“What demographic is that?”
“Christian women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight.”
“And these Christian women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight found her at my restaurant while she was eating breakfast?”
She gave a good-natured shrug. “Christian women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight need breakfast, too.”
“Does this bother Gen?”
She sized him up with a look of surprise. “She lets you call her Gen?”
“Life’s too short to call someone Genevieve.”
“Hmm.” She considered him for a long moment, then moved her focus to her sister. “If the attention bothers Gen, she’s never admitted it to me. She knows she’s fortunate to do the work she does, and she genuinely loves the women who take part in her studies. She feels connected to them.”
Sam eyed the strange scene before him.
“I don’t typically abandon her when she’s outnumbered,” Natasha said. “But my daughter and son are at Mother’s Day Out and the kid-free hours I have per week are more valuable than crude oil. If you think you’ve got this under control, I might split.”
“I’ve got this under control.”
“Great.Thank you. If this goes on for more than fifteen minutes, I suggest that you ask Genevieve if she has to work on one of her studies today. When she says that she does, insist that she get back to it because you wouldn’t want to delay the writing of more amazing studies. That will give her a graceful and truthful way out.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Natasha moved to go, then paused. “I’m glad Gen’s staying in your cottage.”
Guesthouse. Men did not have cottages. He couldn’t bring himself to reply with the expected response, which was,I’m glad,too. So he said, “She seems to like it there.”
“She absolutely does.”
He and Natasha exchanged good-byes, and she left with long strides that communicated how pleased she was to be free.
“Would you mind taking a picture of me with Genevieve?” a round-faced woman asked him.
A line was forming for photos. Gen was posing with the first in line, and the round-faced woman was up next.
“Sure.”
All of these people seemed fine. None threatening. Yet, as Natasha had said, Gen was outnumbered. Which made her seem in need of protecting.
As the round-faced woman moved forward for her turn, the toe of her shoe hit one of the brick pavers and she stumbled forward. Sam shot out a hand to steady her before she collided with Gen.
The woman laughed self-consciously. “I almost fell. Sorry about that.”
“Got it?” Sam stared at her with seriousness as he began to release her.
“Yes.”
Convinced that Gen wouldn’t be crushed and that the woman wouldn’t sue him over an injury caused by his brick paver, he raised the woman’s phone and centered her and Gen in a camera shot.
He continued to function as volunteer photographer, ready to intercede on Gen’s behalf if she needed him to. Her public persona was more polished than her private persona. With these women, she was “on.” She came across as kind, energetic, gracious. With him, she was funnier, more wry, more pushy, more casual.
The group ate the scones.
When no one had left after fifteen minutes, impatience began to grind at him. He needed to get back to work, and he was ready for these people to leave so he could have Gen to himself, just like he had her to himself at his farm—
He didn’t want her to himself. It irritated him that he’d even thought that.
