Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,69
into my closet. Reaching inside, I pulled out a pair of yoga pants that had never seen a yoga class in their life. Then I plucked Dad’s shirt out of the closet, pulling it over my head without undoing the buttons.
Turning toward the mirror, I pictured my father in the shirt, the deep red stripes weaving in and out of blue and green and gold, the plaid bold and comfortable. I could see his smile as if he were there with me, beside me, alive.
The past faded into the present and a tremble started deep within me, shaking me from the inside out. I sank to the floor, not even trying to quell the overwhelming sense of sadness that surged through me. But when the doorbell rang, I welcomed the interruption.
No one in his or her right mind would stop by this early, but based on my current mental state, any company would be good company.
Mrs. Cooke stood on the doorstep, a covered plate in one hand, a thermos in the other.
“I heard Poindexter so I brought you over some breakfast, dear.” She spoke the words cheerfully as she breezed past me, headed toward the kitchen.
She unscrewed the top of the thermos, took two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in both. Then she uncovered a dish of homemade muffins.
I leaned against the doorjamb, taking in the sight, wondering if I still might be asleep and dreaming.
When she opened the back door and called Poindexter in, I pinched myself.
Poindexter gave Mrs. Cooke a warm greeting, and she rewarded him with a dog biscuit from the pocket of her cardigan.
Morning people.
How did they do it?
“You really shouldn’t have.” I gestured toward the counter and to Poindexter. “But, it’s awfully nice.”
She pulled out a chair and tipped her head. I followed her directive obediently, dropping into the chair as she set a stack of napkins and the plate of muffins in the center of the table. I took a long swallow of coffee the instant she handed me the mug, then squinted at the woman.
“Why?”
The corners of her eyes crinkled with kindness as she patted my hand. “A little birdie told me you’ve got a lot going on.”
My squint morphed into a frown.
She read my unspoken question, nodding her head. “Aidan.”
“Who?” I straightened.
“Aidan.” A mischievous grin lit her face, her pale eyes dancing. “I believe you call him Number Thirty-Six.”
Oh, that Aidan. I slid lower in my seat, ashamed of myself.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to him yesterday, Mrs. Cooke.”
“Call me Sophie, dear.” She pulled out a chair and joined me, plucking a muffin from the plate and peeling back the paper cup in which she’d baked the pastry.
“Sophie,” I repeated, testing out the feel of her name. I liked it. “Anyway--” I shook my head “--it was awfully nice of him to let you know.”
“He’s a nice boy.” She nodded.
Yeah, when he wasn’t sending your dog out on suicide missions without a leash.
We sat in silence for several long moments, sipping our coffee and eating. There was something in Sophie Cooke’s eyes I couldn’t quite put my finger on. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she knew I’d been more than a little harsh with Number Thirty-Six.
I decided to test out my theory.
“I might have been worse than not very nice,” I said softly.
“I know, dear.”
“You do?”
She nodded, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her gaze. “I may have cracked my window open to hear a bit better.”
My mouth fell open as I sat back against the chair.
“Mrs. Cooke.” I teased.
“Sophie.”
“Sophie,” I repeated. “You were eavesdropping?”
She gave a slight lift and drop of her slender shoulders. “A woman’s got to get her excitement somehow.” The corners of her mouth pulled into a smile, lighting her features.
I smiled in return, ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “I really was mean, wasn’t I?”
She nodded.
“Do you think I overreacted?”
Another nod.
“What should I do?”
She blinked as if the question were a no-brainer. “You could always talk to him, dear. Go apologize. I’m sure he’s sorry for pushing you and Poindexter a bit too hard.”
I narrowed my gaze and she nodded.
“He doesn’t bite, last time I checked.”
Too bad.
The image of his hurt expression when I’d told him he needed to leave me alone flashed through my mind’s eye.
Shame on me.
Sophie’s kind gaze narrowed. “He knows you’re under a lot of stress, dear,” she said as if reading my thoughts. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what happened.”
She reached for the placemat covered