The image of Nick standing by my bedroom window, buck-naked, pops back into my head, and I attempt, unsuccessfully, to brush it away. "Yes and no. I woke up earlier, but then I guess I fell back to sleep."
I make at stab at focusing my mind on the kitchen stove he's here to teach me to operate. And then I try to recall if I saw any coffee last night when I was checking out the cupboards. But my efforts at remembering anything important are useless. The Dream is lodged in vivid detail at the front and center of my mind, and I can't blank it out. I can still feel Nick in me and on me, and now he's here in the flesh, I feel the heat move up my neck and into my face. I'm hoping he'll attribute my enhanced color to the speed with which I got dressed and came downstairs, since I can't tell him the reason I'm all hot and bothered is his fault. That he left me about one millimeter from being satisfied, and now the itch is driving me crazy.
"I've brought breakfast," he says, holding up one of the two brown paper bags he has in his hands. "Deep fried donuts from the local bakery. They're--"
"Loaded with calories?"
"They always are. They're also still warm. The baker only makes them on weekends, and I thought we deserved a treat."
"We do?"
"Absolutely. Can I come in?"
"Sure." I step back to let him inside, then close and relock the door. "What's in the other bag?"
"Fresh-ground coffee. I didn't know if McIven stocked the pantry before he left, so I brought some with me."
I notice there's more heat than twinkle in his brown eyes, but at this hour, I assume he's lusting after coffee and a delicious, fat-soaked, sugar-crusted, jam-filled donut rather than sex-starved me. I could be wrong, of course. It wouldn't be the first time. If he wasn't a tiny bit interested, he wouldn't have offered to help me with that monster of a stove, and he wouldn't be here now. I know he's interested. I've felt the tension since the moment we met last night, and he offered me the lift.
But I've discovered men basically fall into two categories--the impatient kind who grab whatever comes their way, quick before it escapes, close their eyes, hope for the best, and jump in, and those who like to take it slow and easy and look before they leap. I know Nick falls into the latter category or he'd have made a move last night while he was giving me the grand tour, and that suits me just fine. I can't stand guys who think it's quite acceptable to grope and fuck a girl without even bothering to ask her name. So, while Nick's considering his options, or whatever it is guys do in these circumstances, I'll content myself with a rerun or three of last night's dream.
Nick leads the way to the kitchen with a familiarity that makes me wonder exactly how well he knew the former owner. Were they just friends? Or were they lovers? This last thought gives me unreasonable feelings of jealousy, which I refuse to harbor. Nick is a grown man with a history, not a newly-hatched chick who arrived on my doorstep this morning. Whatever his former connections, be they to this house or elsewhere, they're none of my business. Or that's what I try to tell myself.
Nick puts the two paper bags down on the kitchen counter. "What do you want to do first? Make coffee, or light the fire?"
Big houses tend to be cold, and Foxton Hall is no exception. Plus, like anyone will tell you, it's always colder in the country than it is in the city. I wrap my arms around myself for warmth, consider the thin T-shirt I'm wearing, and make a mental note to buy more suitable clothing. Heavyweight jeans, or thick, country-style corduroys, a wool sweater, boots and a fleece jacket top the list. "I don't care. I'm dying for a cup of coffee, I'm also freezing."
"In that case, we'll start the coffee and while that's brewing, I'll show you how to light the fire. Once we get it going, the trick will be to keep it stoked. That way, you won't have to worry about it again."
Fifteen minutes later, the fire is burning brightly and the coffee is brewed to perfection. But after watching Nick struggle with folded newspaper, a bundle of dry twigs, and some smelly, brown, oblong-shaped things he refers to as firelighters, I'm grateful he offered his help in getting the damn thing up and running. I could never have accomplished it by myself. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't even have tried. I'd have either gone out and bought an electric fire, or retreated under a pile of blankets to await Mr. McIven's return.
The kitchen is already starting to feel warmer, but as temporary hostess of Foxton Hall, and since Nick is a guest, I suppose I should use the fancy china I saw in one of the kitchen cupboards for our breakfast. I should then put it all on a tray and serve it in the appropriately designated room he showed me last night. I open the cupboard containing what I presume is the best china, but I change my mind and close it again. I'm not one to stand on ceremony, and I doubt Nick is either, so I pour the coffee into two of the mugs I found in another section of cupboards and motion him to one of the kitchen chairs.
I take a sip of my coffee, which is surprisingly good, and then bite into one of the delicious-looking donuts. I close my eyes in rapture as my mouth is bombarded with the sweetness of the sugar coating, the deep-fried flavor of the dough, and the sharpness of raspberry jam. I know there are probably more calories in this one bite than I eat in a whole month, but I don't care. This is paradise on a plate.
"Good, hmm?" Nicks says, echoing my thoughts and holding my gaze as he licks a few stray bits of sugar from his upper lip. His tongue is long and facile, with a tip I know could wreak havoc given the right opportunity.
He smiles, as if reading my thoughts, and picks up his coffee. "I would have bought more donuts, but I was afraid of spoiling our lunch."
I consider saying to hell with lunch and let's go back to the bakery before they're all sold out, but I manage to restrain myself. Anyway, I can't quite get the image of his tongue out of my mind. I imagine his hands holding me prisoner, while he assaults me with that tongue. I can feel it touching me, wet and slippery, yet firm and hot as it seeks out and exposes my most intimate secrets. I hold my breath and writhe against the exquisite invasion, then--
The clink of his coffee mug against the plate brings me back to earth.
"You ready to go?"
"Go where?"
He smiles--an unnervingly knowing smile. "I asked if you'd like to go for a drive before lunch so you can familiarize yourself with the area. But I think you zoned out there for a few seconds." He hesitates, and I swear to God I see a tiny hint of lust beaming out of his delicious brown eyes. "Unless, of course, you have other plans."
"No other plans, and I'd love to go. As for me zoning out for a moment..." I search for an acceptable explanation. "I'm never at my best in the morning, and this place really is a lot to take in. Especially when I was expecting a cute country cottage. You know, one of those rose-covered, thatched places with rooms the size of shoe boxes like I've seen on TV in the British mystery series."
"I suppose it is rather large," he says giving the barn-sized kitchen an encompassing glance. "Think you'll be okay, living here all alone? As you say, it is enormous. It's also full of nooks and crannies and, like all old houses, inexplicable creaks and groans you may find a bit scary until you get used to them."
"No problem," I assure him. "All buildings make noises, and I'm used to living alone. Plus you've already assured me there's virtually no crime here. And since I don't scare easily, so I can't think of a single reason why I won't be just fine."
He gathers up our used mugs and plates and takes them over to the sink where he rinses them off, pulls a dish towel from the drawer where they're kept, without even checking, and again gives me the impression that at one time he was considerably more than a casual visitor. "If you want to grab a coat, we'll get going."
Upstairs, I check out the meager contents of my closet. Climate-wise, L.A. and England do not have a lot in common, but I recall packing the sweatshirt Ginny gave me because she said it was too small for her and it would be perfect as country house-sitting garb. She also gave me a pair of her husband's socks on account of the fact, she said, all floors in England are cold and par
ticularly those in the country.
I'm not sure about the sweatshirt being correct country wear, but the pale lemon color goes well with my red hair, and the floors do feel like ice. After donning the sweatshirt and socks, I throw on the navy wool jacket I bought the day I arrived in London rather than freeze my way into an early grave, and slip my feet into the ankle boots I acquired on the same shopping trip. I don't have a hat, scarf or gloves, but I have pockets I can use for my hands, and I'll be in Nick's car, so my ears will be fine.
* * * *
Foxton turns out to be one of those picturesque English villages you see in every travel brochure. It has a scattering of ancient stone cottages, some of which have thatched roofs, a village green, a church with a square Norman tower, a pub, a few small shops on the main street, and some newer houses on the outskirts. But instead of stopping, Nick promises to introduce me around the village another time, and continues on, rhyming off the names of various local landmarks and several other villages as we travel along the narrow, two-lane country roads.
The day is damp and chilly with patches of ground fog, the kind of weather I understand is normal at this time of year in England. And while the grass is still green and the odd tree has a few reddish-gold leaves clinging to its branches, I get the feeling winter isn't far away.
"Do you have snow here in Foxton?" I ask.
"Sometimes. But not much and what we get doesn't last more than a day or two at most. Not like the winter of '46 that I'm told had this area snowed in for days. Some of the older people still talk about. What about you? Does it snow a lot where you come from?"
"No." I laugh, trying to imagine how much worse the L.A. traffic would be if it had to deal with a heavy snowfall. "I'm from southern California. The only snow I've seen is in the High Sierras, up around Lake Tahoe and Reno."
"If you listen to the farmers, and they're usually right about the weather, we're supposed to get more snow than usual this winter. How long do you expect to be staying at the hall?"
"My contract is for a minimum of six weeks. But I've agreed to stay longer if necessary."
"Let's hope for longer then." He shoots me a cheeky grin. "If the snow gets here before you leave and hangs around long enough, maybe I can introduce you to the delights of English tobogganing, country style."
The only tobogganing I know about is the stuff they do at the Winter Olympics. "You mean a bunch of people sliding down a steep, narrow track at a zillion miles an hour?"
"No. I mean just the two of us. It involves stealing the lid off a dustbin, which I believe you call a garbage can, taking it to the nearest hill and going for the ride of your life."
"Sounds like fun. I think." I like the sound of the two of us, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to indulge in anything as wild and abandoned as careening down a hill on a flying saucer. However, when in Rome and all that, so if push should come to shove, I'll hold my breath and give it a try. "Is it very dangerous?"
"It can be if you forget to duck your head when you get to any barbed wire."
The only barbed wire I'm aware of, although I think the correct term is razor wire, is used to stop prisoners escaping from maximum security jails. "What's the reason for the barbed wire? Is it supposed to add to the fun?"
"Not intentionally. The farmers use barbed wire fences to separate fields and contain the cows and any other animals. If there are several fields on the side of the hill, then you may have to duck down more than once."
"I'm sure it's hilarious. But I think I'd feel safer on a hill where you can get a straight run from the top to the bottom. Do you know of any without the thrills?"
"Not offhand, I don't. But we can always look for one."
Ginny had suggested I rent a car while I'm here, but for various reasons, I'd decided to pass. I have no experience of driving through bad weather. And right now, I don't see myself driving on the wrong side of the road, or negotiating one of those roundabout thingies that seem to show up every few miles. Maybe I'll reconsider at a later date, when I get more used to the British way of doing things, but since I value my life, I wouldn't bet on it.
A few miles further on, we come to Medlow Green, a small town on the River Thames, where Nick suggests we stop for lunch. The pub he chooses is in the center of town near the bridge, and obviously popular if the number of vehicles parked outside are any indication.
The restaurant is indeed crowded, but the host manages to find us a tiny table for two near the fire.
Nick goes to the bar and brings us back shandies, an interesting concoction of lime cordial and lager. I like the taste. I think I'd like it even better if it was ice cold, but I know the Brits like their beer warm and, since I'm the guest, I smile my thanks and take another sip.
"How do you feel about roast lamb?" Nick asks as a waitress appears and hands us menus. "That's what I'm going to have. They do a great job of it here. It comes with roasted potatoes, brussel sprouts, carrots, gravy and mint jelly. What do you say?"
I do my best not to think about tiny white lambs frolicking in a field, and say, "Sure. Sounds good to me."
"And trifle with thick cream for dessert. Yes?"
"If you insist."
"I do." He reaches across the table and covers my hand with one of his. "You look as if you could do with a little fattening up."
I pretend outrage, but soften it with a grin. "You want to fatten me up after all the trouble I had losing my excess weight? That's not very nice."
"I don't think what happened to you was very nice either."
For an instant, I'm speechless. I wonder if he's psychic, or if Ginny passed something on to Sam McIven that found its way into Nick's ears. Then I remember the hollow-eyed hag I saw the last time I looked at myself properly in the mirror, and the way the clothes I brought with me from California no longer fit quite as well as they once did. My new jacket and Ginny's sweatshirt are okay, but my T-shirt and jeans look like they belong to someone else--a considerably larger someone else.
"What makes you think something happened to me?"
"I don't think something happened to you, Ali, I know it did. I see it in your eyes, your face. The mixed messages you give with your screw-you-I'm-not-scared-of-anything attitude, and then there's your extreme caution last night when you thought I might be married or otherwise committed. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but it might stop my imagination from running riot if you at least give me some idea."
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I don't want to tell Nick anything--I'm not the kind to go around filling the ears of all and sundry with my problems, but since I don't have a choice without appearing rude, I go for the short version. "Six months ago my late husband fell off the fifteenth floor of an apartment balcony and died instantly. The cops couldn't decide if it was an accident, or if I'd had a hand in it, and so they charged me with murder. I couldn't raise the bail, so I spent the next few weeks in the L.A. county jail while they figured things out. Fortunately for me, my alibi stood up and they let me go. End of story."
"The balcony of your apartment?"
"No. His girlfriend's."
"You were still living together at the time?"
"We were, but we weren't. If you know what I mean."
"Ah, I see."
Actually, what he thinks he sees is only a glimpse, but the waitress chooses that moment to return with our food, and I say a silent prayer of thanks for the reprieve. From what I was told by the police following what they described as extensive investigations, they were satisfied George's demise was the result of an unfortunate accident. At the time of the incident, a party was in progress, and like most of the other guests, George was drunk, maybe even high as well, and horsing around, pretending he could fly or something equally insane. A witness said he saw George climb up on to the balcony railing, but couldn't get there in time to prevent him from falling to his death.
I know there are some people who will always wonder if I wasn't somehow involved. After all, it
was common knowledge George had played around with other women almost non-stop from the day we were married. One of my friends even went so far as to say she wouldn't have blamed me if I did pay someone to give him a gentle push. The fact is, I didn't. Stupid, naive me didn't even have the brains to throw him out, or file for a divorce. I guess I thought, given time and a sackful of understanding on my part, at some point he'd get tired of the chase and come home to Momma. Shows how smart I was. Still am, come to that.
"How's the lamb?"
"Excuse me?"
"The meat. Do you like it?"
I might as well have been chewing on an old sock for all the attention I've paid to what I've been shoveling into my mouth to this point, but my plate is now half empty, so I smile and lie through my teeth, "It's delicious. Best lamb I've ever eaten."
He picks up his glass and takes a sip. "Good. For a minute there, I thought you'd zoned out on me again."
I banish George to the back of my mind and realize the food is delicious, better than anything I've had in a long time. When I swallow the last mouthful of potato and put down my fork, there's nothing left on the plate but the pattern. Nick fetches us each a second shandy, and after he has a word with waitress, she agrees to allow us a little breathing space before she comes back with our dessert and coffee.
Following lunch, we go for a stroll around the town, and Nick tells me about a murder that happened right here in Medlow Green a couple of years ago. Apparently a man Nick went to school with turned up dead in the trunk of his business partner's car, and she was arrested for his murder. Like me, the woman was an American, and also like me, she was lucky in that she was able to convince the police of her innocence. Later, Nick tells me, thanks mostly to her efforts, the real murderer was exposed, and the motive for the crime turned out to be something that had happened many years ago, when the victim was a small boy, and that it's all detailed in the book Seeing Is Believing by Chris Grover.
Having been through a similar ordeal myself, I find talking about it both difficult and depressing. It reminds me of George and all the things I came to England to forget, so I change the subject by taking Nick's hand and dragging him into a dark, musty antique shop to see what they have. The shop deals more in secondhand household goods than antiques and is stuffed to the rafters with boxes of dusty, chipped china, tarnished cutlery and brass ornaments, pictures so dirty with age it's impossible to see what the subject is, and a few pieces of furniture that were once nice, but are now full of woodworm. After a quick look around, we leave.
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