“I notice a lot people don’t give me credit for,” Gabe said. “What does Marie have to say about your seeing me?”
“She was all for it,” Brooke said. “She says age shouldn’t matter.”
“Smart lady. And your dad?”
“He’d probably call you a dirty old man. He doesn’t approve of much that I do anymore, but then, I can’t say I approve of all his choices either.”
Gabe chuckled and let his hand slide farther down her back. “If I’m gonna get called a dirty old man, I might as well act like one.”
“I like your friends,” Brooke said. “I was afraid I’d get stuck listening to a bunch of grumpy old men talking about tax reform and prostate surgery tonight.”
“Not a chance. They like you too. Especially Byron. Which is good, because he just sold his share of a startup tech company, and he wants to start doing some estate planning. It’ll be a nice piece of business. He’s got two sets of kids: one set from his first wife, all of whom are in their early thirties, and his kids with Micki, who are eight and six.”
“Really?” Brooke looked over his shoulder at the Johnsons, who were dancing together at the far side of the ballroom. “He’s got grade-school kids? How old is he?”
“Only a couple of years older than I am. Do you think that’s too old to have young kids?”
“I guess I’m just surprised he’d want to start over raising a family.”
Gabe looked down at her. “Personally, I wouldn’t rule it out. Why not? I’m healthy, I can afford it, and I’ve always wanted kids.”
“But Sunny didn’t?”
“No,” he said succinctly. He tilted his head. “How about you? Has being a single mom turned you off to having more kids?”
“Not necessarily,” Brooke said. “I was an only child of an only child. It can be lonely, you know?”
“I was never an only child. I have two brothers. But I do know about loneliness. People treat you differently when you’re not half of a couple. They might bring casseroles and potted plants when you’re first widowed, but after that, it’s a whole lot of single-serve microwave dinners and Netflix binge-watching.”
“You should try being single in a town like St. Ann’s,” Brooke said.
“Maybe you should move back to Savannah and find a nice guy to settle down with,” Gabe said, nuzzling her neck. “Somebody who’d bring you coffee in bed in the morning and rub your feet at night.”
“Mmm,” she said, sighing and sinking into him. “That does sound tempting. Where do I sign up?”
“Right here,” Gabe said.
She looked up at him. He’d had two or three martinis before dinner, and they’d both had a little wine with dinner, but what she’d thought had been casual flirting had suddenly taken an unexpected turn.
He was still holding her hand when they returned to their table. Coffee and after-dinner drinks were being served, and jokes were being told. Gabe scooted his chair next to hers, so close her bare shoulder brushed his dinner jacket. Brooke glanced surreptitiously at his gold wristwatch. It was nearly eleven. She excused herself and headed for the ladies’ lounge.
Checking her phone, she saw that she had no missed calls and no text messages. She combed her hair, reapplied lipstick, then sat in one of the lounge chairs and stared at her phone, waiting for the babysitter’s call. At five after eleven, she called Farrah’s cell. No answer.
“Damn it, Farrah,” she muttered.
She went back to the table and waved away Gabe’s offer of more champagne. “I was about to send out a search party for you,” he said, his voice low. “Everything okay?”
She shook her head. “Farrah promised to check in with me at eleven. I waited a few minutes and then I called, but there’s no answer.”
“She’s eighteen, right? Just graduated from high school?”
“That’s right.”
“And she’s usually very responsible? I mean, she works in your office too, right?”
“Yes, but this is different. When she showed up tonight, she had her boyfriend with her. Or ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure which. I let her know I wasn’t happy about the situation, but what could I do? That’s why I was late leaving the house.”
“She probably forgot and fell asleep,” Gabe said.
The band was breaking into another slow song, “When a Man Loves a Woman.” It was one her parents had danced to back during the rosy-hued years when they’d dragged her along to parties at the Cloister. She could remember being deeply embarrassed at the way they’d clung to each other on the dance floor.
“Come on,” Gabe said, taking her hand. “The band will be packing it in pretty soon. Let’s dance, and then you can try calling the babysitter later.”
He held her even closer than before as they danced. “I was dead serious about that offer I made you earlier,” Gabe said, taking her hand and kissing the back, and then the palm. “I can tell you’re struggling with the solo practice, single parenting, finances, all of it. I’ve thought a lot about this, Brooke. Come back to Savannah. You can practice law with me again, or not. Let me take care of you and Henry.”
She was so taken aback by the proposal, she stumbled briefly, but he helped her regain her footing. “I … don’t know what to say,” she said, feeling herself blush.
Gabe smiled. “I’m rushing you, right? Damn it! My timing is usually better than this. Look, we can talk about this later. Just chalk it up to the music and the wine.” He nuzzled her neck again. “And that perfume of yours, which is driving me out of my mind.”
*
The party was breaking up. Goodbyes were said, hugs and contact information exchanged. The moon was three-quarters full as they stood outside, with a salt-scented breeze gently ruffling the palm fronds near the entrance, waiting for the valet to bring their cars around.
“Gorgeous night tonight,” Gabe said, his arm around her shoulders. “What do you say we take a walk on the beach when we get back to my place?”
“That sounds nice,” Brooke said, trying not to sound distracted. It was after midnight, and she still hadn’t heard from Farrah.
The Porsche sped around the corner from the parking deck and stopped abruptly inches from where they stood. The booming thump of head-banging rock music assaulted them when the valet driver hopped out of the car.
Gabe snatched the parking stub from the driver’s hand. “Where the hell do you think you are, you dumb fuck? This isn’t the Indie 500. That’s a $175,000 car you just mishandled.”
“Sorry, sir,” the driver said. “I’m not used to all that horsepower.”
Gabe whipped his cell phone from the inner pocket of his dinner jacket and quickly snapped a photo of the driver, who wore a brass nameplate pinned to his uniform shirt.
“Lopez, right?” Gabe said. “I’ll email this to your supervisor in the morning.”
Before the kid could reply, another valet pulled up, at a more sedate speed, in Brooke’s Volvo.
Gabe held the door while she slid behind the driver’s seat, his rage seemingly forgotten. “You remember the way to my house, right? Turn left at the first roundabout, then a quick right and two more lefts.”
She waited until she was out of sight of the clubhouse before calling Farrah again. She called two more times, each time waiting until the girl’s voice recording played.
Hey, this is Farrah. Leave me a message, and I’ll hit you back later.
Brooke pounded the steering wheel in frustration. This wasn’t like Farrah. Something had to be wrong. Instead of taking a left at the first roundabout, she made a right. When she’d reached the causeway that would take her back south to St. Ann’s, she winced and tapped Gabe’s number on her cell phone. He’d be pissed, she knew, but if he was sincere in his concern for her as a mother, he’d have to understand. Henry came first.
He answered on the first ring. “Are you lost? I knew I should have had you follow me home.”
“Actually, I’m not coming to your place. I’m so sorry, Gabe, but Farrah hasn’t answered any of my calls, and I’m already sick with worry. I’m heading back to St. Ann’s. I’m hoping you’ll give me a rain check.”