These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (7 page)

            “Henry
has archeology students staying at the park for a few months. They’re working
on an excavation project in the former slave homes,” Gideon said into the
silence. “And she’s kindly agreed to help sort that basement full of historical
documents on Trudeau Street.”

            “The
old Finnamore place?” Bix asked. “Why not move all that stuff somewhere nicer. That
house isn’t fit for habitation.”

            “We
just don’t have the room at the archives. And it’s true, from what I
understand, the wiring issues and the structural problems might make it
unsaleable,” Gideon said. “But I have an agreement with the estate that I can
use the basement for now.”

            “Henry,
this is excellent news,” Father Tom said. “I tried to help out a bit, but I’m a
talker. I probably slowed Gideon down more than anything else.”

            Bix
said, “Just don’t take him away from us on Saturdays. Right Father Tom? Bream
fishing is good for the soul. Any other day of the week you two can hole up
together with your dusty treasures.”

            “Oh,
we won’t be working―” Gideon said, speaking at the same time as Henry.

            “No,
I’m sure I’ll be―”

            “―at
the same time,” he said.

            “―working
alone,” she said.

            “Sorry.”
Gideon rubbed a hand over his beard. “We’ll both just work… separately.”

            Father
Tom looked from Gideon to Henry, then back to Gideon. “But you have to show her
where to start, right? You were just saying that. In fact, you said that when I
ran into you on Tuesday and twice just this afternoon.”

             “I
was trying not to forget.” He was giving Father Tom such a look. “When would be
best?”

            “Anytime.
In fact, later this evening is fine, if that works for you,” Henry said.

            “How
about I came back here around six? Too late?”

            “Perfect,”
she said. She wanted to make the easy for him. He was clearly busy. She saw Bix
nudge Charlie and glanced around the circle. They were probably keeping Alice
and Paul from their trip. “Alice, are you headed out now?”

            “Yep,
we’d better be on our way. We’ll only be gone a week. Call me if you need
anything. And you have Bix’s number?” Alice reached into her purse and took out
a slip of paper. “Paul’s mom lives pretty near and she can run over, too, if
you need anything. I know this place can be sort of scary at night, the way it
creeks and settles. Don’t let it spook you. Or the cats.” She looked up and
gave Mr. Darcy a pointed look.

            “I’m
sure everything will be fine. I’m used to living alone,” Henry said.

            There
was another round of hugging, a few kisses, and then Paul and Alice were out
the door.

            “Hey,”
Charlie said. “Did y’all come to see them, or did you need a book? Father Tom,
I got a new Clive Cussler in yesterday. But you probably already read his last
one.”

            “Actually,
I haven’t,” he said. “I’d love to get it. I came in here to see if I could find
something for my mom. Her birthday is coming up and I want to get her some new
cookbooks.”

            Gideon’s
shoulders tensed. She wondered if he was in contact with his parents or if his
actions had severed those ties forever. She felt sympathy rise up and then
reminded herself that taking responsibility was part of being an adult. So many
times she’d had to handle the fall-out of others’ actions, their lies, their
inability to admit the truth that was plain to see.

            She
let out a long breath and Gideon turned, a question in his eyes. “Was she
helping you? We probably just cut in line.”

            “Oh,
no, Henry was just browsing in the poetry section,” Charlie said as she led Father
Tom toward the cookbook section. “Edna St. Vincent Millay is her favorite.”

            Henry
felt a flash of irritation at how easily Charlie shared that bit of information
and wondered if she was as free when someone was reading something less
appropriate.

            Gideon
said, “A very fine poet. People say she’s depressing but I find her refreshing.
Perhaps she’s a little too truthful for the romantics among us.”

            “Yes,”
Henry said, surprise coloring her words. “Romance and truth don’t always go
hand in hand. There is such a thing as too much truth, like in Bluebeard.”

            “This
door you might not open, and yet you did,” he said, quoting the first line.

            “Yet
this alone out of my life I kept unto myself, lest any know me quite,” Henry
quoted back, skipping to the end of the poem.

            “This
now is yours, I seek another place,” he said, reciting the last line.

            She
smiled. “Romantics believe you have to know someone inside and out in order to
love them deeply. People think secrets are bad. But they’re not. Not all of
them. Some are meant to be kept.”

             “I’m
sure popular opinion would disagree,” he said, “but I think that the closer you
are to someone, the more important it is to respect their privacy. In general,
living a private life is a concept that is met with suspicion and distrust.”

            “Exactly.
We’re
expected to offer up our very deepest selves for inspection at any moment, even
to strangers.” Henry smiled up at him, feeling for the first time in a long
while that she was in perfect understanding with another person. She wanted to
freeze the moment, capture it somehow so that later she could present it as
evidence that she wasn’t such a misfit. There were places in her heart that she
wanted to keep to herself and here was another person who agreed it was
perfectly normal.  “It’s amazing what people think they can ask, as if
interacting with the world has become one long first date.”

            He
smiled. “I’ve never been on a date. But considering your take on it, I now consider
myself lucky,” he said.

            She
felt her mouth drop open a little. “Never? Not a single date?”

            “What’s
this about a date?” Father Tom was back, holding a deep green bag with By the
Book printed on it. She could see the curiosity in his dark eyes.

            “Hey,”
Gideon said. He looked around, as if surprised Father Tom had finished so soon.
“All done?”

            He
held up the bag. “One book of Southern Cakes. One book of Southern Pies.”

            “Your
mother sounds like someone I need to meet,” Henry said.

            “You’d
like her,” Father Tom said, glancing at Gideon. “The next time they’re in town,
I’ll have you both over for dinner.”

            Henry
was about to agree when she caught Gideon’s expression, his lips pressed tight
together, eyes narrowed. Of course. Two single people in the same room and the
entire town starts planning a wedding. Gideon just said he wasn’t interested in
dating anyone and here Father Tom was trying to fix them up. “I couldn’t
impose,” she said. She stepped away before Father Tom could protest. “Well, I’d
better be getting home.”

            “We’ll
walk you out,” Gideon said.

            She
was already half way across the foyer, headed for the back of the store. “I
live upstairs.” She waved a hand. “Nice to see you both again.”

            “Don’t
forget,” Gideon said. “Tonight at six, Trudeau Street.”

            Henry
almost missed her step. “Right. See you then.” Of course she hadn’t forgotten.
As she slipped through the back door and up the old wooden staircase to her
apartment, she berated herself. She needed to act like a professional, not some
awe-struck fan. No more poetry quoting, no more commenting on the lack of
privacy, and absolutely no more discussions on dating.

                                                            ***

            They
were hardly out the door when Tom turned to him, a grin spreading over his
face. “Well, now.”

            Gideon
stared straight ahead, refusing to take the bait. He was wishing he’d parked
closer because he knew how much talking Tom could do in the length of a block.

            “That
was interesting,” Tom said. “Very, very interesting.”

            He
kept his expression neutral and watched two young boys navigate the historic
district sidewalk crowd on their scooters. There was the tiniest bit of breeze
coming off the water but he felt like he was wearing a sweater in the humidity
and he ran a finger under his collar.

            “Oh,
come on,” Tom finally said, reaching out and nudging him with an elbow.

            “What?”

            “Talk
to me,” Tom said, laughter in his voice. “You saw it. Everyone saw it.”

            “I
still have no idea what it is you’re talking about.”

            “You
stopped her in her tracks. She was like a swamp toad in the beam of the
flashlight.”

            Gideon
threw him a look. Tom was being intentionally ridiculous just to get a rise out
of him. “I didn’t see anything like that.”

            “She
was mid-sentence when we came in and lost her train of thought. Then she
couldn’t even find words to explain herself,” Tom said.

             “I
told you, she has some kind of anxiety disorder. I don’t think it’s funny at
all.”

            Confusion
flicked over his face. “I don’t think so. I’ve talked to her before when she’s
visited St. Augustine’s with Birdie and Frank. She seemed a little serious, but
plenty able to hold a conversation.”

            “Maybe
there were too many people today. Maybe she does better with just a few
friends.” Gideon thought of how she’d been nervous when she’d first met him,
but her nerves seemed to translate into babbling rather than reticence.

            “Or
she was fine until certain people showed up,” Tom said, the smile returning to
his face.  He dodged a little white dog straining at his leash and tossed a
wave to the older woman attempting to get him under control. “I mean, I
understand. You’re a good-looking guy and it’s natural for her to give you a
second glance, especially―”

            “I
don’t really want to talk about this.” Gideon stuffed his hands in his pockets
and walked faster. “You can’t say for sure why she acted the way she did. Maybe
she’s afraid of me. You were just saying I needed to lay off the weight
lifting.”

             “I
think I know what fear looks like.”
Tom kept pace with him.
“In fact, you’re doing really good impression of a guy who’s had his cage
rattled.”

            Gideon
spotted his car and let out an internal sigh of relief. He loved Tom like a
brother but the guy didn’t know when to quit. “I don’t really want to talk
about this anymore.”

            “And
why so insistent working separately?” Tom said, completely ignoring Gideon.

            “Nobody
was insisting.”

            “Wrong.
It was a big deal. Very not together. Very not at the same time. Heaven forbid
you two spend some time alone in the same room.”

            Taking
out his keys, Gideon hit the unlock button and the car beeped loudly, like
punctuation to Tom’s question. “Maybe we’re trying to head off all the
small-town gossip that starts when people imagine things where they’re not.
Anyway, I don’t have time to babysit her, so I’m happy we’re on the same page
about it.”

             “Don’t
have time?” Tom asked, skipping over the accusation of being a gossip. “You’re
the guy who spends his evenings reading sad love poetry when you’re not trying
to deadlift your own body weight.”

            He
turned to face Tom. The breeze from the river smelled of mud and fish, and he
wished he was already home in his little house at the end of the dusty dirt
road, set back under the trees. “You’ve known me for a really long time.”

            “That
is true,” Tom said. He crossed his arms over his chest, a smug smile pasted to
his lips.

            “And
you are also a keen observer of the human condition, a minor expert on the
human heart.”

            “I
took a few psychology classes during my years in the seminary,” Tom said,
grinning.

            Gideon
sighed. Tom knew that taking a psychology course wasn’t the best way to understand
other humans. In fact, every beginner psych student imagines disorders and
mental illness in everyone around them. “You’re able to understand people in a
way I can’t. You have a natural ability to connect with strangers, to reach out
to people in trouble.”

            Tom
nodded.

            “You
always had lots of friends, even when we were kids. I’ve never had more than
one or two. Maybe it’s because I was always too angry, or too quiet, or too
untrusting… or maybe it’s not my fault at all. But it is the way it is, and I’m
used to it.” Gideon said. “I wouldn’t recommend it, but there’s nothing wrong
with the solitary life.”