Claim
Page 79
Tessa cupped his cheek in her hand. “I’ve told you before,” she reminded him softly. “Taking care of those sort of needs isn’t a task - it’s a privilege.”
Ian kissed her then, one of those long, slow kisses where it felt like he was claiming her all over again, the kind that made her bones feel like they were going to melt in a puddle at his feet.
It was the sound of a throat being cleared that finally made Ian lift his mouth from hers, and Tessa looked up guiltily to find Glen smiling at them knowingly.
“Ah, to be young and in love again,” he commented wistfully. “And especially with someone as beautiful as this young woman. I can certainly understand, Ian. After all, I fell under her mother’s spell the moment I saw her in my office almost thirty years ago. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, aren’t I? Come, everything is closed up for the day, and we can go sit in my office for awhile.”
Glen ushered them into the back of the shop, where still more books were stacked against the walls and in boxes. He opened the door into a small, cramped office that was dominated by a large desk and still more books. He urged Ian and Tessa to have a seat on the small leather loveseat, while he brought a somewhat battered chair around from behind his desk so he could sit next to them.
“Can I offer you some coffee? Tea, perhaps?” he inquired.
Tessa stood. “Tea would be wonderful. But I’ll make it. Just show me where everything is.”
Glen motioned to a small table in one corner of the room. “You should find everything you need there, my dear. Milk is in the mini-fridge just below. But it’s not necessary, Tessa. I’m more than happy to make some.”
She shook her head. “It’s no bother at all. The least I can do in exchange for your time.”
As she set to work filling the kettle from a gallon jug of water and then finding cups, spoons, and the tea, Glen smiled sadly.
“Just like your mother,” he mused. “During the times she stayed at my place in Brooklyn, Gillian always insisted on doing her part to pay me back for my hospitality. And since her stays nearly always coincided with her manic episodes, she’d go on these cleaning binges, polishing and scrubbing and dusting every surface of the flat. Once I woke in the middle of the night to find her on her hands and knees replacing all the shelf paper in the kitchen. Or I’d get up in the morning to find she’d cooked enough breakfast to feed a dozen hungry men. It’s probably hard for you to imagine her that way, Tessa, because I’m just guessing she became more and more depressed as the years went on, and the manic episodes fewer and farther between.”
Tessa nodded as she finished brewing three cups of tea. “That’s exactly what happened. How did you know?”
Glen smiled his thanks as she handed him a mug of tea. “I did quite a bit of research on the disorder during the years I knew your mother. I wanted to know what she was going through, how best to help her.” He took a sip of tea, then added somberly, “Unfortunately, Gillian didn’t always want my help. Or anyone’s, for that matter. She was extremely headstrong on top of being ill, but also vulnerable and needy at the same time. It was - exhausting to be around her at times. But I felt responsible for her, you see, knew that she had no one else in the world who gave a damn about her. And she was just so - well, I doubt many men would have been able to resist a woman like Gillian. Even a silly old fool like myself who was more than twenty years older than she was.”
Tessa’s heart ached a bit at the sadness in his voice. “You were in love with her?” she asked carefully.
Glen shrugged. “I’m not quite sure what to call it, Tessa. Your mother was capable of stirring up all sorts of emotions in a person - attraction, sympathy, irritation, anger. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit here, aren’t I? I should begin at the beginning. You have a little time on your hands, don’t you?”
Ian nodded. “All the time in the world. We had a late lunch on the flight up here, and have no specific plans for dinner. But what about yourself, Mr. Rockwell? I hope we aren’t keeping you from anything. Or that your wife isn’t expecting you home soon.”
“First, please call me Glen.” He gave a short laugh. “I feel old enough as it is seeing Tessa all grown up, given that the last time I saw her she was still a tiny thing. And second, no, you’re not keeping me from anything. I’m meeting my wife for dinner with a group of friends but not until seven o’clock. Cammie - my wife - still guest lectures at Boston College several times a year, even though she’s officially retired from teaching. That’s where she’s at right now, otherwise it’s likely she would have been the one working this afternoon and we might never have met.” He glanced around the small confines of his office and shrugged. “Owning a bookstore like this was always a dream of hers, something she’d wanted to do for decades. She’d known the previous owners for many years, and it happened to be a coincidence that they were selling up and moving to Florida right around the time Cammie retired. I’d moved to Boston a few years before that to be near my kids, met Cammie at a literary group that I joined. We’d both had bad first marriages, followed by equally bad relationships, and had a lot in common. She’s turned out to be the love of my life. Even more so than I thought Gillian was.”
For the next hour, Tessa and Ian sat quietly and listened as Glen spun the complicated, often heartbreaking tale of how Gillian Pedersen had burst into his life so unexpectedly, and how nothing for him had ever been the same for years afterwards.
“I was an editor at a small but prestigious publishing house in Manhattan,” he began. “We didn’t have a lot of clients, or the biggest names, but prided ourselves instead on the quality of our publications. More than a few of our authors had won literary awards, were highly praised by the critics, that sort of thing. Like most editors, I was completely overworked, had stacks and stacks of unread manuscripts piled on my desk, with more arriving in the mail every day. Our receptionist’s main job was to ward off any aspiring authors who showed up each day, all claiming they were going to be the next big thing, and that they just had to hand deliver their masterpiece to an editor.
“One day, I looked up from a really poorly written piece of garbage that was just about to get tossed into the reject pile, and I saw what I swore at first glance was an angel. It was Gillian, and she was wearing this long, floaty white dress, with all that long blonde hair and the biggest blue eyes I’d ever seen. And she was smiling at me, holding out a manila envelope, and saying in this sweet voice, ‘Sorry, I think I made your receptionist really mad just now, but I had to see someone. And since yours was the first office I came to, well - here I am.’”
Ian kissed her then, one of those long, slow kisses where it felt like he was claiming her all over again, the kind that made her bones feel like they were going to melt in a puddle at his feet.
It was the sound of a throat being cleared that finally made Ian lift his mouth from hers, and Tessa looked up guiltily to find Glen smiling at them knowingly.
“Ah, to be young and in love again,” he commented wistfully. “And especially with someone as beautiful as this young woman. I can certainly understand, Ian. After all, I fell under her mother’s spell the moment I saw her in my office almost thirty years ago. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, aren’t I? Come, everything is closed up for the day, and we can go sit in my office for awhile.”
Glen ushered them into the back of the shop, where still more books were stacked against the walls and in boxes. He opened the door into a small, cramped office that was dominated by a large desk and still more books. He urged Ian and Tessa to have a seat on the small leather loveseat, while he brought a somewhat battered chair around from behind his desk so he could sit next to them.
“Can I offer you some coffee? Tea, perhaps?” he inquired.
Tessa stood. “Tea would be wonderful. But I’ll make it. Just show me where everything is.”
Glen motioned to a small table in one corner of the room. “You should find everything you need there, my dear. Milk is in the mini-fridge just below. But it’s not necessary, Tessa. I’m more than happy to make some.”
She shook her head. “It’s no bother at all. The least I can do in exchange for your time.”
As she set to work filling the kettle from a gallon jug of water and then finding cups, spoons, and the tea, Glen smiled sadly.
“Just like your mother,” he mused. “During the times she stayed at my place in Brooklyn, Gillian always insisted on doing her part to pay me back for my hospitality. And since her stays nearly always coincided with her manic episodes, she’d go on these cleaning binges, polishing and scrubbing and dusting every surface of the flat. Once I woke in the middle of the night to find her on her hands and knees replacing all the shelf paper in the kitchen. Or I’d get up in the morning to find she’d cooked enough breakfast to feed a dozen hungry men. It’s probably hard for you to imagine her that way, Tessa, because I’m just guessing she became more and more depressed as the years went on, and the manic episodes fewer and farther between.”
Tessa nodded as she finished brewing three cups of tea. “That’s exactly what happened. How did you know?”
Glen smiled his thanks as she handed him a mug of tea. “I did quite a bit of research on the disorder during the years I knew your mother. I wanted to know what she was going through, how best to help her.” He took a sip of tea, then added somberly, “Unfortunately, Gillian didn’t always want my help. Or anyone’s, for that matter. She was extremely headstrong on top of being ill, but also vulnerable and needy at the same time. It was - exhausting to be around her at times. But I felt responsible for her, you see, knew that she had no one else in the world who gave a damn about her. And she was just so - well, I doubt many men would have been able to resist a woman like Gillian. Even a silly old fool like myself who was more than twenty years older than she was.”
Tessa’s heart ached a bit at the sadness in his voice. “You were in love with her?” she asked carefully.
Glen shrugged. “I’m not quite sure what to call it, Tessa. Your mother was capable of stirring up all sorts of emotions in a person - attraction, sympathy, irritation, anger. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit here, aren’t I? I should begin at the beginning. You have a little time on your hands, don’t you?”
Ian nodded. “All the time in the world. We had a late lunch on the flight up here, and have no specific plans for dinner. But what about yourself, Mr. Rockwell? I hope we aren’t keeping you from anything. Or that your wife isn’t expecting you home soon.”
“First, please call me Glen.” He gave a short laugh. “I feel old enough as it is seeing Tessa all grown up, given that the last time I saw her she was still a tiny thing. And second, no, you’re not keeping me from anything. I’m meeting my wife for dinner with a group of friends but not until seven o’clock. Cammie - my wife - still guest lectures at Boston College several times a year, even though she’s officially retired from teaching. That’s where she’s at right now, otherwise it’s likely she would have been the one working this afternoon and we might never have met.” He glanced around the small confines of his office and shrugged. “Owning a bookstore like this was always a dream of hers, something she’d wanted to do for decades. She’d known the previous owners for many years, and it happened to be a coincidence that they were selling up and moving to Florida right around the time Cammie retired. I’d moved to Boston a few years before that to be near my kids, met Cammie at a literary group that I joined. We’d both had bad first marriages, followed by equally bad relationships, and had a lot in common. She’s turned out to be the love of my life. Even more so than I thought Gillian was.”
For the next hour, Tessa and Ian sat quietly and listened as Glen spun the complicated, often heartbreaking tale of how Gillian Pedersen had burst into his life so unexpectedly, and how nothing for him had ever been the same for years afterwards.
“I was an editor at a small but prestigious publishing house in Manhattan,” he began. “We didn’t have a lot of clients, or the biggest names, but prided ourselves instead on the quality of our publications. More than a few of our authors had won literary awards, were highly praised by the critics, that sort of thing. Like most editors, I was completely overworked, had stacks and stacks of unread manuscripts piled on my desk, with more arriving in the mail every day. Our receptionist’s main job was to ward off any aspiring authors who showed up each day, all claiming they were going to be the next big thing, and that they just had to hand deliver their masterpiece to an editor.
“One day, I looked up from a really poorly written piece of garbage that was just about to get tossed into the reject pile, and I saw what I swore at first glance was an angel. It was Gillian, and she was wearing this long, floaty white dress, with all that long blonde hair and the biggest blue eyes I’d ever seen. And she was smiling at me, holding out a manila envelope, and saying in this sweet voice, ‘Sorry, I think I made your receptionist really mad just now, but I had to see someone. And since yours was the first office I came to, well - here I am.’”
