speeches out longhand on those ugly yellow legal pads then Aubrey typed them up and converted them into Word for my phone. Then I simply glanced down at my phone as I was speaking unless there was a teleprompter at hand, but those were as rare as hen’s teeth in my hometown.
There was a rousing fire in the hearth and two cups of decaf coffee sat on the coffee table. My feet were resting on his thighs. He was rubbing them unconsciously, sometimes putting a little too much juice behind the massage when the book went somewhere he disliked. It was terribly domestic, and I was soaking it up. God above I had missed this part of being with someone. The quiet nights, the companionship, the knowledge that no words were needed in order to share a moment in time. Would he spend the night? I hoped so. I could make French toast in the morning. Or perhaps attempt an omelet…
The soft knock on my door at nine o’clock startled me from breakfast menu planning. Gideon glanced up when I jumped then pulled his earbuds free.
“Someone at the door.” I sniggered at my nerves then untangled our legs and hopped to the door. My mother stood on the porch with a pie pan in her hand and quite the penitent expression.
“I made two pies because I had lots of crust. I thought you’d be over for dinner.”
“Come in, please.” I took the pie that was covered with foil then closed the door gently behind her. She unwound the scarf around her throat and then shoved it into the pockets of her winter coat. “We grabbed something at the high school. They were selling hot dogs and such. I should have called…”
“No, it’s fine. Hello, Gideon,” Mom said as Gideon hurried to get to his feet.
“Evening, Mrs. Griffiths,” he said with measured politeness.
“I thought you might like to have some with ice cream for a snack before bed. I know you like apple pie warmed with vanilla ice cream for dessert,” she said, her gaze lingering on Gideon even though she was speaking to me. “Do you like vanilla, Gideon?”
“I do, yes, very much, ma’am,” he replied then flicked a peek in my direction. The ass. I so wanted to slap him in the face with the pie, but it was a homemade Mom pie. It would be sacrilegious to waste it on his fat head.
Mom nodded before taking a deep breath. “I brought that over because I’m fresh out of olive branches. I assumed everyone likes apple pie but if you don’t care for apple, Gideon, I can—”
“No, no! I love apple pie. Thank you, but you didn’t need to go through all this. You’ve really done nothing wrong, Mrs. Griffiths. I mistreated your son terribly as a child.”
“Yes, you did,” she was quick to reply. I passed the pie to Gideon, its rightful owner, and then sat down on the arm of my sofa to listen. He didn’t seem to quite know what to do with the pie or my mother’s apology. “But that was when you were a child. You’re a man grown now. A man who’s made great strides to better himself, break the chains of poverty and alcoholism that he grew up with, and make a name for himself in the world. As an educator, I should have worked harder to leave the past and all those skinned knees and huge tears my son cried over you behind. I didn’t though. All I could see was the pain you’d brought. Then my husband pointed out that you were now bringing my son a great deal of joy. We can see how much he loves you in his eyes when he looks at you.”
My mouth fell open. “Mom, we’re not really at the L-word stage of this relationship.”
“Now, now, don’t be filibustering. Let the woman speak,” Gideon jumped in, shoving the pie at my chest then going over to give my mother a hug. She seemed stiff at first, but she melted a bit and hugged him back. “So, tell me exactly how much adoration for me do you see when Evan glances my way. Enquiring minds want to know.”
He led her back to the sofa where they sat beside each other and started whispering about me. I opted to go cut the pie and make another pot of decaf. Lord knows I didn’t need to hear them swapping embarrassing tales of my doe-eyed looks at Gideon.