Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [46]
I was settled into bed reading my new book when Gabe came in at a little before eleven o’clock.
“How was dinner?” I asked, watching him pull off his leather jacket.
“It went really well. I’m feeling a little better about things, though Sam still doesn’t have a clue as to how difficult his life is going to be.”
“Neither did we at that age.”
He smiled. “No, I suppose not.”
After he was in bed, he asked, “What did you do this evening? I missed you, by the way.” He nuzzled my neck.
“Walked downtown with Scout. Went to the bookstore and listened to some music. That folk singer I like who sounds like Emmylou plays on Fridays, and I need to tell you about . . . ” He kissed me long and deep, cutting off my words before I could tell him about talking to Detective Hudson. That was my excuse anyway.
As we made love, though I fought it, my mind flitted over images of him and Lydia, how beautiful they looked together, how they had made love just as we were doing now.
“Querida,” he whispered, his shadowed eyes watching my face as his wide, calloused hands cupped my waist. I wondered what he had called Lydia in bed.
Looking down into the strong, familiar planes of his face, an image of Jack came to me, the only other man I’d made love with. Our fifteen years together went so fast. I barely remembered what his lips felt like on my skin.
Gabe closed his eyes, and I wondered if he was thinking of Lydia, of the other women he’d been with, of me. Life with this man was so much more complex than I’d ever imagined it could be, not just because of the complicated adult life he brought with him, but also because of our very different histories.
Then I gave myself over to him, something I never found hard to do with this frustrating, often unfathomable man who made me feel safer than anyone ever had, and for that moment, lost to the hands and lips that had come to know my body so intimately, I told myself the lie all lovers tell themselves, that I was special, that no one had ever made him feel the way I did and no one ever would.
9
“I’M GOING TO the office to catch up on some paperwork,” Gabe said at breakfast the next morning. “What time is that wine thing? What’s it called?”
“Zin and Zydeco. It starts at six-thirty. I’ll give you your ticket now, and we can meet there.” I slid the white ticket across the table. “I’ll save a dance for you.”
He put it in his wallet, took one last swallow of coffee, and kissed me on the lips. “No way.”
“For your next birthday, I’m buying you dancing lessons,” I said.
“Oh, by the way, I ran into Detective Hudson last night. He told me something interesting.”
“What?”
I told him what the detective had found out about the bullets. Gabe’s face sobered as he slipped on his jacket. “That’s not good.”
“So I assumed.”
He looked at me intently. “Why did he tell you this information? Were you questioning him about his case?”
“No, he offered the information without me putting bamboo shoots under his nails.”
Gabe didn’t look convinced. “Please stay out of this.”
“I am!” Tell him about Detective Hudson, a little voice inside me encouraged. But the expression on his face told me that it was doubtful he’d believe me. Not with my past record. “I swear I’m avoiding this like poison ivy.”
Still looking skeptical, he left for work.
Frustrated, I picked up his breakfast plate, throwing a bagel piece to Scout, then stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. That was enough