by K C West
PJ gave me a nudge. “Stop that. Don’t you even think those thoughts, not even in jest.” We grinned at each other, lost in the moment, until Frederick spoke.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, standing up straight, “you have my blessing.”
“Thanks.” PJ kissed him on the cheek. “And your blessing is worth everything, so much more than you can know. I can’t tell you how happy we are that you understand and support us.”
Caught up in the emotion of the moment, I pecked him on the cheek, too. “Thank you, Frederick. You have my word that I’ll do my best to make her happy.”
He laughed and kissed me back. “She’ll be a handful, Kim. I hope you’re ready for that.”
“Hey!” PJ poked him in the ribs.
“Oh, I’m looking forward to the challenge, believe me.”
Although PJ’s eyes gleamed with mischief, I saw anger in them, too. It was directed at me.
“That may be so, Kimberly Blair, but wait until I get you alone. For starters, what were you thinking when you said you’d leave me?”
“It would have been for your sake. After all, you and your father were just getting reconciled.”
“My sake? You would have done it for my sake? What about my happiness? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Priscilla, stop. Kim was only trying to do right by you, which proves to me that she really loves you. And now, my dears, I suggest we see if we can make some noise about lunch.”
*
The dining room overwhelmed my down-to-earth sensibilities. The long mahogany table, with its high-backed chairs, breathed formality, as did the seat cushions, woven of a braided material with subtle ship designs. Standing against one wall was a huge sideboard, where food would be placed before it was served, or so I assumed. A silver coffee service sat at one end of it, gleaming in the midday sunshine.
Outside the picture windows, gardens flourished in a glory of color. Beyond them, the blue haze of early summer lay over the Sound. It was a picture-perfect setting and a far cry from the dusty Arizona desert. PJ evidently sensed my discomfort and moved toward me, taking my hand in hers.
“Dad, if you think you’re sitting here at the head of the table and sending me down there, you’re mistaken.” PJ pointed to the other end of the table. “Not when it’s just the three of us.”
Frederick pulled out the chair to his right. “No, you’re going to sit here.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Don’t you ‘Papa’ me.” He gave her hair a playful tousle.
I stood, unsure of what I should do.
“Please, Kim, relax.” Frederick came around to me and pulled out the chair to his left. “Have a seat. This isn’t a formal affair. We’re just having a spot of lunch, family style.”
“Thank you, Frederick.” I glanced across the table at PJ and swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat.
“I’m not through with you,” she said, pointing a finger at me.
“Now, Princess,” her father said, “be nice.”
As if on cue, Francine arrived along with Bridie, her assistant, to oversee the serving of lunch. We started with sherry-laced lobster chowder, a platter of assorted crackers, and chunks of sourdough French bread.
Frederick and PJ helped themselves to crackers, but I couldn’t resist the still-warm bread. Slathered with butter, it was a banquet to the palate.
During the pause between the soup and the main course, Frederick took a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. “Kim, this is from Lord Morrison, an old college friend of mine. Unfortunately, we’ve grown apart in recent years. You know how it is, both of us being involved in business pursuits. Anyway, we drifted in opposite directions, and for the most part, we’ve been out of touch”
I scanned the contents of the letter. “What is his business?”
“He’s involved in a number of charities, and he’s Chairman of the Board of the Royal Society of British Antiquities.”
I read the letter again with careful deliberation. I tried to read between the lines of what I thought was a strange request.
My frown must have been evident because Frederick interrupted. “He asked for Priscilla, but I want you to go with her. You can make it a working, all-expenses-paid vacation.”
“Wouldn’t he be better served by going straight to the police?” I asked. “This is a matter for their expertise. We’re not detectives. Besides, we’d be going in cold. I don’t know how much help we’d be.”
“I agree, but he made a specific request for Priscilla, so he must feel he has need of an archaeologist’s expertise.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the main course.
Francine and Bridie served us sandwiches that consisted of the most delicious-looking grilled Virginia ham I’d ever seen, together with honey mustard, Swiss cheese, and romaine lettuce, all on marbled rye bread. The sandwich tasted even more delicious than it looked.
“This is fantastic,” I said, wiping a bit of mustard off of my chin.
“Isn’t it?” Frederick said. “There’s a restaurant on Front Street that serves these. I had Megan gather the ingredients and hound the chef for his secret recipe.” He took a huge bite and chewed it vigorously.
I thought of the meager meals I had eaten after Terry, my ex, had left and before PJ had come into my life. I was a good cook, but looking back, I knew I could have done better for myself. Living alone, with no one else to think about, I had become careless about my nutrition.
Francine filled our glasses with wine, snapping me back to the present.
As soon as she had left us alone, Frederick raised his glass. “To you, Kim, and Priscilla. May your life together be a long and happy one.”
“Thank you.” PJ took his hand. “I love you, you know.”
“And I you, Princess.” He reached for my hand. “I’m happy for both of you.”
The conversation drifted to other things, as PJ and her father caught up on each other’s lives.
“I’m afraid that this is of little interest to you, Kim,” Frederick said.
“Not at all. I just regret for your sakes that you saw so little of each other during those years.”
“I regret it, too. I missed so much of Priscilla’s growing up because I grieved for her mother in all the wrong ways. I lost sight of my daughter’s pain and what her mother would have wanted for her.”
“That’s all in the past now,” PJ said.
“Yes it is, isn’t it? And in a roundabout way, Kim, I have you to thank for bringing us together.”
I blushed at the unexpected and important compliment. This reconciliation was a gift in itself, even if I had done nothing else for PJ.
We topped off lunch with Chocolate Banana Purses, which were crispy won tons filled with dark chocolate and banana slices, served with vanilla ice cream. If I wasn’t careful, my waistline would transform into a huge doughnut around my middle.
“Is this another recipe from that restaurant?” I asked Frederick, as he scooped up several of the tasty treats.
“Yes. Megan managed to capture their unique taste rather nicely.”
As we finished our meal, we made plans for our coming trip to Wales. Frederick said he would call Lord Morrison and let him know when we’d arrive.
*
After a long walk along the cliffs, PJ and I settled down to make lists of the supplies, clothing, and research material we would need for our hasty flight to Wales. The list of research material was skimpy, because we weren’t exactly sure of what we’d be facing or what we’d be expected to do.
I was concerned about looking for a missing Celtic chieftain. My expertise was with Amazons, and although I hadn’t discussed it again with PJ, I felt we weren’t through with them yet, nor they with us.
Chapter 3
Following the directions of a village policeman, I turned right onto a narrow street, and then left into a small courtyard. PJ’s excitement seemed to rise at her first glimp
se of The Royal Lion Inn, which appeared out of the fog like some ghostly apparition from times past. A short, irregular stone walk led to the front door, and the stone walls were blanketed by a thick growth of ivy. Colorful flowers invaded the path’s right-of-way, brushing the legs of those entering or leaving.
“It’s delightfully quaint,” I said, stepping from our rented Range Rover.
PJ’s face was flushed. “It is indeed. Do you think they’ll have a room for us?”
“I hope so.” Perhaps it was foolish not to have made reservations. We elected to have Frederick’s corporate jet drop us off in London, rather than a closer airport, and PJ thought committing to a definite arrival time would have limited our freedom of travel to Wales. We rented a car and made good use of our time, taking in the sights of the English and Welsh countryside. Frederick had suggested, after all, that we combine our business with pleasure. We were doing that in spades.
The lobby smelled of fresh baked bread.
“Ooh! Isn’t this wonderful?” PJ took my arm, and we peeked into the main sitting room.
A robust fire blazed in the massive, gray stone fireplace. It was a welcome sight after our drive through a heavy overcast that all but obliterated any sight of the surrounding hills. The gleaming brass handles of the fireplace tools reflected the flickering flames. An ancient bellows lay on top of a brass coal scuttle, now filled with logs. The large, blackened iron pot, hanging on a hook above the grate, reminded me of Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
The cozy lobby showed no hint of the bard’s Three Witches, with their secret ingredients of “eye of newt and toe of frog.” Neither was there any indication of “wool of bat and tongue of dog,” except for Pup, who I hoped would be a guest in this old-world hostelry. Antique bed warmers, huge stirring spoons, and other utensils adorned the walls that flanked the fireplace.
A number of easy chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of the hearth. According to a placard supported on a sturdy easel and placed in the center of the lobby, tea would be served at four o’clock.
“Oh, how very British,” PJ said, all but cooing over the Welsh atmosphere. “They have to have room for us. They just have to, that’s all.”
A rosy-cheeked young woman, whose brogue was as Welsh as the country was ancient, greeted us at the reception desk. “Prynhawn da,” she said, then repeated in English, “Good afternoon.”
“Prynhawn da.”
I smiled at PJ’s Welsh response. No one could say she didn’t get into the spirit of the place.
She caught my amused expression. “It’s such an ancient language, and so beautiful.”
“I’m sure it is, if you can pronounce the words.”
I turned my attention to the clerk. “This is our first visit to Wales, so we’d like your nicest room,” I said as I glanced at her nametag, “Arwel.”
“I’m so sorry. We have nothing suitable.”
I cursed myself for not insisting we make reservations.
PJ’s shoulders slumped. “It was a good idea while it lasted. Maybe we can come back here later.”
“It’s the sheep dog trials, you see,” Arwel said. “The Welsh National Championships.” She consulted her register once more. “We do have one room. One of the early entries was disqualified and left this morning. The room is smaller than the others, mind you, and has only one bed, a double.”
Trying hard to be serious, I glanced at PJ. “Why not? I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Are you sure?” PJ’s green eyes sparkled with amusement.
“We allowed the occupant’s dog to stay in the room with him. I don’t know if it will smell as fresh as it could.” Arwel frowned as she looked from PJ back to me.
“That wouldn’t be a problem. Kim’s dog is traveling with us and would prefer to stay with her.” PJ gave me a wink.
“How nice.” Arwel continued in her singsong dialect. “It has a lovely view of the gardens and the mountains. You can see the river, too And it is one of the few rooms we have with a private bath.”
“I think we can manage.” I turned to PJ. “A private bath’s a rarity in this part of the world.”
“Mmm, if that’s the case, I suppose we should take it,” PJ said.
*
We entered the room from a small lounge that was accessed from the ground floor by a narrow wooden staircase. The center of each riser was worn down by centuries of footsteps. Several of the stairs were slanted, but despite the lack of modern uniformity, the structure had withstood the test of centuries.
PJ dropped her bags and flung herself across the bed, laughing. “You think we can manage, do you? Just you wait and see how we manage.”
I lay down beside PJ, then on top of her. We traded kisses while my hand sought her breast.
She writhed beneath me, panting and gasping. Suddenly, she stopped. “Geez, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I was too busy teasing PJ’s breasts to hear or to sense anything other than the quivering of her breath.
“Stop, Kim. This bed creaks so much they’ll hear us all the way down to the cellar.”
I slid my hand under her shirt and unclasped her bra. “Not to worry, these old buildings have stout walls.”
“Wait!” She rolled out from under me, fastened her bra, and tugged her shirt back into place. “I just think we, urn… should have afternoon tea first.”
“Tea? Instead of me?” I pouted. “Okay, so break my heart.” I took a deep breath, trying to settle the pounding organ in question. “I guess the honeymoon had to end sooner or later.”
She took my hands and replaced them on her breasts. “Sweetie, just wait until later, okay?” She gave me a tender kiss. “I promise you’re going to have a lot more than tea to deal with. Maybe I’ll smother myself in some of that delicious Devonshire cream, and you can dip your strawberries and - ”
“God.” My imagination filled in the remainder of her sentence as she moved from the bed to the window.
“Oh, come look. It’s gorgeous.”
I stood behind her, my arms locked around her waist, my head resting on her shoulder, as we looked out at the carefully manicured gardens with their beds of colorful blooms. “It’s like an old painting come to life.” I nuzzled the hollow of her neck. “Are you happy?”
“Incredibly.”
“So can we continue where we left off on the bed?”
She turned and pulled me into another breath-stealing kiss before pushing me toward our luggage. “I promise. After we get settled in and have some tea. You’re going to need all your strength for what I have planned for you, my dear.”
“Let’s get busy then.”
We unpacked and hung our clothes in an antique, freestanding wardrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs. PJ ran her fingers along the smooth wood of the old-fashioned dressing table. The mirror was ancient, the image distorted. “I’ll bet this old furniture could tell many a tale.”
“So could the bathroom.” I peeked around the door. “You’ll have to see it to believe it.”
The claw-footed tub stood on a six-inch-high platform. PJ giggled. “I’ll need a ladder to get in and a grappling hook to get out.”
“I’ll be happy to assist you.”
“My hero, always willing to help a naked damsel in distress.”
“It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.” I wandered to another section of the large bathroom. “Wait till you see the toilet.”
PJ looked behind the partition. “Good grief.” It, too, was raised onto a platform. She practiced getting on and off while I stood by, driven to hysterics by her antics. The only way she could sit on the toilet was to back up to the stool and hop onto it. Once seated, her feet dangled free of the floor. “I can see that my morning ablutions are going to be an adventure in themselves, and heaven help me if I have to get up in the middle of the night.”
“And you’d better have your toilet paper in your hot little ha
nd.” I pointed to the roll holder that was mounted on the wall just out of reach. At this point, she could barely talk for laughing.
“Oh, geez. All this talk - now I’ve got to pee.” PJ’s expression was pained, but her words were lost in her laughter as she jumped off the commode to pull down her pants before struggling back on again.
“You forgot already,” I said, handing her some toilet paper. “Next time, you’re on your own, kiddo.”
“Hey, where’s my Soft and Lite? This stuff is like a page out of Playboy.”
“You could use a hair dryer.”
“Very funny.” None too gracefully, PJ hopped down and pulled up her pants. “Why do you suppose they raised everything like that when the Welsh are said to be small in stature?”
“It was probably designed by an Englishman. There’s still some rivalry between them, you know, the English and the Welsh.”
“How do you know that when you’ve never been here before?”
“I saw them play a soccer match against each other on TV. It was pretty tense.”
“Humph.”
I glanced at the pull chain, with its china handle painted with tiny pink rosebuds, and was astonished at the workmanship someone had devoted to something so utilitarian, an object destined to spend its life in the loo. I wondered how many visitors, if any, ever took time to marvel at such fine art in this gallery of lesser human arts.
*
We sat on a love seat directly across from the fireplace. Two middle-aged couples, prim and proper in demeanor and dress, sat on either side of a low antique table. They glanced toward us from time to time, turning away when we returned their stare.
Responding to PJ’s stage whisper, I looked at the two elderly women seated in wing-backed chairs next to the fireplace. Each of them balanced a fine china cup and saucer in one hand, and nibbled ginger cookies from small, matching plates on their laps. I had noticed their disapproving glances when we were making our selections from the table spread with so many delicious looking goodies, and again when we sat down with our tea and Princess Anne Sandwich Cake.
“Our attire must be inappropriate,” I whispered. PJ’s jeans, loose-fitting shirt, and multi-pocketed vest weren’t exactly parlor wear. Neither were my cords and wool sweater.
