Lark sat riveted to her story, hugging her knees to her chest.
“I don’t know which of us was more shocked. Or more terrified, frankly. The situation called for self-control, obviously, which is never as easy as it sounds. I laid beside her all night, my arm around her. I was so overcome I could hardly sleep.”
Talking about it triggered old emotions, among them a fierce sense of protectiveness. She’d taken care of Payton in so many ways.
“Over breakfast the next day we talked about it. Both of us thought it best not to pursue anything. We could have written it off to hormones and returned easily to a work relationship. Then two weeks later we flew together to Miami for another meeting. Three hours from home…I took some papers to her room after dinner. That was it. We both were absolutely electric with desire.”
* * *
It was an incredibly touching story, and it gave Lark a clearer picture of the sort of person Channing was. No matter how dismissive or uncaring she tried to sound, at her core she was a nurturer. Lark had a similar streak, a trait she’d developed as a counterweight to her mother’s poor parenting. It was why she’d gone to medical school in the first place, and why she’d dropped out to play caretaker.
From what Channing had told her, she too had grown up without the attention of her mother. Perhaps it made her more sensitive to the needs of others.
“That’s an amazing story, Channing. The way you describe it, I can see exactly how it happened.”
“Perhaps you can explain it to me,” she said blithely.
“You said it yourself—you liked who you were with her. You relished feeling strong and protective, and she let you do that.” It also explained why she was having such a hard time telling the Brownings about the sale of Penderworth.
“And you’re not put off about what she did?”
“Speaking personally, I’ve always been a little conflicted over the issue, seeing as how I’m the product of an unplanned pregnancy. But I support anyone’s right to choose—period.”
“Just remember that you promised to keep it secret. She’d be mortified to know I’d told a soul.”
“No worries, ever.” In fact, she had a similar secret of her own, one she wouldn’t breach on the chance that Channing might someday meet her sister. Lark had cut class in high school to go with Chloe to the women’s clinic in Waltham. Even fifteen years later the memories were visceral.
“Lately I’ve wondered if she regrets it,” Channing mused. “Maybe it got to her and I remind her of it.”
For Lark, sitting through details of the affair with Payton had the unintended side effect of making their evening feel less like a date. It was almost as if there were a third person in the room. But since they were on the subject…
“Didn’t it ever bother you that Payton was married?”
Several seconds of icy quiet followed, after which Channing reached for her shoes.
“No, wait. I didn’t mean for that to sound judgmental…honest.”
“Then why do I feel that I’m being asked to defend myself?”
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to.” She swallowed hard, realizing her only way out of this was some version of the truth, the gist of which probably was judgmental. “I was curious about how you dealt with it, is all. On the plane you said something about not deserving anyone’s sympathy, that you considered yourself a home-wrecker. It must have bothered you at some level.”
Her words hung interminably until Channing relaxed and tucked her feet again. In a noticeable departure from her earlier candor and ease, she was defensive, more guarded. “I wasn’t proud of myself but they were her vows, not mine. She felt she’d gotten her life all wrong, that she was always meant to be with a woman. She loved her family though… That’s a lot of guilt to process once you realize the life you should have had was one in which your children might never have been born. Whatever remorse I felt, it was canceled out by knowing I was giving her something she needed and not making her feel ashamed about it.”
“Because you loved her.”
“I certainly thought so.” There was an unmistakable tinge of anger in the set of her jaw. “It’s hard to look back now and not feel that I was played for a fool. Who knows if anything she ever said was true?”
“She must have loved you, Channing. A person can’t fake that.”
“I don’t know what to believe.” The tension over Lark’s question had dissipated with Channing’s obvious need to talk. “Once we both realized our relationship was serious, I asked her to divorce her husband. She understood that it wasn’t fair to me, but she asked me please to wait a year until her son left for university. So what did he do? The little bastard picked Boston College because he didn’t want to leave home. Spoiled dolt…he can’t even dress himself. So we reset the countdown. She promised to end her marriage by my thirtieth birthday or else. One way or the other I needed to get on with my life. We didn’t make it that far.”
That’s what Bess had said when Lark’s “couple of months” with Ma went on and on with no end in sight. No wonder she’d lost patience. “It’s bad enough that you waited so long, but then you came away empty-handed.”
“If I were being mature about it, I suppose I’d be grateful for the experience. It was good when it was good.” Her slumped shoulders and sad eyes said what her words would not—Payton had broken her heart. Or maybe it was the rejection itself. There was only so much a woman of pride like Channing could take. Being prepared for the outcome wasn’t the same as being ready.
“It’s Payton’s loss if you ask me.” Lark had been hugging her knees to overcome the impulse to reach out physically to Channing. “Love’s more than just the right two people finding each other. They have to find each other at exactly the right time. That’s lightning in a bottle and then some.”
“Mmm…it’s a bit of a miracle that it happens at all.”
Lark had never believed much in miracles, nor in fate if she were honest. It was pure luck that she’d missed her flight, that Jeremy had plopped her in the seat next to Channing, that Niya had suggested meeting at the Crown and Punchbowl. If what Channing said was true, she had only a tiny window in which to learn if they were the right people at the right time.
Chapter Ten
A ray of sunshine, rare of late, cast a diagonal streak across Poppa’s bookcase. Dust particles floated like bubbles in a glass of champagne, causing Channing to erupt in a sneezing fit, her third of the afternoon. “I’ll be so glad when we get this room cleaned out.”
Maisie entered the study with another empty crate and handed her a white linen handkerchief, its corner embossed with a cursive H. “Take this, Miss Channing. It belonged to Lord Hughes.”
The anticipation alone prompted Channing to sneeze again.
“Would you like me to open a window?” Toby Singleton had done the literal heavy lifting in sorting the study. A graduate student of economics at Cambridge, he was tasked with the chore of helping her collect Poppa’s papers and books for archiving at the new library named in his honor. Toby was stout and ungainly, and his black-framed glasses slid down his nose at every turn of the head. His overall clumsiness made him a frightening figure atop the ladder, where he took meticulous photos of each row of books before taking them down and packing them.
“Stay where you are, Toby. I’ll do it.” With a grunt that was keenly unladylike, she tried to no avail to free the wooden frame from where the moisture had held it all winter.
“Let me have a go, Miss Channing. I’ve a trick with these stubborn brutes.” Maisie pounded the casing firmly with the heels of her hands to loosen the stickiness, after which the window opened with ease. “You have to show them who’s boss.”
“Maisie, your hands…” Channing had never noticed the stiffened curl of her fingers, nor the bony protrusions. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing to worry about, just a touch of arthritis.”
“A touch? It looks quite painful.” She snatched away a crate M
aisie had started to lift. “You shouldn’t be doing this. Have you seen a doctor about that?”
“Aye, Miss Channing. It looks worse than it is.”
Maisie was all too dismissive, Channing thought. It made sense now why she’d changed her routines in the kitchen, calling on Cecil to chop vegetables and pinch the dough for pies. “No more hauling crates for you. Toby will carry all of this to his van, right Toby?”
“Of course. Professor Lord Hughes had quite the eye for economics history,” he said as he precariously waved a book from the top shelf. “He’s got the entire set of Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith. Not first editions, mind you, but they’re quite old and in excellent condition. These were practically required reading for macro theory.”
“Especially in this house. My grandfather set me upon them the summer before I started university.” She hadn’t planned to spend this entire day in the study, nor to play such a significant role in the university’s archiving. It was only when she realized Poppa had mixed his scholarly papers with his personal correspondence that she decided it would be best if she sorted those herself. But she’d had enough for one day. “Toby, what would you say to collecting all the books and taking them back to the library to finish sorting? Anything that doesn’t belong I can pick up when I bring the papers. We have photos to log the contents, yes?”
“Yes, Miss Hughes.”
Channing tightened her gut as he descended the ladder with his arms full, recalling her quip to Lark that the insurance had probably lapsed. She’d traded texts with Lark that morning, not for any substantive reason, but to connect after their revealing talk the night before. Their emotionally intimate conversation reminded her of the early days with Payton when they’d sit for hours shedding the layers of their inner selves, uncovering the secrets and dreams they kept from everyone else.
She regretted getting defensive over Lark’s question about how she’d justified an affair with a married woman. Not only was it silly to have been offended by the obvious, it was another embarrassing display of temper, the likes of which too often had led to rash behavior. She’d be furious with herself today had she given in to her impulse and stormed out in a huff.
Lark was… Channing didn’t quite have the words. She was an opportunity not to be wasted. A funny, decent, pretty woman who aroused her interests. When she’d left Lark’s flat the night before, they’d shared quite a long hug, with Lark assuring her the angst over Payton would someday end with relief that it hadn’t worked out. That’s how it worked once people fell out of love. Then Lark has kissed her cheek and waved to her from the door as she left in an Uber.
With a crate of lecture notes in hand, she started down the stairs behind Maisie, noticing for the first time her housekeeper’s halting gait as she gripped the banister. The fact that Maisie struggled so with day-to-day chores yet resisted retirement didn’t bode well for the talk they needed to have. It worried her to think the Brownings might be dependent on their wages. An adult nephew was profoundly disabled, she recalled, and they helped provide for his care. What if they were devastated to learn there wasn’t enough in the estate to keep them on?
They deserved better than having her dump that on them and run off to Amsterdam the next day. Sunday, when she returned—a sober conversation, after which she’d meet with Kenny’s property inspector friend and set the sale process in motion. It had to be done.
* * *
With her phone set to speaker for the conference call with Gipson headquarters, Lark quietly filed a ragged fingernail. Best to let the executives argue strategies among themselves, she’d learned. She was there to provide data.
“…and I’m convinced this would all go away tomorrow if the executive board would show Dr. Batra the door. It doesn’t matter at this point whose fault it is. Somebody has to take responsibility.” This from Michael Dobbins, product manager for Flexxene. Not the guy Lark would want manning the lifeboats.
“We can’t demand they fire their director, Mike. It’s not appropriate. How would they look if they didn’t stand up for their people? Besides, we’ve got dozens of trials in the field with PharmaStat. It wouldn’t look good for us either.” Wise words from Gipson’s senior development officer, Kirsten Cooke, PhD. “Dr. Latimer, do you have a feel for how their CEO wants to handle this?”
Even sitting alone in her office with the door locked, Lark sat up straight to reply. “Dr. Batra seems moderately concerned, so I have to assume she’s had conversations with some of the executive staff in Geneva. To my knowledge, none have visited the facility here. In fact, they seem to be keeping their distance for now. I’ve received no inquiries as to my findings.”
“What are your findings so far?” Dobbins asked.
“I’m halfway through the subject interviews. No irregularities to date. I’m doing site visits early next week to review the clinic protocols where the cardiac issues occurred. The first two patients were at Shire, the third one at Addenbrooke.” She was trying to keep an open mind so as not to bias her investigation, but it was highly unlikely two separate clinics had broken protocol in a way that would have caused identical emergencies.
Dobbins always came across as less concerned about the particulars of the trial or even her review than about his timeline for moving Flexxene along to Phase III. Industry analysts on Wall Street believed strongly in the drug, so it was little wonder he felt pressure to get it to market as quickly as possible. “What I want to know is if there’s any chance we can get back in the field in Cambridge by mid-July. If not, we need to tighten the trials in Oslo and Helsinki. We can’t afford to have either of those groups dropping out at this stage, not so close to the end. Say the word and I can put a couple of girls on shoring that up this afternoon.”
Dr. Cooke cleared her throat and waited a beat for a self-correction that didn’t come. “Mike, please don’t refer to our research staff as girls. It’s demeaning. All right then, this hour seems to work for everyone. Let’s schedule another update next week.”
Her seamless transition to the matter of next week’s call effectively cut off Mike’s reply, giving her admonishment an even bigger punch. Gipson’s high-ranking women had banded together last fall after a sexual harassment complaint forced the company to reckon with its culture. Ever since, they rose quickly to call out language and behavior they considered sexist or otherwise unprofessional, sparing lower-ranking staffers like Lark the risk of retaliation.
Kirsten Cooke was especially strident. Lark had taken notice of her when she joined the company four years ago. Early forties, an attractive working mom who juggled school plays and soccer games with global business responsibilities. And running marathons. Lark’s relationship with Bess had been good back then, but it hadn’t kept her from appreciating Dr. Cooke’s appeal. Had they been frequent travel companions like Channing and Payton, she too might have fallen for the boss.
Would she have cared that there was a Mr. Cooke? She was a lot less sure of a principled answer to that after hearing Channing describe how she’d fallen for Payton.
* * *
As Toby Singleton disappeared through the gate with his van full of Poppa’s books and papers, Channing spotted Cecil sweeping the gazebo. That was one of Maisie’s usual chores.
Just as she’d missed the signs of decay at Penderworth due to the dwindled funds, she’d failed to notice Cecil taking on a greater share of the domestic work. She wondered how long they’d kept up the charade and how they planned to manage when Maisie’s arthritis got worse.
Before she could ask Cecil for insight into Maisie’s condition, her phone rang. Liz. What had she done now? “Hello, Mum.”
“I’m so glad you answered. If I don’t talk to somebody soon, I’m going to hurl myself into the ocean. Channing, I have no place to go. Literally, no place except the bowels of this dreadful boat. What the bloody hell was I thinking…coming down to this suffocating humidity to live in a floating coffin that stinks to high heaven? Raw sewage meets fish market.”
“We ha—bad—connec—Mum,” she replied, moving her hand over her mouth as she spoke.
“Channing Trilby Hughes, don’t think you’re going to pull that one on me again. I’ll call this number all night long if you hang up on me.”
Channing rated the threat as Likely True. “What am I supposed to do with your problems, huh? I have my own to deal with, or have you forgotten?”
Forgotten was generous, as it assumed she’d ever understood the precariousness of Channing’s situation in the first place. On the contrary, Liz behaved as if they could magically recover the Hughes fortune with a few phone calls and bank transfers like those Channing had provided when Mum was between husbands.
“I want to come to England. A month or two at Penderworth is just what I need to settle my nerves. But you know I hate to fly alone. I checked and there’s a direct flight to Miami. I’ll meet you there and we can go shopping in the Gables. Then we can fly back to London together. Oh, and business class is perfectly fine, it doesn’t have to be first. It will be so wonderful to see Cecil and Maisie again.”
“No.” She’d begun pacing in the driveway. Stalking, really. Mum brought out a frantic, impatient streak.
“What do you mean no? I’m all the family you’ve got, Channing. Penderworth would be mine if your father hadn’t died.”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. There’s nothing left of Poppa’s estate. He lost it all in the market crash ten years ago. Thirty million pounds down the tubes. All I have is a stack of bills and a manor house that’s falling apart. And the Brownings. I haven’t yet settled on how to tell them I’ve no use for them after thirty-four years, that they’re out on the street. Perhaps you can help me with that. Wait, I know…I’ll go the subtle route and change the locks on their cottage like you did when Nicholas started dating that girl from Taiwan. Think they’d get the message? It’s hardly as if they’ve done anything to earn my loyalty—”
A Proper Cuppa Tea Page 11
