Gibbes didn’t say anything, and when I looked at him he seemed deep in thought.
“It’s funny, really,” I continued. “Because I found out later that he wasn’t officially a fireman yet—he’d applied, but he hadn’t been offered the job. After we were married, I was going through some paperwork and saw that the dates didn’t make sense. When I asked him, he said he’d seen me on the street and followed me to the museum and figured out an excuse to meet me.”
Gibbes parked the car in front of the Heritage Society offices, a converted Victorian house with pink fish-scale tiles and a green roof. He pulled the key from the ignition, but didn’t move right away. Finally he turned to me. “Didn’t you find that odd?”
My fingers plucked at the skirt of Loralee’s dress. “Not at first. I thought it was romantic. It wasn’t until . . . later. After we’d been married for a while. It was as if . . .” I stopped, remembering to whom I was speaking.
“It was as if what?”
It was getting warm in the car with the air conditioner off. I lifted my hand to my throat as if that would help me breathe. “It was as if he were a child who wanted a toy very badly, but then lost interest as soon as it was his.” I met Gibbes’s eyes. “Every time he looked at me, it was like he expected to see somebody else.”
The words stung as they exited my mouth, and I realized I’d never spoken them out loud before. Maybe being a doctor made Gibbes a good listener, or maybe I was desperate to dissect my marriage, to understand where I’d gone wrong, and it didn’t matter who was available to listen.
“The man you’re talking about wasn’t my brother.”
I reached for the door handle, eager to get out of the truck and suck in the thick, heavy air. The metal slipped from my hands twice until Gibbes reached across and pulled it for me. I slid from the SUV and leaned against the door, breathing heavily, my skin clammy with sweat.
“I’m sorry, Merritt. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . .” He shook his head. “My brother was so shy around girls. He always had a girlfriend, but that’s because they usually threw themselves at him so that he couldn’t say no. And they . . .” He stopped.
“They what?” I prompted.
“They weren’t like you at all. They weren’t like any girls we went to school with, or even like my grandmother or her friends.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
Gibbes glanced at his watch. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
I didn’t press him for an answer as we headed toward the front door, but only because I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it.
The building smelled like an old house—of wood polish, cedar, and the faint aroma of ashes from the fireplaces. Heavy Victorian furniture filled the foyer and was set up much like I imagined it would have been when it was a home, complete with lace doilies thrown over the backs of upholstered chairs.
Cynthia Barnwell was in the front parlor at a large rosewood desk with heavily carved legs, an ancient computer monitor and keyboard on top. I heard the click-clack of the keys as we walked in, and she peered over bifocals at us and smiled.
“So good to see you both. I can’t tell you how much my granddaughter enjoyed last Saturday with Owen. She just can’t stop talking about it. I warn you, though: She’s already planning your next outing.”
“We all had a good time, and Maris is a lovely girl,” I said. “I’m so glad Owen’s met a friend before school starts.”
Cynthia’s face got serious. “I know it’s early, but I would suggest putting in his application for Beaufort Academy as soon as possible. I’ll be happy to send a recommendation.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But I’m not sure Loralee wants to send Owen to private school. Regardless, the decision really isn’t mine.”
Cynthia frowned. “Well, she definitely expressed interest in Beaufort Academy when I spoke with her, and she asked me to send her some information. It’s where Maris goes, and we couldn’t be happier with her education.”
I wasn’t going to discuss Loralee’s financial status, so I let the subject drop, making a mental note to ask Loralee about it later. “We have an appointment to see Deborah. Is she in?”
“Oh, yes, and she’s expecting you. Her office is at the top of the stairs, first one on the right.”
We thanked her and headed up the long, straight staircase, holding on to the thick, dark wood of the banister as the old steps creaked beneath our weight.