The Man She Married

Hank had led him out onto the deck that ran the length of the structure and pointed across the lake. “See that dock on the other side?”

Gideon had squinted, but the sun was bright and the lake was a considerable distance across. He could barely make it out.

“That’s Cam and Mariah’s place. Used to be mine, but Jackie had the old family place in town and that’s worked out more conveniently for us with the kids.”

“I love this house,” Gideon said. “And I appreciate your finding it for me considering how little you know about me. And considering the story circulating of the incident that led to my separation from Prue.”

Hank nodded. “I’ve heard it. But I’ve been misjudged a time or two myself, and I think it’s a good thing to make your decisions about people on what you witness firsthand. And so far all I really know is that you make good breakfast-table conversation, you were decorated for bravery in the Gulf War and you’re a judo master. Hard to think badly of you on that information.”

Gideon had appreciated that vote of confidence. It was going to make staying here more doable than it might have been. And Hank asked him to set up the new security program that would become a part of Whitcomb’s Wonders’ services. Gideon was certain Hank wouldn’t have asked that of someone he had any doubts about.

This morning Gideon had gone to the furniture store and bought a sofa, a dining table and chairs, a bed and a television. A small apartment-size washer and dryer had been left in the downstairs bathroom. He figured that would see him through his stay in Maple Hill.

A cursory look around the living room reminded him of Prue’s flair for decorating.

It was weird, he thought as he went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Now that he’d seen Prue again, he missed her. When she’d first taken off on him after refusing to see him and discuss what had happened, he’d been so angry at her unreasonable attitude that he hadn’t cared if he ever saw her again.

Then, after almost a year without her, he’d begun to accept that it was over. Anger had evaporated and all that was left was a desperate need to set the record straight.

When Dean had offered him the partnership in the fishing lodge, he’d known he had to make one last effort to talk to her on his way out of her life. He’d wanted nothing more than to hear her say that she believed him.

The frustration had returned when he’d gotten here and found that her attitude hadn’t changed an iota. But he thought he’d seen pain in her eyes. She wouldn’t change her mind because she was still hurt.

And the obvious conclusion was that she still cared about him.

He certainly still cared about her. As much as he could have cheerfully murdered her yesterday for trouncing all his explanations about what had happened in Maine, he had to admit that seeing her had affected him in a major way. All the old feeling was back. Everything he’d felt for her, and thought had been destroyed, had apparently only been suppressed.

He wanted her back. He’d told her he didn’t, but if she wouldn’t listen to the truth from him, it seemed pointless to be honest about his feelings.

The loud ring of his newly installed telephone jarred him out of his thoughts. He put the filled coffee basket into the machine and poured water into the well as he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Gideon?” The voice was low and female with a touch of Marlene Dietrich’s dramatic alto. He recognized it immediately.

“Aunt George!” he exclaimed. Georgette Irene Hale Milton Didier Finch-Morgan was his favorite aunt, his father’s older sister who’d worked for Vogue, been widowed three times and was now CEO of her third husband’s considerable holdings. She lived in London. “How are you?”

“I’m enmerdée at the moment,” she said, the French word translating to a situation that involved considerable manure. “But I’m coming to see you.”

“But…I’m not home,” he said stupidly.

“Well, I know you’re not home, Gideon. I called you there first and got this number from your mother. She told me about a plan you had to go into partnership in Alaska. I understand it just fell through.”

“Actually, it’s only been delayed,” he corrected. “But why did you track me down? I hope it’s because you decided I’m your favorite nephew and you’re leaving me everything.”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “You are my favorite nephew, but I’m having too much fun to leave anybody anything just yet. I’ve tracked you down because I want to talk to Prudence.”

“Ah…Aunt George. You know Prue and I are separated.”

“I do. But I also know that she’s in Maple Hill, wherever that is, and so are you.”

“I just came to try to straighten things out with her before I went to Alaska. But she still doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“But you’re still staying there?”

“I’ve been offered a challenging job. And it’s a beautiful place to be until I go to Alaska. Why do you want to talk to Prue?”

“Because I heard about her line of clothes. Your mother faxed me the photos that appeared in the Boston Globe.”

“The Globe?” he repeated in surprise.

“Apparently their fashion reporter was there for Leaf-Peeper weekend and decided to stay for the fashion show. She was very impressed. So, I remembered that I never gave you kids a wedding present.”

Gideon laughed. “That was probably wise, or it’d be in storage in New York with a lot of our other things.”

“Well, I insist on making it up to you. Or rather, to her. I always did like that girl. In the communications division of one of my companies, there’s a very prestigious little fashion magazine that would love to have photos and a story about a young American launching a sophisticated new line.”

He knew Prue would be thrilled at that opportunity. And in spite of all her animosity toward him, he wanted her to have it.

“I can be there in three days with a photographer,” Georgette said. “And I’ll do the story myself. I often contribute to the magazine because of my fashion experience. Can we stay with you?”

Gideon hesitated, only because he knew his aunt’s presence would put paid to all his hopes of peace and quiet.

“Ah…sure. But Prue doesn’t want anything to do with me. If you want to deal with her…” And suddenly, like a shaft of sunlight through a storm cloud, he saw a way to turn this to his advantage.

Georgette waited a moment, then demanded, “What?”

“I…ah…” He stalled for time as his brain churned with an idea.

“Gideon?”

“Can you do some dramatic work for me, Auntie?” he asked as he mulled over the idea again, looking for flaws. There were many, but he was an optimist.

“You know me, dahling,” she said in a theatrical tone. “I live for center stage.”

“I’m thinking,” he said, unreeling the plan, “that if you tell her that I told you we were reconciled and that she’s living here with me, she’ll come over demanding to know what I’m up to and I can explain that I didn’t want her to miss this opportunity to make a big splash in the press. She’ll think I’m noble. Maybe.”

“That sounds plausible.”

“So, she’ll have to stay with me for the time that you’re here so that it really does appear that we’re reconciled.”

“But would my opinion of your marital status be that important to her?”

“I think it’ll be all entangled in her wish to have this opportunity. And in my noble and self-sacrificing insistence that she get it.”

“Ah. Insidious. I like it. Give me her number.”

As fate would have it, he’d run into Camille when he’d been in the supermarket buying coffee, and she’d given it to him—both her cell and the studio. He gave both numbers to his aunt.