Leaning back in his chair, Reese chuckled. “Did you realize you’d chosen books written by women?”
A slight frown appeared between Cherie’s eyes. “Are you intimating that we deliberately selected women authors because we like them better than their male counterparts?”
“No. Not at all. I just thought it odd that you would select those authors. That maybe something in their writing was more appealing than someone like James Baldwin or Tom Clancy.”
The fact that they’d selected books written by women during their inaugural book club summer was something she hadn’t thought about. “We just happened to recommend some of our favorite books. Last year, it was all men.”
“What were they?”
“The Alienistby Caleb Carr,Love in the Time of Choleraby Gabriel Garcia Márquez, andMemoirs of a Geishaby Arthur Golden.The Alienistwas my choice, and we were only able to discuss that one title because Leah had to go back to Virginia to take care of several personal issues.”
“Did they enjoy your choice?”
“Of course they did. We always enjoy each other’s choices. Have you readThe Alienist?”
“No. Should I?” Reese asked.
“I’m only going to say that I highly recommend it.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll order a copy.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Cherie countered. “I have a copy upstairs you can use. I’m willing to lend it to you, but only if you promise not to bend the corner of the pages or read it while eating or drinking coffee. I once lent someone one of my books, and I had to throw it away and buy another copy once they returned it with missing pages, a broken spine, and many pages dotted with coffee stains.”
Reese placed a large hand over his heart. “I promise, Miss Cherie Thompson, that I will return your book in the same condition in which it was given to me.”
Her smile was dazzling. “As soon as you finish your soup, I’ll go upstairs and get it.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you. There may be other books in your collection that I’d like to read.”
“You read?”
“What makes you believe I wouldn’t read?”
“I don’t know, Reese. I figured that, during your downtime, you’d want to kick back and watch sports.”
“That’s not all I do,” he countered, a slight edge creeping into his voice. “I read, watch television,andI build things.”
Propping her elbow on the table, Cherie cupped her chin in the palm of her hand. “What things do you build?”
“The last one was a child’s wagon. One of the guys at the station had a little boy who was turning three, and he asked me if I would build a personalized little red wagon for his son.”
“How long did it take for you to make it?”
“I worked on it whenever I was off, so it was about a week. I had to order the wheels and the handle from a supplier, and I had an artist paint balloons, half-moons, and stars along the sides. Fortunately, it was finished before the child’s birthday party.”
Cherie closed her eyes and tried to imagine her son sitting in a wagon being pulled by his father. The instant the image popped into her head, she dismissed it. “He must have been overjoyed with the wagon.”
“So much so that he wanted to sleep in it.”
“That must have been adorable.”
“It was,” Reese confirmed, “because the little boy is adorable.”
She didn’t know why the conversation had veered off from books to children. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you upstairs to look for the book.”
* * *
Reese followed Cherie up the staircase, and somehow he couldn’t stop thinking about the myriad of emotions that had flittered over her features when he’d talked about building the wagon for his coworker’s son; he wondered if perhaps she’d wanted or had lost a child, and made a mental note not to broach the subject again.
