

  “And he stopped crying long enough to enjoy it?”

  “Not really. He’s fussy, but he’s curious, too. He’d interact for a few minutes here and there before starting up again. He napped pretty well, though, which is when I straightened up.” He shrugged. “Remember, I sleep all night, unlike you, so I didn’t need to nap when he did.”

  Gentry’s brows pinched together as she pushed the remnants of her salad around the plate. “Thank you, Ian. Maybe I’d be happier that you did such a good job if I’d kicked ass at work.”

  “Sorry you had a tough start.”

  She sipped more of her wine. “The thing is, I still think I’m right. They just won’t listen.”

  “Right about what?” He welcomed the change of subject, having never been particularly adept at intimate conversation.

  Gentry explained the slogan debate.

  Corporate America and profit had never been his motivation. “I don’t know squat about advertising, but I like your slogan better.”

  “Thanks, but
it’s out. It doesn’t highlight the USP.”

  “USB?”

  “USP—unique selling proposition. It’s what makes our ready-made teas special. Sort of the main reason someone would choose us over other brands. We’re charging a little more, too—we’ve got to prove we’re worth it. Kind of like with people.”

  “What?” Her free-flowing thoughts spun like a potter’s wheel, making them tough to follow. And yet he was certain that, when pieced together, the pattern would be more colorful and complex than Haitian mosaic artwork.

  “Marketing a product isn’t all that different from marketing ourselves.”

  “You think people need to sell themselves?”

  She laughed in his face. “Of course you wouldn’t think so. Mr. Humanitarian-devoting-his-life-to-saving-the-world. You don’t need to think about what makes you special. You just are.” Gentry swigged more wine and averted her eyes.

  The unspoken implication—that she was unlike him—rang out as if she’d shouted through a bullhorn.

  Now he understood something important and sad about Gentry Cabot. Beneath all her bling and sarcasm, she didn’t think she had a single thing that made her desirable or worth the effort. He utterly disagreed. He also knew that no designer label or tattoo or tough attitude would be a substitute for self-esteem.

  In addition to caring for Colt, he made a private vow to help her see herself in a better light before he quit.

  She laid her head against the back of the chair and started talking to herself. “The tea you know . . . ChariTea you know . . . on the go . . . No. Hm.” Silence. “ChariTea on the go.” A smile formed, and she looked at him with her first truly happy expression of the evening. “‘ChariTea on the go.’ That’s better than ‘ChariTea begins with you.’”

  “Maybe, but it still doesn’t hammer home the fact that buying your product directly contributes to building a better world.”

  She frowned. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “What?”

  “The better world. That’s it.” She held up her hand, eyes focused in the distance, and thought for a while longer. “‘Thirst for a better world’ . . . well, but this satisfies thirst . . . so it isn’t quite right. Maybe ‘Quenching your thirst for a better world’? Or ‘Quench your thirst for a better world’?”

  “That works.”

  “It’s longer than ‘ChariTea begins with you,’ but it has more punch than the current slogan. It doesn’t address the convenience element, but I might not win that battle. This is something, though. Something to prove I’m not useless.”

  “Useless?”

  She waved her hand, her expression sealing itself up as tight as a clam. “You know, getting back up to speed and all.”

  He doubted that was all, but he didn’t push. The branding debate seemed like a lot of fuss about iced tea, but she looked so relieved and pleased, like she’d solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

  He wished his goals were so easily accomplished. After spending part of Colt’s naps today talking to Archer about the single biggest threat to their success—a shortage of suppliers and vehicles—he’d brainstormed ideas to source those items. A daunting task for a guy without wealthy connections.

  Suddenly, Gentry snapped her fingers. “Hello? Where’d you go?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking about my own plans.”

  Her green eyes lit up with interest as she leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. The glass door behind her became a mirror. In its reflection, they looked like a couple on a date. “What plans?”

  “My father’s friend Archer Cooke and I recently formed an NGO in Haiti to train locals to become EMTs. We have one local, Stanley, on board with us at this point, and we’re working with local hospital administrators to structure something that will complement its service. Teaching people basic lifesaving skills will improve lives in communities with little to no access to adequate health care. Our big challenge now is getting vehicles and an ongoing source of supplies.”

  “Wow.” She sat back again. “You want to live there, like . . . full-time? Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “I’d avoid pockets like Carrefour and Cite Soleil . . . Martissant. We’re setting up on the coast, in Jacmel.”

  “I know zip about Haiti . . . other than that it’s hot and poor.”

  “Very poor. They have a saying about wishing they were lucky enough to be dirt-poor. Deforestation started way back with the French and continued through the mideighties with the clear-cutting of the Haitian-Dominican border, so dirt gets easily washed away during storms, which makes it hard to grow fruit and other food. There’ve been efforts to cultivate more trees in recent decades. It’s having some impact, but poverty is a huge problem.”

  For a second, he flashed to a memory of some young aides tossing candy at kids in the street. He’d been smiling at their generosity until his father had pointed out the shop vendor sitting outside his empty store, sun glaring off his sweaty face, watching potential sales die. Ironically, many who went to help only made things harder and took resources from those in real need.

  “Can’t you manage that without living someplace so unsafe and unhappy?”

  Safety. Happiness. These were things he hoped to give others, so he would make the sacrifice. It was his privilege to do so, in fact. But he didn’t want to preach or talk about his dad—his bittersweet connection to Haiti. The place—grave—where he felt both closest to, and yet most distant from, his dad. “I’ll manage.”

  “But why?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “Cryptic.”

  He shrugged, hoping to sidestep her probing.

  Demonstrating a talent for intuition, she shifted directions. “Do you speak French?”

  “A little. Most locals speak Haitian Creole. I know enough to get by, but I’m getting better. Stanley’s been teaching me when I’m there.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Say something.”

  “Kote li fè mal?”

  “Ooh, kinda sexy.” She smiled. Hearing her call him—and the way he sounded—sexy roused him intolerably. “What’s it mean?”

  “Where does it hurt?” He forced himself to think of an instance where he’d asked that question of a patient in order to move his thoughts away from Gentry’s low voice saying the word “sexy.”

  “Oh.” Her smile fell. “I guess most of what you know has to do with sick people.”

  He nodded. Not sexy at all. Thank God.

  She stared at him now, pushing her empty plate aside. “Are there many women who work there?”

  “A fair amount. Why?”

  “I’m wondering if you get lonely. This life plan of yours won’t make finding love very easy. But I guess you already know that, or you wouldn’t be homeless now, would you?”

  He wasn’t ready to discuss Farrah or his love life. The quickest way to shut down that conversation would be to turn it around on Gentry. “Being a single mom must be pretty lonely.”

  “I’m not lonely,” she insisted. “I have my son.”

  “That’s not the kind of love that you’re talking about.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “In fact, this conversation makes me wonder about Colt’s dad.”

  “Yeah, well . . . get in line.” She smirked and finished her wine.

  “Still off-limits?” He almost held his breath, then felt stupid for being so curious. A few seconds ticked by, punctuated by a goose honk echoing off the lake below.

  “Oh, what the hell. Not like you’ll be around long enough to judge me forever.” She pulled her knees back up to her chest. “The truth is, I don’t know Colt’s dad. I met him at a bar while on vacation in Napa. We had a one-night fling, and I only know him as Smith.”

  “Oh.” Ian’s thoughts ranged from thinking of how reckless she’d been with her life, on one hand, and almost . . . almost . . . envying that sense of freedom. His mother had depended on him for so much in his father’s absence that he’d never had much freedom at all.

  �
��Every time you make that face, I’m going to call you McJ.”

  Her commentary snapped him out of his thoughts. “Mick Jay?”

  “Short for McJudgy-Pants.” She smirked. “Regardless, I can’t regret that night. I love my bugaboo. As for Smith . . . let’s just say he was hard to resist.”

  “Then why didn’t you try to find him?” The ludicrous burst of jealousy brought him low.

  “I’m not looking for ‘love,’” she snorted.

  Her words sounded a bit too practiced to be true. And that was beside the point, anyway. “Shouldn’t Smith know he has a kid?”

  “You can’t help yourself, can you, McJ?” Her expression turned from teasing to testy.

  It wasn’t his business. He knew that, yet he had to be honest. “Speaking as a guy, I’d want to know.”

  “Trust me on this. Smith’s nothing like you.”

  Her tone didn’t sound like a compliment—for either man. “What if Colt has questions about his father one day? Every kid wants to know his parents—even if you and Smith aren’t a couple.”

  She didn’t hit him with an immediate comeback, although her viper’s gaze warned that she’d thought of one. “For all I know, Smith could be married, or who knows what. My mom says we’re better off letting that sleeping dog lie, so to speak.”

  Yesterday she’d proved how little she cared for her mother’s opinions. That comment, however, might cause an explosion.

  He watched her gnaw at her thumbnail. She did that when she worried. “I don’t often follow my mom’s advice, but she’s raised enough concern to make me hesitate.”

  Ian had a definite sense of the right thing to do, but this was not his decision to make. He’d be gone in a matter of weeks and didn’t want to be held responsible for the consequences of whatever choice she made. “I guess you’ll have to trust your gut to tell you what’s right for your son.”

  “Oh, Ian. Haven’t you figured out that trusting my gut almost always leads to trouble?” She passed her remark off as a joke, but she didn’t fool him. She looked away, toward the lake, lost in thought. Then, abruptly, she stood and grabbed her plate. “I think it’s time I change into something more comfortable.”