Hired by Her Husband. Anne McAllister
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not.
“When he came home he said he wanted a house,” Tallie told her. “And he got one.”
He had indeed. And what a one it was.
Sophy stopped on the sidewalk in front of the wide stoop and stared openmouthed at the elegant well-maintained facade. It had big bay windows on the two floors above the garden entrance, and two more floors above that with three identical tall narrow arched windows looking south across the tree-lined street at a row of similar brownstones.
It had the warm, tasteful, elegant yet friendly look that the best well-kept brownstones had. And to Sophy, whose earliest memories of home were the days spent in her grandparents’ brownstone in Brooklyn, it fairly shouted the word home.
It was exactly the sort of family home she’d always dreamed of. She’d babbled on about it to George in the early days of their marriage. He’d been preoccupied with work, of course. Not listening. At least she hadn’t thought he was listening…
No, of course he hadn’t been. It was coincidence.
All the same it wasn’t helpful. Not helpful at all.
At least, she thought as she climbed the steps, the sound of a ferocious dog barking his head off on the other side of the front door belied any homey feelings that threatened to overtake her.
So that was Gunnar.
He sounded as if he wanted to have her for brunch.
“He’s lovely,” Tallie had said. “Adores George.”
But apparently he wasn’t keen on rabbits—except perhaps for meals—and the jury was still out on what he thought of her.
Good thing she liked dogs, Sophy thought, fitting the key in the lock and putting on her most upbeat, confident demeanor. She had no idea if it would convince Gunnar. She just hoped she convinced herself long enough to make his acquaintance.
“Hey, Gunnar. Hey, buddy,” she said as she cautiously opened the door.
The dog stopped barking and simply looked at her quizzically. He was a good-size dog, all black with medium-length hair and some feathering.
“A flat-coated retriever,” Tallie had told her, and when Sophy looked blank, she’d elucidated. “Think of a lean, wiry black golden retriever—with Opinions. Capital O Opinions.” Gunnar’s opinion of her was apparently being formed even as she talked to him.
“I hope you like me,” Sophy said to him. She’d at least had the wisdom to stop at a pet shop on her way down Broadway, where she’d bought some dog treats. Now she offered one to the dog.
In her experience, most dogs took treats eagerly and without question. Gunnar took his, too. But instead of grabbing it, he accepted it delicately from her fingers, then carried it over to the rug by the fireplace where he lay down and nosed it for a few moments before consuming it.
She dragged her bag in over the threshold and shut the door behind her, then turned to survey Gunnar’s—and George’s—domain.
It was as impressive inside as it was out. From the mahogany-paneled entry she could see into the dining room where Gunnar was finishing his dog treat, up an equally beautiful mahogany staircase to the second floor and down a hallway to the back where a glimpse of a sofa told her she would find the living room.
But before she could go look, Gunnar came back and poked her with his nose, then looked up hopefully. “Treats are the way to your heart?” she said to him—and was surprised when he replied.
He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He just sort of—talked—made some sort of noise that had her looking at him in astonishment. So he poked her again.
“Right,” she said. “Yes. Of course.” And she fetched another treat out of the bag she’d bought. He accepted it with the same gravity with which he’d accepted the first one. But he didn’t eat it. He simply carried it down the hall.
Sophy followed. She thought he was going to take it into the living room, which indeed was at the end of the hall. But instead Gunnar turned and went down the stairs. He obviously knew better than she did what she was supposed to be doing and was showing her where to go to open the door to the garden.
She let Gunnar out into the back garden with its cedar deck and table and chairs and the bucket of tennis balls that George must toss for Gunnar. Even though it was small and utilitarian, it was still far more appealing than the parking lot behind her apartment in California. She left Gunnar there and went back inside because she was more curious about George’s office.
What would have been billed “the garden apartment” in a split-up brownstone, obviously served as George’s office. One big room contained a wide oak desk, a sleek state-of-the-art computer with what was probably the biggest computer screen she’d ever seen. There were file cabinets, a worktable and shelf after shelf of scientific books. There were papers in neat stacks on the desk and worktable, and a few spread out that were filled with equations in George’s spiky but very legible handwriting. When they’d been together, he had made out shopping lists in the same precise way.
Feeling a bit like a voyeur, though goodness knew she couldn’t understand any of whatever he was working on, Sophy deliberately went back out into the garden and threw some tennis balls for Gunnar.
She made a friend for life. He was tireless. She was even more exhausted by the time she said, “Last one,” and threw it across the small yard. Gunnar caught it on the rebound from the wall and trotted back to look at her hopefully. “Later,” she promised him.
She could have sworn he sighed. But obediently he followed her back into the house, up the stairs and on up the next flight where there was a spacious yet homey family room that looked decidedly lived in—right down to the toys in one corner.
Toys?
Surprised, Sophy looked closer. Yes, there were toys. Blocks, LEGOs, Lincoln Logs and a fleet of scratched and dented Matchbox cars. Boy toys, Sophy thought. But it was clear that Tallie’s boys were welcome at Uncle George’s. Or did George have a lady friend with children? Not that she cared.
The family room was on the back of the house, just above the living room. Sophy found it cozy and friendly, drawing her in. There were books on the shelves, not only scientific tomes, but also popular mysteries and sailing magazines. She picked them up, noting that they weren’t pristine. They had obviously been read.
She scanned the shelves curiously, then spotted a photo album as well. She opened it before she could think twice—and was quite suddenly confronted by memories that seemed almost like a blow to the heart.
The album was full of pictures from the reception after their wedding. Not the more formal portraits, but lots of casual family ones. She and George laughing as they fed each other cake. She and George dancing on the deck of his parents’ home. She and George surrounded by his whole family, all of them smiling and happy.
Numbly she turned the pages. After the ones from the reception, there were others of the two of them. On the beach. In a small cozy house before a fire.
Sophy’s throat tightened at the sight. At the memories of their honeymoon.
Well, it hadn’t been a honeymoon—not really. There hadn’t been time to plan one because the wedding had been so hastily arranged and George couldn’t take time off work.
All they’d had was a weekend in a tiny groundskeeper’s cottage behind one of the Hamptons mansions near his parents’ home by the sea.
But for all that it had been impromptu, it had been memorable. They had, she’d thought, forged a bond that weekend. They’d talked. They’d laughed. They’d cooked together, swum together, walked on the beach together. They’d slept together in the same bed—though they hadn’t made love.
Her pregnancy was too far along for that.
Still, for all they’d had a less than orthodox beginning, she’d dared to hope,