No River Too Wide (16 page)

She had asked Cristy Haviland, the Goddess House caretaker, and Cristy’s friend Dawson Nedley, to do the landscaping. She was pleased with their ideas, and while the flowering shrubs would take a year or two to settle in, bloom and look thoroughly at home, the chrysanthemums, lamb’s ears and ornamental grasses in front of them already looked as if they belonged there. While fall wasn’t the right season for tender herbs in the long planters that walled the patio in on three sides, Cristy and Dawson had tucked hardier oregano, thyme and chives between ornamental cabbages and kale.

She was nearly ready for business.

Behind her somewhere on the street she heard a car door slam, then footsteps heading in her direction. She only turned as they drew closer.

“Taylor Martin?” a deep voice asked.

“You’re a little early. Always a good selling point.”

“Am I?” He sounded surprised.

Taylor was surprised, too, not by how prompt the man was but by her immediate almost visceral reaction. He was tall and broad-shouldered, not heavy but muscular, substantial. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but not somebody who looked more apt to butcher a cow and roast it over a campfire than to create wheatgrass-pomegranate smoothies and tofu wraps. He was carrying a notebook and nothing else.

She pulled herself together and managed a polite smile. “Would you like to see the space first? Then we can talk about your ideas for using it.”

He hesitated before he gave a quick nod. Tanned skin and a prominent nose set off dark blue eyes. His hair was dark and cropped short, and there was no sign of tattoos, although who knew what lay under his white polo shirt?

A thought she wished she had avoided.

She started inside. “They’re laying flooring upstairs, so it’s pretty noisy inside. But the downstairs is nearly ready. And the café and kitchen are all finished, although we’re still waiting for some of the equipment. We need a menu and supplies. I’ll pay my chef for time organizing both before we open.”

He fell in step beside her. “What are you planning to serve?”

She thought that had been clear enough in the emails they had exchanged, but as she opened the front door and ushered him inside she humored him. “Smoothies, of course. Hopefully some originals so they aren’t like everybody else’s. You can’t throw a stone in Asheville without it landing in a smoothie.”

He grunted, as if he agreed that was marginally funny.

She went on, speaking louder over the din above them. “Fresh juice, herbal tea. I think we have to offer coffee, but fair trade and organic, of course.”

“Of course.”

She didn’t look, but if she’d had to guess, she would guess he was smiling.

“Sandwiches, with at least half appropriate for our gluten-free menu. Salads. Healthy desserts and breads. We’ll contract for those. There are plenty of people who can bake for us. Everything doesn’t have to be vegan, but at least half of what we offer should be. Soup when the weather’s cool, which means as soon as we open the café.”

“It sounds like a lunch menu.”

She took the narrow hallway that divided the downstairs studio from the reception area that also held her office. The café with room for six small tables and a counter with stools was in the back. “Well, like I told you, we won’t be open for dinner. But I do like the idea of packaging some of what we serve and offering takeout if we find there’s interest. That way our students can pick up something to take home after classes.”

“You could waste a lot of food that way.”

“Maybe not. I’d like to partner with a homeless shelter or maybe a women’s shelter and take our leftovers to them.” She glanced at him. “Have you ever been part of anything like that?”

“A time or two I helped make sure MREs got to relief workers who needed them.”

“MREs?”

“Meals ready to eat. Military-style.”

“You were in the military? I didn’t notice that on your résumé.”

They were in the café now, with its soothing sage-green walls, shining bamboo floors and Baltic-brown granite counter opening to the kitchen beyond.

“Miss Martin, I never sent you a résumé, although I did bring one today.” He opened his notebook to show her a neatly typed sheet. “I think there’s some confusion about who I am.”

She had no choice but to face him. “You’re not Dante Gilberto?”

“No, my name’s Adam Pryor. Somebody in town told me you’ll be offering an array of classes here, and I’m looking for a place to teach self-defense. I’m a third-degree black belt with a load of experience, and I think I would be an asset.”

At lightning speed Taylor ran over their few minutes together and realized that at no time had she asked him for his name. She had just assumed he was Dante, arriving a few minutes earlier than planned.

Why? Because he’d known her name and used it? Because with the olive-toned skin and strong nose she had assumed Italian heritage? She thought of Jan, who had to think about her own security with every move she made. Clearly Taylor could learn a thing or two about being cautious.

She tried not to sound as embarrassed as she felt. “This has been really careless of me. I jumped to conclusions. Dante’s supposed to be here in a few minutes for an interview. I guess if I’d been paying enough attention I would have noticed you seemed kind of foggy about our so-called emails.”

“I liked the tour, anyway. And your plans for the café, but I can’t cook, unless you count pouring milk on a bowl of cereal.”

“Good cereal? Whole grain? Nuts, fruit?”

He smiled, and she felt the same buzz of electrical energy she’d felt earlier when she turned to see him standing there. He had a slightly sardonic smile, as if he thought the world was a pretty silly place. Adam...what? Pryor? Adam Pryor might not be every woman’s cup of tea, but as rusty as she was in the matters of men and women, he seemed to be hers.

“I don’t have any plans to offer self-defense classes,” she said. “Regular yoga. We want to build a hot yoga studio.”

“What’s hot about yoga?”

“We heat the studio to 105 degrees.”

“So you sweat a lot?”

“That, but we also get better, deeper stretches. Some people really get into it, and I love teaching the class, but the equipment I need is beyond reach just now. We’ll have Pilates, Zumba, tai chi.”

“Tai chi is a martial art. You’re on the right track there.”

“I have a tai chi instructor already.” She was sorry she did, too, if not having one had meant she could hire Adam, even though the teacher was an old friend.

When he didn’t add anything she continued. “I’d like to offer cooking classes, maybe some stress reduction or coaching, even support groups. We’ll start slowly and build up. I don’t want to poach customers from other places. I’m hoping to fill a different need for people who want a community, not just an occasional class, but a place where they’ll make friends and hang out in their free time at our café or patio, and drop into classes to try them on for size.”

“Classes like self-defense.”

She thought of Jan, who hadn’t been able to defend herself against her husband. Wasn’t self-defense appropriate here?

“Who’s your target student?” she asked.

“Whoever you might want it to be.”

“What’s
your
ideal, then?”

He studied her. She thought he might like what he saw, because his gaze seemed to warm. “Women who feel helpless in their daily lives and need confidence. Women who don’t know what danger signs to look for, so they fall into situations they can’t fight their way out of.” He paused. “Women who aren’t afraid to run and run fast if that’s their best option.”

“So we aren’t going to pretend that women can beat men at their own game with just a little training?”

“Some women actually can. I’ve met a few I’d never want to go up against myself. But there are lots of things all women can do to stay safe and increase their chances of survival in a dangerous situation. The other things you’re planning here are important. Strength, agility, stamina. Those things matter, but using them to stay safe is a different skill set. And in the long run, what good is anything if a woman’s life is in jeopardy because she doesn’t know what to do in a confrontation?”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Like I said, I brought my résumé.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t a cook right at the start?”

“Because I was enjoying myself, and you let me in here so easily I thought it would be a nice chance to look around.”

“Maybe
I
could use a few tips on avoiding dangerous situations.”

“You’re not in any danger from me.”

As if on cue there was an explosive bang above their heads and, startled, Taylor jumped back and snapped her head toward the ceiling.

Adam’s reaction was more marked. He grabbed her before she could even see if plaster was about to rain down on their heads, and together they hit the floor, his powerful body half covering her before she could protest or even gasp for air.

Above them muffled curses replaced the banging, and Taylor registered the harsh sound of Adam’s breathing, the heat from his body, a whiff of spicy aftershave or cologne, before she put her hands on his chest and shoved. “Hey!”

In an instant he had rolled to the floor beside her and pushed himself upright. He hesitated; then he held out his hand. She just stared at him a moment, trying to order her thoughts, then pushed herself to a sitting position and finally up to her feet again—without his help.

“One too many tours of duty,” he said without looking right at her. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

He
looked
sorry, but she wasn’t sure for what. For knocking a stranger to the floor to protect her? Or for demonstrating that he hadn’t yet recovered from life in a war zone?

As she straightened her T-shirt she questioned him. “How long have you been out of the service?”

He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. “Apparently not long enough.”

“Afghanistan? Iraq?”

“Yeah.”

She was so far removed from the reality of war she couldn’t imagine anyone who had served in
both
places. “And now you’re teaching self-defense to earn a living?”

“I don’t expect to earn a living from teaching. I have other income.”

She noticed he didn’t say from what. “Do you have family in Asheville? Are you from here?”

“I’m not from anywhere. I’m an air force brat. Now my mother lives in a retirement community in California, and I don’t have siblings. My father died a few years ago. I like these mountains, and I thought I’d give them a chance.”

“So you’re looking for a place to settle?”

He seemed to shake off whatever had sent them sprawling to the floor. Anything he’d felt was now tucked away, and his expression had become carefully neutral.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking for. But I’ll be around here at least as long as I need to be. Teaching’s a good way to meet people and take the pulse of a community.” He smiled his sardonic smile. “If you’re interested.”

“I don’t know if I have the money to pay you.”

“We could split the tuition this first time and call it done. If I stay around and you like the feedback, then we can figure out how to handle the future.”

“You have an answer for everything.” Despite the events of the past minute, she softened her words with a facsimile of a smile. “I might want to take your class myself. I might be able to use some defense tips if somebody tosses me to the ground for real next time.”

He relaxed a little. “Do you have time to show me where the classes would be held if you decide to give this a try?”

Her cell phone rang, and she checked to see who was calling. She held up her hand to let him know she needed to take it, and he wandered toward the kitchen to look around.

In a minute she joined him there. “My chef candidate witnessed a fender bender, and he’s waiting for the police to show up. I have to leave in a little while, so he’s not coming today. While I’m waiting for my ride home I can show you what’s here, but no promises. I’ll have to think about your offer.”

“Of course.”

Half an hour later she couldn’t help being impressed by Adam Pryor. His questions were perceptive but not intrusive. She’d been particularly interested in the way he questioned the workers laying floor in the two yoga studios. Without even a hint of criticism he’d quickly gotten to the bottom of the boom they had heard—one of the workers had gotten distracted and crashed a heavy floor sander into a stack of cement board—then he had stepped back while Taylor found out how long the mistake would set back their schedule.

He’d been complimentary, but not effusive, about the design and the renovation, and he had admired the breezy upstairs classroom as a potential site for his class. He had particularly liked the view of the river from new windows that took full advantage of it.

“I’ve been told the French Broad is the third oldest river in the world, behind the Nile and North Carolina’s own New River,” Taylor said, as they went back downstairs. “I don’t know how they decide those things, but I like having the studio so near it, like we’re part of something flowing this way for millennia. It’s perfect in so many ways, and the local community’s only getting more interesting and active.”

“I appreciate the tour.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs as her phone rang again, and she took another call.

Maddie was on the other end, home from school already. Surprised, Taylor glanced at her watch in distress. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said. “And Jan’s not here to pick me up yet.”

She listened to her daughter, shaking her head and glad Maddie couldn’t see her when she realized what she was doing. “Of course, you’ll be fine. But if Jan doesn’t show up in a few minutes, I’ll call Sam and see if she can pick me up and take me home.” Even as she said those reassuring words, she realized Edna’s mom, Sam, would still be at her job at a maternal health clinic, where Taylor would never dare to bother her.

Silently, as her daughter tallied all the reasons she would be fine alone, Taylor ran through a list of people she could ask for a ride and discarded them one by one. Everyone, including her father, was doing his or her job. Stopping to fetch and take her home would be an imposition. And a taxi might take a long time to arrive. She could probably walk faster.