business, but perhaps he was just trying to get rid of her. If so, he’d succeeded.
The next day Gillian returned to the park, selecting a place to sit where the sun shone on the trees and the walking trail. She pulled out her colored pencils and began to draw, losing herself in the scene, highlighting the trail as it wound through the shrubbery. Using her colored pencils, she sought to capture the shades of green in the leaves and the mottled effect of the sun and shade. She had just smudged some of the colors together to blend nearby shades of green when she sensed someone looking over her shoulder. She turned. Oh no.
Nicholas Talmadge stood behind her, his breath coming in quick gasps, as if he’d been running. “There you are. I called you twice, Gillian.”
Her gaze took in the man as he stood there, one hand on a hip, the other emerging from his pocket holding his cell phone, deep furrows on his brow. He looked at his phone as if willing it to generate a ringtone.
“I’m sorry, Nick. My cell phone’s at home. I didn’t see a reason to bring it with me.” She slipped the colored pencils, one at a time, back into their carrier. “Now that I’m retired.”
“F ired.”
“ I prefer the other word.” She sat straighter in her chair, forcing herself to maintain her composure. “Some people would say I’m unemployed. I’ve decided to consider myself retired.” But the way Nick was looking at her stole her calm, and her pulse began to climb.
She reached for another piece of sketch paper and looked away from him. If she didn’t say any more, maybe he would take the hint and leave her to her sketching. The sense of relaxed accomplishment she’d been enjoying had flitted away in Nick’s presence, replaced by a tightening in her stomach and new tension in her shoulders.
But her former boss didn’t leave. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her upright, knocking over her three-legged stool and spilling her pencils out of the box perched on the edge of her sketch board.
“Are they talking to you?” He grasped both of her arms and shook her. “What are they saying?”
“ Nick, take your hands off me.” She was surprised that her voice sounded so calm, even though her inner self was screaming.
But he cont inued to accuse her, his words louder, engulfing the birdsong that had characterized the area only minutes earlier. Gillian glanced to one side and realized Nick’s actions had caught the attention of others in the park. Two women walking on the nearby trail had stopped and were looking her way. One woman seemed to be talking on her phone and gesturing in Gillian’s direction.
“Are you okay? Is this man bothering you?” another woman asked as she stepped closer. She motioned for her small child to stay behind her. “You! Mister, let her go.” She frowned at Nick before pointing at the woman standing next to her. “We’re calling the cops.”
Not wanting to create a scene, Gillian said, “We were just having a discussion.” She rubbed her arms where Nick’s fingers had squeezed so tightly, certain she would be sporting bruises tomorrow. Too late, she realized other people were also watching. Two men and a woman emerged from among the trees she’d so recently sketched.
“What’s the problem here?” A big man in a floppy hat and a mustache demanded. He waved the other couple away and they continued down the path.
Scuffed h iking boots, cargo shorts, a backpack with a sipping straw clipped over one shoulder and draped down one side of his broad chest implied Mustache Man was a serious hiker. Lots of muscles in his arms. Good. Maybe he’d knock Nick down, or at least scare him enough to go away.
At the gathering crowd, Nick stepped back and turned in the larger man’s direction. “This is a private conversation. Beat it, people.”
But n o one moved. The small child peeking from behind her mother’s leg asked in a stage whisper, “Is he being bad, Mommy?” The woman
The next day Gillian returned to the park, selecting a place to sit where the sun shone on the trees and the walking trail. She pulled out her colored pencils and began to draw, losing herself in the scene, highlighting the trail as it wound through the shrubbery. Using her colored pencils, she sought to capture the shades of green in the leaves and the mottled effect of the sun and shade. She had just smudged some of the colors together to blend nearby shades of green when she sensed someone looking over her shoulder. She turned. Oh no.
Nicholas Talmadge stood behind her, his breath coming in quick gasps, as if he’d been running. “There you are. I called you twice, Gillian.”
Her gaze took in the man as he stood there, one hand on a hip, the other emerging from his pocket holding his cell phone, deep furrows on his brow. He looked at his phone as if willing it to generate a ringtone.
“I’m sorry, Nick. My cell phone’s at home. I didn’t see a reason to bring it with me.” She slipped the colored pencils, one at a time, back into their carrier. “Now that I’m retired.”
“F ired.”
“ I prefer the other word.” She sat straighter in her chair, forcing herself to maintain her composure. “Some people would say I’m unemployed. I’ve decided to consider myself retired.” But the way Nick was looking at her stole her calm, and her pulse began to climb.
She reached for another piece of sketch paper and looked away from him. If she didn’t say any more, maybe he would take the hint and leave her to her sketching. The sense of relaxed accomplishment she’d been enjoying had flitted away in Nick’s presence, replaced by a tightening in her stomach and new tension in her shoulders.
But her former boss didn’t leave. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her upright, knocking over her three-legged stool and spilling her pencils out of the box perched on the edge of her sketch board.
“Are they talking to you?” He grasped both of her arms and shook her. “What are they saying?”
“ Nick, take your hands off me.” She was surprised that her voice sounded so calm, even though her inner self was screaming.
But he cont inued to accuse her, his words louder, engulfing the birdsong that had characterized the area only minutes earlier. Gillian glanced to one side and realized Nick’s actions had caught the attention of others in the park. Two women walking on the nearby trail had stopped and were looking her way. One woman seemed to be talking on her phone and gesturing in Gillian’s direction.
“Are you okay? Is this man bothering you?” another woman asked as she stepped closer. She motioned for her small child to stay behind her. “You! Mister, let her go.” She frowned at Nick before pointing at the woman standing next to her. “We’re calling the cops.”
Not wanting to create a scene, Gillian said, “We were just having a discussion.” She rubbed her arms where Nick’s fingers had squeezed so tightly, certain she would be sporting bruises tomorrow. Too late, she realized other people were also watching. Two men and a woman emerged from among the trees she’d so recently sketched.
“What’s the problem here?” A big man in a floppy hat and a mustache demanded. He waved the other couple away and they continued down the path.
Scuffed h iking boots, cargo shorts, a backpack with a sipping straw clipped over one shoulder and draped down one side of his broad chest implied Mustache Man was a serious hiker. Lots of muscles in his arms. Good. Maybe he’d knock Nick down, or at least scare him enough to go away.
At the gathering crowd, Nick stepped back and turned in the larger man’s direction. “This is a private conversation. Beat it, people.”
But n o one moved. The small child peeking from behind her mother’s leg asked in a stage whisper, “Is he being bad, Mommy?” The woman
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