Page 13 of Wintering with George
“For two years?”
“I know,” she said, shaking her head, still not letting go of my arm, holding on as if afraid if she stopped, she might drown. “I just—he didn’t sound like him whenever he talked about you.”
“How so?”
She was silent, thinking, picking her words, I thought. “It was like he was happy but unsure of where he stood with you.”
I nodded.
“But unsure of how you felt, not how he felt. Please don’t think for a moment that I ever heard anything but gushing words praising how smart you are and how kind.”
“Kind?” That was an odd compliment. No one thought of me that way.
“Oh yes. Always. And how brave you are and selfless to the point where he worries.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“He didn’t like that you would sacrifice yourself for a member of your team without a thought to what that would do to him.”
“I—”
She put up her hand. “But also, he knows that when you’re in the field, there should only be your team to consider.”
“Yes.”
“And he hates when you leave, but his time alone is precious to him as well.”
“I know that.”
“I just didn’t understand because it was like he was going back and forth, contradicting himself, but then I met you, and I witnessed you saving us, and… I can’t imagine how anyone couldn’t fall madly, head over heels crazy in love with you.”
I squinted at her, and she laughed.
“My goodness, George, you’re an action hero in the flesh.”
My turn to laugh.
“No, it’s true. You’re this quiet, mysterious loner, and you’re absolutely gorgeous, so I completely get how he’s smitten and terrified at the same time.”
“Terrified?”
“Well, yes, of course,” she said as though I was being obtuse. “You’re you, and he’s a psychiatrist, for heaven’s sake.”
“So you’re saying what, that he’s not exciting enough for me?”
“I think he thinks so. And he is, in many ways, a curmudgeonly old grandfather.”
“What’re you—”
“Have you seen his clothes? There are no jeans in that man’s wardrobe. He actually has tweed blazers and herringbone sportscoats and—I mean, this is not the fifties. Why does he have a newsboy cap? He has a billion scarves, and his shoes… Really, how old is he?”
But I liked all those things.
“He sent me a picture of the two of you on New Year’s last year, and he’s in this three-piece navy, chalk-stripe suit, and you’re in a black Hugo Boss. He’s got a tie, you don’t, he has a pocket watch and cuff links, and—God, it was all just so fussy, and you have a black dress shirt on and look like you walked off a magazine cover. You two don’t fit together at all.”
I chuckled. “You don’t get it because you don’t see him with me.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
