Chapter Twenty-Four

I have very little time to do too much of anything when I get back to hotel. Basically just enough minutes to change into more casual clothes, freshen up my hair, and dab on a hint of tinted moisturizer and mascara. Then I’m off again, heading for Gabe’s place on Cherry Lane.

I navigate my way there without a need to check my GPS. The area is one I know well enough, even if I didn’t grace it often as a kid. The roads in the older neighborhood are lined with mature trees. The houses are larger and lack the uniformity of the more modernly built ones. It’s a nice place to live. It’s a far cry from my old neighborhood, even how it was before it all got boarded up. Nothing on Cherry Lane has ever been rundown. But despite how inviting it is, as I turn onto the street and spy my destination, I’m hit with unexpected nerves. They beat against the inside of my stomach, making me breathless. I don’t know where the sensation is coming from, but when I coast to a stop alongside the curb in front of Gabe’s place and cut the engine, I eye the street, up and down, searching out the source of my new unease. I see nothing out of the ordinary. A small dog bounds up and down behind a white picket fence at the end of a block. Three doors down, a man stands on a ladder, clearing leaves from his home’s eavestroughs. Aside from those two things, the only movement comes from the breeze.

Get it together, Calhoun.

When the silent, self-directed order doesn’t have the desired affect, I shift my attention from examining the street at large to taking inventory of Gabe’s house and property. The lawn is tidy and green. A brightly smiling garden gnome sits atop a decorative rock in the center of the yard, and flowering shrubs frame the well-kept walk. Up near the front door, a hanging basket overflows with color. The home itself is just as he described it—blue with white shutters. The windows are clean, the roof looks new, and a set of wind chimes dangle from the overhang. It’s the picture of idyllic suburban living. And it makes me childishly pleased to know that Gabe is a resident there now. A victory over the bastards who always said that people like us wouldn’t amount to much. It makes my throat a little bit scratchy.

Yeah…you really do need to get it together, Calhoun, I tell myself.

But I still don’t move to get out. I close my eyes instead. I count my breaths and wonder if the guy on the ladder has seen me yet, and whether he’s debating calling the police. Thankfully, after another few moments, my stomach at last stops churning. But my relief is short-lived. Because just as I’m opening my eyes, a knock on my window makes me jump, and I whip my head to the left. Gabe is standing outside, a lopsided smile on his face.

His mouth forms the word, “Sorry.”

For a second, I don’t react. Because the flutters in my stomach have come back again, and I realize where my unease is coming from. Gabe. Date or not, the sight of his brown eyes and the flash of his even teeth is the cause of my unevenly beating heart.

Shit. Not what I need right now.

He taps on the glass again, and I have no choice but to either drive away in a panic or to open the door. I’m sorely tempted to do the former. But I manage to convince myself to choose the more reasonable option.

“Isn’t it customary to greet your guests at the door?” I say lightly as I make my way out of the car.

His smile widens. “Well, yeah. But who likes to be predictable?”

“The nice thing about predictability is that it tends not to give people heart attacks.”

“Not true. Someone could be predictably eating a tub of lard for breakfast each morning, and that might give them a heart attack.”

A laugh escapes my lips, and some of my butterflies dissipate. “Seriously? That’s what came to mind?”

“Want to hear a confession?” he replies.

“Not if it means you’re going to tell me you’re eating lard.”

“You know…based on that comment, I feel like your opinion of me has massively deteriorated over the last twenty years.”

“Then I guess your confession better be something that’s going to change that.”

He gives me a scrutinizing look. “Now the pressure is on. I was going to tell you that I’m not actually that spontaneous. I was just borrowing an apple from my neighbor across the street when you pulled up. But I feel like maybe that’s not the powerful piece of evidence I need to sway your stance on what kind of man I am.”

“Wait,” I say. “You were borrowing an apple?”

Gabe lifts his hand, and I see that he is, in fact, holding one. “Though technically, I suppose I’m keeping it rather than borrowing it.”

Belatedly, I notice that he’s got an apron over his jeans and T-shirt, and there’s a smear of flour on his forehead, too. “Are you cooking something?”

“Dinner and dessert for two.”

My pulse increases again, but I manage to stop just shy of darting a nervous glance toward his house. I obviously don’t do a great job of hiding my feelings, though, because he studies my face for a second, then groans.

“Shit,” he says. “You thought we were going out.”

“You did say the dinner would be lavish,” I remind him. “And that doesn’t exactly scream home cooked meal.”

“Dammit. You’re probably right. But you know what? We can still go out. I’ll just put everything away, get changed, and we can head to Garrett’s Eatery. I haven’t been there since I moved back, but I bet it’s as good as ever.”

I bite my lip and wonder whether it’s weird to insist on going out when he’s clearly put in an effort. It’s not just silly to be worried about being alone with him; it’s downright ridiculous.

“No,” I say quickly. “Don’t do any of that. It’s probably better to stay in. If we go out, someone will see us and assume we’re on a date, and we already established that it wasn’t one, so…”

He lifts an eyebrow. “True enough. And in that case… Wanna help me finish making a ragout?”

“I can’t even spell ragout.”

“Then you can sip wine and watch me cook.”

“All right. Sold.”

I follow him into the house, and despite my reservations, I feel at home almost immediately. The décor is full of warm tones and cozy ambience, and there’s no denying that the smells permeating the air are just this side of heavenly. I don’t argue when Gabe guides me to a tall, low-backed stool at the breakfast bar in his kitchen and hands me a glass of pinot grigio. The ragout is simmering, there’s a tray of biscuits waiting to go into the oven, and an apple and peach cobbler is awaiting the finishing touches.

As Gabe confidently seasons and stirs, the conversation flows. We talk a little bit about the way Whimsy has changed, and we touch on old times. Admittedly, I start out feeling like I’m deliberately steering clear of anything that involves Savannah, but it doesn’t take me long to realize that Gabe is avoiding the subject, too. My guard drops even more. And I realize that I’m glad that I didn’t insist on heading to a restaurant instead. This is a million times better.

Sipping the wine, I lean in and listen as Gabe tells me about his first encounters with old acquaintances when he arrived back in town three and a half months earlier. I laugh as he describes the look on his third-grade teacher’s face when he turned up an aisle in the grocery store and ran straight into her cart.

“Mrs. Tanner,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “She actually wagged her finger at me and asked if I was going to steal her stapler again. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “As a matter of fact, I can.”

He chuckles. “Do you remember how she seemed so old back then?”.

“Ancient.”

“Yep. But I’m guessing she was in her late fifties. Doesn’t look much different now. Seemed pretty spry for her age.”

I study his face for a second. “I guess she’s got good eyes for her age, too.”

He shoots a puzzled look my way. “What do you mean?”

“That she recognized you straight off the bat like that.”

“Right. I forgot that you tried to kill me in the cemetery.”

“If I were trying to kill you, I would’ve succeeded,” I counter.

He laughs again. “I suppose you would have. Otherwise, I’d have some questions about your abilities as a proud officer of the law.”

“Very funny.” I frown as a thought occurs to me. “But speaking of careers…what are you doing for work nowadays, then?”

“I’m between jobs at the moment, actually.”

“Between jobs?”

“Yep.”

“You know…if this were a date, that would be a red flag,” I reply.

“Ah. But it’s not a date, so I have nothing to lose,” he tells me.

The talk of dates makes me think of Jennika’s roommate and Smarty-Pants, and I speak again without thinking about it. “When was the last time you did have a date?”

“Ouch,” he says with an exaggerated wince.

I give him a look. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just wondering if you’d ever tried one of those dating apps.”

“Because you’re going to try it yourself, and want my expert advice?”

“Hardly. Unless you actually have expert advice?”

It’s his turn to study me. “Seriously, though. Why do you want to know?”

“Just something I ran into on a case.” I shrug casually. “I have no experience on that front.”

“Ah, well…if it’s for work, then I’ll be honest—because I wouldn’t want to subvert the law—and say that yes, I did once join a dating website.”

“You did?”

He nods. “I did. And I wouldn’t knock the experience as a whole. I’ve got a couple of buddies who met their wives that way.”

“But I’m guessing yours didn’t go quite so well?” I reply.

“Not a bit. The woman I met wasn’t even close to who she said she was.”

“She had a fake profile?”

“No,” he says. “Her bio was surface real. Real picture, real personal background. I’m just not interested in something that’s only surface real. Too much shit in the world to wade through already, you know?”

For a second, I forget that the point of my query has nothing to do with what Gabe is looking for in a woman. His face is serious and impassioned. It sends a trickle of warmth through me.

“Yes,” I say. “I get it.”

His head tips in agreement. “So I cut her loose, decided it wasn’t the thing for me, and shut down my account.”

Our gazes stay locked for a moment before Gabe turns away to dip his wooden spoon into the ragout. Holding his hand under the scoop of stew, he steps over to me and holds it up to my lips. I oblige and take a taste. The flavor is even better than the smell.

“Okay,” I say, swiping my thumb over my lips. “I admit it. Lavish is definitely a good word to describe this. I’m impressed. And a little intimidated. If I had you over for dinner, I’d be feeding you a frozen pizza and wine from a box.”

“Hey, now. Don’t knock the boxed wine,” he replies. “It’s affordable and lasts a lot longer than the bottles.”

“Both qualities which matter to a man who’s between jobs,” I tease.

“Now who’s funny?” He pauses and gestures to my glass. “But speaking of wine…”

I look down, surprised to see that I’ve finished it. “Whoops.”

“Don’t worry,” Gabe says. “A red will go better with the ragout anyway.”

I accept the second glass as we set the table together and dish out the food. And by the time we finish the meal, I’ve stopped worrying about the amount of enjoyment I’ve been getting from the evening. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt words and laughter come as easily as they do now. So when Gabe suggests we eat dessert in the living room, a pleasant rush of anticipation hits me hard. And I’m glad that he hands me another glass of wine—sweet, this time—and insists that I relax while he grabs the rest of the food. But once he’s gone, I start to feel antsy. My knee bobs restlessly, and I take a too-big gulp from my glass. When I see that I’ve downed half the wine in the single fell swoop, I wince. I toss a glance toward the spot where Gabe exited, then quickly refill my glass from the bottle and order myself not to drink any more of it. I’ll probably need to cab back to the hotel, regardless. But I don’t need to make a fool of myself.

Seeking a distraction, I let my gaze slide around the room, absorbing every detail as I do. Just like the rest of the house, this space is homey and decorated in warm tones. The floor is oak, the walls a deep taupe. A plush area rug in cream lies under the couch where I sit. The couch itself is brushed-suede, full size, and the deepest shade of burgundy. It’s also one of two, and together, they form an L around the rug and table. Across the room, there’s a wood-framed fireplace, and its mantel perfectly matches the floor. Two abstract paintings in complementary colors grace the largest wall, and a piece of Haida art hangs over the drape-covered window. I swivel my head, admiring it. But I also frown a little, as something tickles at my brain.

What is it? It only takes a moment for the answer to come to me. Something personal. That’s what’s missing.

Absently sipping the wine, I push to my feet and turn in a circle, looking around with more scrutiny this time. And then I see it. A picture of Savannah.

My breath catches.

Even from where I stand, and even though it’s tucked into a decorative alcove, I’m certain that the photo is of her. Because I know it well. In the shot, she’s sitting on a log, her hair twisted into a waist-length braid, her cheeky grin blazing at the camera. It was the one used in her funeral program. And I’ve kept a copy of it on every fridge I’ve had since moving away from Whimsy.

I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat. A new guilt hits me.

We should’ve talked about her more over dinner, I think, stepping closer to the photo. She deserves to be celebrated, no matter how much it hurts.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and lift the framed picture from its resting place. I stare down at my friend’s face. Her eyes are the same shade of brown as Gabe’s, but her hair isn’t dark like his. Instead, it’s honey blond. Freckles dot her skin so unevenly and in so many sizes and shapes that it looks as though someone splattered her with paint. Fierce love and sadness prick at me. My fingers tighten on the frame, but I still nearly drop both it and my almost empty wineglass as Gabe suddenly speaks up from behind me.

“I miss her so fucking much that it hurts physically,” he says.

As I breathe out a shaky reply, I don’t dare look at him for fear that he’ll see the self-blame in my eyes. “Me, too.”

“The older I get, the more I think about how much of a senseless waste it was.” His voice is gruff. “She was so damn young. I see women her age now, and I just…I can’t wrap my head around the idea. They’re just kids.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Silence sweeps through the room, dragging away the warmth. I don’t know how to break it without giving more away than I want to. The ache is deeper than deep. It’s an abyss.

I should never have come back, I think.

Gabe’s palm finds my back. “You were just as young, Trin. You know that, too, right?”

I mean to pull away, but instead, I lean into his touch. “Does age matter, in a situation like that?”

“Of course it does. Thirty-eight-year-old you would do things differently if she could go back in time, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t make the same choices, because she’s not the same person.”

“Thirty-eight-year-old me knows time travel isn’t possible.”

His hands slide to my shoulders, and he turns me around gently. “That’s not my point.”

I meet his eyes, and the confession builds up in my chest. I think of my boss, telling me who I could be, if only I could get rid of the chip on my shoulder. I think of my denial. My mouth opens. My lips quiver. But I don’t speak up. The expectant look in Gabe’s eyes makes me stop before I even start.

What good will it do now, to tell him the truth? I wonder. It will only make him hurt more. And for what? An unburdening of my own conscience?

“It’s getting late,” I say lamely.

There’s clear disappointment in the set of Gabe’s lips as he releases my arms, and he shakes his head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Gabe…”

“I won’t make you talk about Savannah if you don’t want to, but we haven’t had dessert yet.”

I heave an apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, sounding like he means it.

He angles himself away from me, and I realize that he must’ve come into the room sooner than I’d thought. Two plates of apple crumble sit beside the wine bottle on the coffee table.

“Please,” Gabe adds.

I clear my throat. “If I don’t want to talk about her, are you sure you want me to stay?”

“No question about it.”

As he meets my gaze, I have a weird urge to remark on just how much his eyes look like chocolate at the moment. I tip back the last sip of the sweet wine in order to stop myself from saying it. I nod, then exhale again, a little more steadily this time. But as I step toward the couch, I’m momentarily light-headed.

Shit. Too much wine.

I’m thankful for the light touch of Gabe’s hand on my elbow, and even more grateful to sink down onto the soft fabric.

“You okay?” he asks, concern etching into his forehead.

A flush slides up my throat. “Yes. Fine. I think it’s just strange to be back here in Whimsy. Every little thing throws me off.”

“I get it,” he says, lifting the plates of apple crumble from the table and handing me one. “It’s kind of surreal.”

He takes a bite of the homemade dessert, and I follow suit. A blast of delicious sweetness and tartness hit my mouth at the same time, and I finish chewing and raise an eyebrow at Gabe.

“You know…” I say. “If you have any interest in not being between jobs, you could pursue something in the culinary arts.”

“It’s good?”

“So good.”

A grin tips up his mouth, and he refills my wineglass, then takes a sip from his own.

“Confession?” he says.

“Another one?” I joke.

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a man of many secrets.”

“Not for long, you aren’t…not if you keep confessing all of them to me, anyway.”

“Just one more, I promise.”

“Okay,” I concede. “It will give me a chance to get in another bite, anyway.”

He chuckles. “All right, here it is. I was originally going to make a raspberry pie. I had all the ingredients, and I even bought a new pie plate. But then I remembered that you were allergic to raspberries.”

My chest tingles. In fact, my whole body kind of tingles. And quite abruptly, I notice that our knees are touching, and my eyes drop to look at them before coming back up to his face again. For a heartbeat, I forget what we’re talking about. I fill my mouth with wine to cover my momentary lapse.

Raspberries, I quickly remind myself.

“You remembered that?” I ask.

“Of course I did.” His voice drops an octave. “I remember most things about you.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“The allergy isn’t impressive enough?” He pauses, and I feel his fingers trail lightly over the back of my hand.

A shock of heat runs through me. The sensation is so heady that it borders on dizziness, and my breath catches.

The wine, I remind myself. It’s the stupid wine.

But my mouth isn’t listening to my brain.

“The allergy isn’t bad…” I say in an unexpectedly flirtatious tone. “But I think you can do better.”

Gabe tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or…”

“Or what?”

“You could tell me something that you remember instead.”

At the request, I’m immediately hit with a tumble of memories.

I recall being twelve and confessing to my sometimes-friend Marion that I thought Gabe was cute. I didn’t dare tell Savannah. Because I’m sure my best friend wouldn’t have wanted to hear how nice her brother’s smile was. Still, I’d needed to get it out. Marion, though, had been a bad choice. She’d laughed and asked if I was kidding. I was embarrassed, and I’d changed the subject, even though my mind was still on Gabe’s warm stare.

I also have a vivid recollection of the time when I was sixteen, and I’d crashed into him at the outdoor pool. I’d looked up. Started to smile. But he’d stared down at me like I was a stranger. So I’d spun and scurried back to my towel, and then acted surprised when Savannah had pointed him out from across the deck.

I can feel the ache in my chest from when I was eighteen, and we were at Savannah’s funeral. The sorrow had been so heavy that I’d barely been able to lift my head. But my one glance up had landed my gaze right on Gabe. He was in a suit. Incredibly handsome. Desperately sad. And my heart had broken into a thousand pieces when he’d cried over his sister’s casket. The guilt had made me flee.

And even though he continued to live in Whimsy for almost a year after that, the next time I saw him up close again was yesterday, in the graveyard.

But you can’t tell him any of that, can you?

And it turns out that I don’t even have to. His lips brush mine before I can speak. And with the barely there kiss, I forget about the past. In the here and now, my hand wants to clutch at Gabe’s chest and pull him closer. And I very nearly do it before common sense kicks in and reminds me—rapid-fire-style—of all the reasons I need to pull away.

This isn’t a date. I’m here to help Asher. I’m going home to Vancouver as soon as I can. This isn’t right.

I jump to my feet, and my head reels. I’m woozy enough that I stumble. In fact, the only thing that keeps me on my feet is the fact that Gabe stands up, too, and his hands steady me. He says something. But the room does a weird spinning thing, and I miss the meaning of his words. Then I see his eyes flick to my freshly empty glass. And my overzealously beating heart drops to my knees.

Was there something in the wine?

It’s a crazy idea. Ridiculous, even. But for a solid few seconds, I actually believe it might be true.

“Poison,” I mumble.

Gabe blinks, and I have no clue if it’s because he understood me or if it’s because he didn’t understand me. Clumsily, I step away from him. My movement puts a couple of feet between us, and I have to grab the back of the couch to keep on my feet. I sway.

“Trin,” Gabe says. “How much of the dessert wine did you drink?”

I’m going to argue that I’m not drunk. It’s a ridiculous thing to suggest. But I stop before I even start. Because it’s obvious that it’s a much more plausible explanation for my bleary eyes than poison would be. An unsteady laugh bursts from my lips, and I clap a hand over my mouth.

“Sorry,” I say from behind my fingers.

How the hell did I let this happen?

Gabe says my name again, sounding truly worried. “Trin.”

I let my hand fall to my side, and nausea rolls in. “Gabe?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel very well.”

“Yeah, I think you should sit back down for a second,” he replies.

“No. I need to…”

“What?”

I don’t answer. I don’t even know what I was going to say.

Dammit, Calhoun.

Gabe’s voice carries through the murkiness. “I’m going to grab you a glass of water, Trin. Don’t move, okay?”

Couldn’t if I wanted to, I think.

“Yeah, okay,” I mumble aloud.

I sink to the couch and close my eyes. Vaguely, I hear Gabe’s feet thud lightly against the hardwood as he leaves. I try to rouse myself, but the room spins. My eyes stay closed. Panic battles for supremacy. But oblivion quickly takes over. My eyes sink shut, and the world goes black.