Angel's Rest(38)

“So says the romance novel reader.”

“You have something against romance, Callahan?”

“Not at all. I have something against schmaltz.”

“Schmaltz! That wasn’t schmaltz.”

“Darlin’, that picnic was the epitome of schmaltz.”

“All right then, Casanova. What should Harry have done to romance his lady?”

Gabe stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. He linked his hands behind his head and considered the question. “The bouquet was way overdone. A single rose would be okay, or even better, whatever flower she considered her favorite. Hiring a violinist to ride behind the courting buggy ruined the whole thing.”

“Now, why would you say that? It’s terribly romantic.”

“You like threesomes, do you?”

“What? No!”

Gabe chuckled and continued, “A mountain meadow picnic was good, but a linen-draped table? Fine china? Roast duckling? No. Way too formal. Too stuffy. All you need for a romantic mountain meadow picnic is a quilt to spread on the grass and a picnic basket with finger foods. The champagne was a good idea, but it’d have been better if he’d put it to chill in the creek.”

“That’s a good idea,” Nic agreed. “What about the poetry and the dancing?”

“Depends on the woman, of course. If she’s into that, then yeah. Nothing’s wrong with poetry or dancing.”

“What do you do for music if you’ve left the violinist back in town?”

“If a guy can carry a tune at all, he can sing softly, or hum. You can dance to birdsong or music in your mind, as far as that goes.”

She let that sit a minute, then said, “That’s not bad, Callahan. Not bad at all.”

He grinned, then reached for the wine and topped off their glasses. She sipped the rich, smooth Bordeaux and studied him. Tonight Gabe seemed approachable, not nearly as uptight as he ordinarily did. Maybe with some judicious questions she could learn a little more about him.

Since the best way to learn information was often to share information, she said, “My ex had a romantic streak in him. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. He’d bring me flowers and small gifts out of the blue—just because he was thinking about me, he’d say. Looking back, I suspect that rather than romantic gestures, they were gestures of a guilty conscience.”

“You’re better off without him.”

“Yes, I know that.” She blew out a breath, then asked in a bright tone, “What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done?”

At first she thought he’d blow her off, the way he’d done all the other times she asked him anything personal. Instead, with a smile playing faintly on his lips, he said, “I took my wife to the mall.”

She waited, and when he failed to elaborate, prodded, “C’mon, Callahan. You have to explain that.”

“Hey, I would have thought the hot-air balloon ride on the surprise trip to Napa would have ranked number one, but Jen always said that that trip to the mall was the most romantic act ever. See, I hate to shop. And I absolutely despise malls. My wife, on the other hand, loved shopping and enjoyed malls. On that particular occasion, she was three days past her due date with our son, and her doctor told her she could go another week. She was just pitiful. So I offered to take her to the mall. We ate burgers at the food court, browsed the bookstore, bought a couple of baby toys. Then I dragged her into Victoria’s Secret and picked out something for her to wear before the baby came and something for afterward.”

“Your wife was right. That does top a hot-air balloon ride.” When he smiled and remained relaxed, she decided to take the risk. “What happened to her, Gabe?”

A full minute dragged by, then two. He sucked air past his teeth, then exhaled a heavy breath. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back to rest on the steamer trunk behind him. “It was a car accident. She died at the scene. Our son, Matt …” He stopped, cleared his throat. “The doctors warned me from the first that he probably wouldn’t make it, but he fought hard. So hard.”

Reacting instinctively, Nic reached out and clasped his hand, halfway expecting him to jerk away from her touch. Instead he clasped her hand in return. “I lost him last July. He was almost six years old.”

“I’m so sorry, Gabe.”

Now he did pull away. “I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”