On Second Thought
Page 70

Another of him with the girls on Halloween. One of him coming out of the water with Lydia. Nice abs, I noted. His, not Lydia’s. Another shot of him holding Emily, pointing at something in the sky.
He was a good father. If I didn’t believe it already, I’d have known from these pictures.
“Are you hungry?”
I jumped, flushing with guilt. Jonathan’s voice was right outside. “Yeah. Sure! Thank you.” Opening the door, I smiled. “This is a lovely room,” I said. “The whole house is beautiful.”
“Thank you. It’s been in my family for five generations. This way, please.”
Ah, yes. I was a servant in the family wing.
He led the way back to the large kitchen, which had wooded plank floors and tile counters, a fridge covered in children’s artwork and photos. “I need to call my daughters,” he said. “Please have a seat.”
I wriggled onto a stool at the counter. To my surprise, Jonathan poured me a glass of red wine without asking if I wanted one, then one for himself. Took out his phone. “Hello, Laine,” he said. “Are you safe?”
His jaw clenched, and yet his first question was for her safety.
“I’m home now. Yes. Do you have power? Good. Don’t go out. There are branches down all over town. Are the girls available? Thank you.”
Very civilized. I took a sip of my wine.
“Hello, honey bear,” he said, and my heart melted a little. His face gentled, and his voiced deepened even more. “Oh, it’s not so bad. No, nothing’s broken. It’s just windy. Don’t forget, the house has been here a long time.” His smile flashed and was gone. “Sure. I’ll pick you up at ten. I love you, too, bear. Put Lydia on, okay?” He glanced at me, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the floorboards.
“Hello, Lyddie. How was your day, pumpkin? What did you have for lunch? You did? Three pieces? How’s your tummy?” Another lightning smile. “The fairies?” He glanced at me, his eyebrow rising. “I imagine they have places to go. Sure. A hollow tree, maybe. A bee’s nest? I’ll ask. Okay, sweetheart. I love you. See you in the morning. Bye-bye.”
My heart felt achy and sore.
A man who loved his children that much should not have had to leave them. I hated his wife. Hated her.
“Lydia was concerned about the fairies,” he said. “But she thinks they must be friendly with bees and wanted me to check with you.”
A warm prickle crept across my chest. “Yes, she’s right, of course. Bees and fairies are very good friends. They also use mushrooms as umbrellas.”
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “I’ll let her know.” He looked at me. “Well. Let me make you dinner.” He opened the fridge. “Are you a meat-eater?”
“Yes. I love meat.”
“Good.”
I was suddenly nervous. Drank a little more wine. “Can I help?”
“You can make a salad.”
He set out some lettuce and tomatoes, dug around in the fridge and found a pepper, as well. I got to work, rinsing the lettuce and patting it dry, slicing the tomatoes. Opened the fridge and found some carrots and avocado, too. “Can I use these?” I asked.
“Of course.”
There were herbs growing in little pots on the windowsill. “How about these?”
“Make yourself at home,” he said.
It was so strange to be here, the rain still pounding the roof and gurgling in the gutters. Jonathan turned on the gas stove and set a cast-iron frying pan on it and began slicing up the beef.
Making dinner with Captain Flatline. Very strange.
“So this house is quite something,” I said when it became apparent he wasn’t going to initiate conversation.
“Thank you. My great-great-grandfather built it in 1872. Part of it burned down in the 1950s, so this kitchen and the family room are new. Newer, that is.”
He moved quickly around the kitchen, cooking efficiently. Occasionally, we’d get in each other’s way, doing that awkward left-right-left thing. The smell of beef filled the air. He sliced some potatoes and seasoned them with salt and pepper, then drizzled olive oil on them. Took some rosemary from the windowsill and added that.
Gotta love a man who knew his way around a kitchen.
He wore jeans and a henley shirt, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Beautiful forearms, muscled and smooth.
Had he always been this tall, or was it just because I was barefoot?
I finished making the salad, sat back down at the counter and watched as he nudged the meat and potatoes. Drank the very good wine.
Felt some feelings.
A thunderclap shook the house, and if possible, the rain fell harder. “It should clear up soon,” Jonathan said. “These storms don’t usually last very long.”
“I know.”
I poured myself a little more wine, then topped off his glass, as well. He nodded his thanks.
I was getting used to that formality. It occurred to me that he might be a little shy.
“Dinner is served,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.
He was shy.
I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed it before.
We ate at the table, not talking, just letting the storm blow and rumble around us. The food was fantastic, simple and flavorful, and I was suddenly starving.
Jonathan ate carefully and precisely, holding his fork in his left hand, like a European. Probably learned that at boarding school. I pictured the bleak place in the James Joyce novel, the little boy crossing off the days till he could go home at Christmas.
Yes. Jonathan fit that picture.
“Did you go to boarding school?” I asked.
He looked up. “Yes.”
“I can tell.”
He smiled. I smiled. The cat smiled.
He had a cat!
“You have a cat!” I said. Maybe shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. Too late now.
“Ainsley, this is Luciano. Luciano, meet Ainsley. Miss O’Leary to you.”
“Call me Ainsley, Luciano. Is he named after Pavarotti?”
Jonathan looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I only know one guy named Luciano.”
“Ah. Well. This Luciano also likes to sing.” The cat obliged with a squeaky meow, then regarded me with a delightful lack of interest.
“I have a question for you, Jonathan,” I said.
“Deeply personal, no doubt.”
“Yes.” I put my fork down and leaned back in my chair, the intimacy of the weather and the cozy kitchen making me relax. “Why are you running Hudson Lifestyle?”
He chewed carefully, his strong jaw flexing hypnotically, then swallowed, which forced me to look at his throat. “It’s the family business.”
What were we talking about? Oh, right, the magazine. “Do you like it?”
“I do.”
I shifted in my chair. “Why? All those kiss-ass articles about plastic surgery and day spas, all those phony, gushing restaurant and gallery reviews...you could be doing a lot more. You’re so smart.”
He didn’t answer.
Shit. That had been a really rude question. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yes. Well, the kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews do make our advertisers happy, and our advertisers pay your salary. And the salaries of the rest of us.”
“That’s true.”
He looked at me for a few beats. His eyes looked green now, but there was the little piece of gold. “I love this area,” he said. “The river that seems to go unnoticed, the farms that are fighting to survive. The little towns and ice tool museums. The whole history of our country is embodied here. If kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews get people to at least get a glimpse of a place like the ice tool museum, then maybe they’ll stop for a minute and learn something. Appreciate where we are and all that we have here.”