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Slowly, she began undoing the ribbon.
“It ain’t a goldarned cobra, Miss Burton. It ain’t gonna bite.”
A smile curled up on her lips. “With you, I never know.”
He laughed.
It was a book. The leather-bound book he had purchased at Table of Contents, to be precise: “Hereward the Wake,” written by Charles Kingsley.
Her eyes widened at the beautiful gift. “How lovely! Thank you so much.”
“Meant to give it to you a while back,” he said, rushing into speech to counteract the flat reaction. “Kept forgettin’, or I got busy.”
She was barely able to keep her caustic tongue in check while they two were part of a group; around the Forresters’ dinner table, for example, or at some social function like a wedding or a church service. Alone, like this, with no chance of interruption, she felt almost dumbstruck.
“It is such a surprise,” she finally managed. “My personal collection of books is quite meager, and I shall enjoy reading this one. Thank you, Gabriel. I’m surprise you didn’t save such a lavish present for my birthday. Or Christmas.”
“Just please accept my humble gift.”
Gabriel put a hand over hers, over the book. “It’s just a small thing,” he said gently. “Saw the book in Abigail’s shop, and thought you might like it for your own self. That’s all.”
“It’s much appreciated. Thank you.”
“Yep. You’re entirely welcome. And please accept my deepest apologies for any of our arguments in the past.” Gabe, already opening the door, turned back for a parting shot: “Quite a stalwart feller, ole Hereward. Sorta like me.” With a fierce waggle of his eyebrows, he lumbered out.
Hannah sat at her desk, staring after him thoughtfully. It crossed her mind that usually she should have had the presence of mind to follow his exit with a wicked, well-aimed missile (the container of pencil shavings, perhaps; or the recently refilled ink pot) targeted right at his head. But things seemed different between them now. He had apologized and got her a very thoughtful gift. So he was forgiven.
Chapter Five
“HE GAVE YOU WHAT?”
“I told you. A book. One from way back in time, about Hereward the Wake.”
“Hereward the Who?”
“Oh, Camellia, great stars above. I realize you’re distracted—and you have good reason to be, but—I need some advice. He’s suddenly being nice to me. And we’re not arguing anymore trying to get our points across.”
“It seems a very nice gesture. You two didn’t get along and he’s making up for it. What a gentleman he is. It’s true that Gabe has strong opinions like yourself, but he can be quite thoughtful when he wants to be, and you should—”
“If you tell me I ought to be grateful that for a few brief minutes the man actually acted like a decent human being, that he actually showed me a courtesy, I—I—well, I believe I’ll just march right out of here, Camellia Burton.”
The correction came automatically. “Camellia Forrester.” With an abstracted Madonna’s smile and a gentle hand curved over the small mound of a five months’ pregnancy.
It was a bleak, overcast afternoon in early December, with the sort of dampness in the air that precludes rain, if the temperatures are warm enough, or light snow, if not. Every tree stood weighted down with moisture, as dark and depressing as if the sun would never shine its healing rays again; more moisture beaded against the glass of window panes and lay in deceptively slippery droplets on painted verandah floorboards. Even the last of the garden mums drooped, in melancholic submission.
Hannah had neither seen nor talked to her eldest sibling since the Thanksgiving dinner, and then only in bits and pieces, with dozens of other diners crowded around. She had decided to stop by today, despite the weather, for a few hours of girl talk and gossip. When Ben opened the door to her knock, she had found Camellia comfortably ensconced on the settee, draped with an afghan, blinking sleepily over a cup of tea and a copy of the most recent Gazette.
“Didja come to keep Cam company?” he jovially greeted her. “She needs to see a fresh face; she’s gettin’ awful tired of my ole mug bein’ the only one here.”
“Oh, Ben, how you do run on.” Camellia’s scolding sounded exactly like that of a southern belle. No surprise if she had suddenly slapped lightly at his arm and caroled, “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!” “Hello, Hen, I’m glad you came to visit. Everything is so dreary that my husband practically has me under lock and key, refusing to let me out, and I’m about bored senseless.”
“And now that I know she won’t be left alone, I can head on over to the store. Elvira is out sick with a bad cold, and Jimmy needs some help. Got a big shipment due in today.” Ben gathered up his hat and heavy coat, paused to give his supine wife a tender kiss, and made his escape into the ever-challenging, ever-changing world of retail.
Fondly shaking her head, Camellia sent her shopkeeper spouse off with a smile. “The silly man. Hen, this is such a delightful surprise, your coming by. Please, join me with a cup of tea, won’t you?” Even as she made motions to pull her burgeoning frame upright and off the cushions, Hannah demurred.
“You’re all comfy, Cam. I can certainly serve myself. And, look—I brought a box of sugar cookies from the bakery!”
“Oh, Hen, you work so hard. You shouldn’t be spending your money on frivolous things.”
