“We already hiked up Carriage Hill this morning.”
Carriage Hill rose up beyond the open fields behind the house. “I see.” She snipped another basil plant and asked casually, “How was hiking in the White Mountains?”
“We went at hockey-player pace,” he said with a wry smile.
“Is that faster or slower than your pace?”
“Faster. Much faster. I prefer to savor each step up a mountain. I tend to be very deliberate about what I do.” He reached down and brushed her bare shoulder with his fingertips, then smiled as he stood straight again. “Bumblebee.”
Phoebe’s mouth had gone dry at his touch. “The bees like the catmint,” she said, nodding to the frothy purple-flowered border. “Olivia plans to move it to a less-trafficked area.”
“Bumblebees have a natural preference for purple flowers, which tend to have more nectar than flowers of other colors.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He shrugged. “I read it in an article somewhere.”
As smart as he was, she thought, he probably remembered everything he read. She tackled more basil, leaving enough for regrowth. Noah waited, then carried the overloaded colander to the terrace, Buster stirring enough to follow him inside.
Phoebe returned the clippers to the shed. After sneaking into the charity ball on Friday and dealing with Maggie’s suspicions yesterday, she’d wanted a quiet Sunday. Needed a quiet Sunday to get her bearings.
And here she was, picking basil and making pesto with Noah Kendrick.
When she returned to the kitchen, Buster was lapping water out of his bowl in the mudroom and Noah was sipping a glass of water at the table. The basil was in the sink. “I rinsed it,” he said. “I didn’t see any ants, spiders, worms or slugs. Just dirt.”
“That’s good. I’ll do a second rinse. I always do with anything fresh out of the garden. It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
He picked up his water glass. “Of course not.”
As she approached the sink, she noticed that one of the flyers Olivia had designed for the fashion show was on the table. It hadn’t been there before. It announced the show and called for donations of pre-1975 vintage clothing in good condition.
Noah tapped one finger on the flyer. “I saw this on Olivia’s bulletin board in the mudroom. A vintage fashion show at the local library. Your idea?”
Phoebe nodded. There’d been a change in him since he’d taken the colander inside. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, except that she was feeling caught, trapped—as if he knew something that she didn’t know.
She kept her tone even, professional, as she answered him. “It came together fast and the response has been tremendous.”
“And you’re holding the show at the library?”
“That’s right. It has a stage. The founder, George Sanderson, insisted the design for the library include one. He envisioned lectures and concerts.”
“Have you received many donations?”
“Far more than I anticipated. It’s been fun so far.”
Noah drank more of his water, then got to his feet in one smooth movement. “Is that where Olivia and Maggie got their dresses for the other night?” he asked as he walked over to the sink. “Did they come in with a donation?”
Phoebe plunged one hand into the cold water. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the short answer is yes.”
“And the masks?”
“My youngest sisters made those. Ava and Ruby—”
“The theater majors.”
“That’s right.” Phoebe tried to sound casual. “So how did you enjoy the ball?”
He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms on his chest. “It was quite a night.”
Yes, it was, Phoebe thought. She hadn’t noticed Noah in the ballroom, but she’d been too caught up in avoiding Olivia and Maggie and dancing with her swashbuckler to notice much else. Then there’d been Brandon, and the man she’d overheard. She hadn’t even thought about Dylan’s best friend, although she knew they’d been hiking in the White Mountains.
Noah turned and got a stainless-steel grater out from a lower cupboard. “I can grate the parmesan,” he said.
Phoebe had the feeling his mind wasn’t on pesto but she smiled. “That’d be good, thanks.”
She laid the basil leaves on paper towels, watching him as he placed the grater and the hunk of parmesan on a wood cutting board. He glanced at her, and this time she paid close attention to the line of his jaw, the color and shape of his eyes. His smile was confident, knowing, but at the same time not at all easy to read, deliberately so, as if the man behind it guarded against letting anyone in.
She remembered her swashbuckler moving through the crowd to get to her, every movement precise, smooth, controlled.
It was all she could do not to gasp.
It’s him.
Her swashbuckler was Noah Kendrick.
If she’d been the one grating parmesan, she’d have cut herself. As it was, her hands shook. She tried to focus on blotting the basil dry but her mind was spinning. She’d danced with a billionaire. With Dylan McCaffrey’s best friend. She’d let him kiss her.
And he’d disappeared on her. Had he really meant to come back? Had he lost her? Had she left the ballroom too soon?
Does he know it was me?
Why hadn’t she recognized him sooner? His voice, his eyes, his lean build—so what if he’d shaved and wasn’t wearing a mask and cape?
She hadn’t expected that her swashbuckler would be Noah Kendrick. It was just that simple.
She blotted the basil, her heart hammering. Noah continued to grate the cheese for the pesto. It was all she could do not to think up an excuse and get out of there but she knew that would only draw more attention to her discomfort. He was a smart man. He’d figure out she’d asked him about the masquerade ball right before she unraveled.
Maggie had to know it’d been Noah in the swashbuckler costume. Why hadn’t she said so? Because I told her I didn’t want to know. No doubt Maggie had assumed Noah would never recognize her sister as his princess.
Phoebe didn’t understand the intensity of her reaction. Why not just admit she recognized him? That it was her in the Edwardian dress?
Because it hadn’t been her. Not really.
She should have just gone to the ball openly, with Maggie and Olivia. Then Noah would have known who she was. Probably he never would have danced with her—or if he had, they wouldn’t have gotten so carried away.
She glanced at him. He had a healthy mound of parmesan grated onto a cutting board. He gave no indication he thought of her as anything but the librarian friend of his best friend’s fiancée.
Of course, that was what she was.
Phoebe sighed and stood back from the sink. A slight breeze floated through the open window, calming her. Maggie would have given her note to Olivia, who would have given it to Dylan or even directly to Noah. That was why Noah had stayed behind in Knights Bridge. He wanted to figure out what the story was with this man in the coatroom. Dancing with a woman at a masquerade ball was probably par for the course for him, fun while it lasted but not particularly memorable.
Let us both pretend that night never happened.
As matter-of-factly as she could, Phoebe nodded to the clean, reasonably dry basil. “If you can chop the basil, I’ll roast the pine nuts and mince the garlic.”
“Then they all get pounded into a paste with the mortar and pestle.” Nothing in his smile suggested he knew that she could hardly get a decent breath. “I’m guessing, because I’ve had pesto.”
“We pound the basil and garlic first. Then add the nuts. Then the parmesan and olive oil.”
“And what do we do with all this pesto?”
“Freeze it in ice-cube trays. Olivia and Maggie will use it all winter. They might use it at Olivia’s wedding in December.” Phoebe managed a smile. “It’ll remind everyone of summer.”
“I’m sure it will.�
�
“Will you be back for the wedding?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Phoebe looked at the parmesan, basil, garlic and pine nuts and thought about the work ahead to turn them into pesto. How would she be able to stand it, knowing what she did? She gathered up the damp paper towels from the basil and tossed them in the trash. She tried to appear casual as she turned back to Noah. “You know, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be—”
“There isn’t. I’m exactly where I want to be.” He opened a drawer and removed a knife. “I’ll chop. You mince and roast.”
* * *
Once the pesto was in the freezer, Noah saw there was no keeping Phoebe at Carriage Hill. She was out of there, tucking her empty canvas bag under one arm and all but racing out the door. Although he wasn’t by nature a patient man, years of martial arts practice and running a successful company had taught him that sometimes the best course of action was just to bide his time.
He followed her to her car. The afternoon sunlight caught the streaks of gold in her dark strawberry hair as she yanked open her car door. She turned to him with a quick smile. “Thank you for your help with the pesto. Enjoy your stay.”
“Anytime.”
She climbed behind the wheel, and he shut the door for her. With another quick smile, she had the car started and was on her way.
She’d recognized him as her swashbuckler, obviously, but she still believed—or was telling herself she believed—that he hadn’t recognized her.
Well, he had.
It was the fashion show flyer on the bulletin board that had finally done the trick. He’d started to suspect when he’d found her in the kitchen. The way she’d licked her lips, smiled, moved. The line of her jaw, the deep turquoise of her eyes, the sound of her voice. The shape of her hips, the curve of her breasts. They’d all come together when he saw the flyer, and he’d known.
Phoebe O’Dunn was his princess.
Noah walked back through the house and liberated Buster from the mudroom. They went out to the quiet terrace, but the big dog looked as restless as he was. “If you run off,” Noah told him, “I’ll find you and I won’t be happy about it. So spare both of us and stay put.”
Buster sat, panting, his dark eyes focused on Noah as if he’d gone crazy.
Noah laughed. “I just might have, my friend.”
The pesto was in the freezer and the kitchen cleaned up, but even out on the terrace, he could smell the mix of basil, garlic, roasted pine nuts and pure virgin olive oil.
Virgin olive oil. A Freudian slip, there. Dancing with his princess, he’d imagined her a virgin, as bold and as daring as she was when he’d swept her into his arms.
Was Phoebe O’Dunn a virgin?
Noah grimaced. Dylan would kill him dead for even letting such a question cross his mind. Dylan still had to tread carefully in Knights Bridge. Phoebe O’Dunn, her sister Maggie—these were Olivia’s people.
Telling Phoebe that he knew she was his princess was out of the question until he’d had a chance to think. He could act quickly, decisively, but not when he didn’t have a clue what in blazes to do. As he’d watched her pound the basil and garlic into a thick paste, he didn’t know why he hadn’t recognized her sooner. He hadn’t been thrown off by her dark strawberry hair and freckles as much as the fact that she was from Knights Bridge and Olivia Frost’s friend.
The note about his mystery man further complicated the situation.
Buster stirred, and Noah noticed a thickset man hopping over the low stone wall from the field behind the house. “Brandon Sloan,” the man said, stepping over knee-high herbs onto a path. “You must be Noah Kendrick. Dylan mentioned you’d be here for a few days. I’m working on his place up the road.”
“You’re one of the carpenters?”
“Sloan & Sons. I’m one of the sons. There’s a sister, too, but she showed up after the company was named. Sore subject.” He polished off an energy bar and dusted his hands as he stepped onto the terrace. “What do I smell?”
“Pesto.” Noah pointed to the patch of trimmed basil. “Phoebe O’Dunn was here.”
“Maggie, too?”
“Not Maggie, no. You two are...”
“Married.” Brandon pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “I saw you the other night in Boston. You’d just come from hiking in the White Mountains. One of my favorite things to do.”
“It was an experience,” Noah said. “You were at the masquerade ball?”
Brandon grimaced. “I decided to go at the last minute. I’d told Dylan I’d rather have burning bamboo shoots shoved up my fingernails than go to a masquerade ball.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I found out Maggie was turning up—I have my sources.”
The other Sloans of Sloan & Sons, Noah suspected. He wondered if Brandon’s presence at the ball explained why Maggie had been so upset. Noah decided his and Dylan’s lives in San Diego, running NAK, were simple compared to the lives of the people he’d met so far in Knights Bridge.
“Is Maggie aware you’re working on Dylan’s place?” Noah asked.
“Not yet, no. Olivia doesn’t know, either. I asked Dylan to let me tell Maggie first.” Brandon stretched out his thick legs. “I’m camping up there. We start demolition on the house soon. I figure I can use the facilities here if need be. Olivia won’t mind.”
He seemed confident, even matter-of-fact, not at all presumptuous. He’d probably known Olivia—and Maggie, his wife—most if not all his life. Noah’s one near-lifelong friend was Dylan.
“When did you arrive?” he asked.
“This morning. I pitched my tent out of sight of the road. I’m glad Phoebe didn’t see me. She’s protective of her sisters. They stick together, those four.” Brandon settled back in his chair, obviously not concerned about the O’Dunn sisters or anyone else. “How do you like Carriage Hill?”
“It’s not as quiet as I thought it would be.”
Brandon grinned, then glanced around at the lawn and gardens, the fields, the hills in the distance. “I want to get my two boys out here to help with the work on Dylan’s place.”
“How old are they?”
“Five and six. Tyler’s almost seven, though. Don’t worry, I’m not talking about real work on the site. Just get them started on learning how to use a hammer and screwdriver. Maggie’s got them baking tarts and peeling artichokes. I don’t object, but they need this, too.”
Noah would guess that Brandon had learned to say he didn’t object to his sons learning to bake tarts and peel artichokes. What he meant instead was that he was afraid his young sons were missing the influence of their rough-and-tumble father. Noah didn’t have the particulars on Brandon Sloan’s troubled relationship with his wife but could see that he loved his sons.
Brandon stood abruptly, as if he wanted to escape wherever his thoughts had just taken him. “Dylan offered me a ticket to this masquerade ball but I didn’t take it. I wanted to pay my own way. I went as a pirate. Maggie made me faster than I thought she would. Maybe I should have gone as a banker instead.” He paused, then added wryly, “She’d never have recognized me as a banker.”
Noah made no comment but he thought that Brandon had a point.
Brandon turned, his expression serious as he narrowed his dark eyes. “Don’t tell her that I’m camping out up at Dylan’s. Leave that to me.”
“No problem.”
“I don’t mind camping. I’m back on my feet financially but I want Maggie to take me as I am. With or without money.”
“For better or worse,” Noah said.
“That’s right.”
“Why are you sleeping in a tent?”
“It beats staying with my folks or one of my siblings.” Brandon gave a mock shudder. “Trust me.”
“Then you don’t have your own place?”
“I gave up my apartment in Boston the first of the month. I’m saving every dime I can. I was in and out of work for a while, b
ut I’ve been working nonstop for the past six months. It’s good. No complaints.” He paused, looked at Noah. “I won’t drag this thing out. I just have to do this in my own time. Understood?”
“Of course,” Noah said. “I’ll respect your wishes.”
He thought that Maggie O’Dunn Sloan—or any woman in her position—would appreciate knowing that her estranged husband was sleeping in a tent a few miles from her, but he wasn’t one to offer advice on relationships.
“I can help out with anything you might run into here,” Brandon said.
“I just made pesto with the town librarian. What could I run into?”
Brandon grinned. “Snakes in the stone walls. ’Course, where you’re from, you have poisonous snakes. A little old garter snake probably won’t bother you, right?”
“Probably not,” Noah said.
“Bats?”
He hadn’t considered bats. He smiled. “The hazards of country life.”
Brandon tilted his head back, eyeing Noah with an intensity that other people might find intimidating. “You’re not up to anything here, are you? Why didn’t you go to San Diego with Dylan and Olivia?”
“I’m dog sitting.”
At first Brandon didn’t respond. Then he laughed. “Right. Dog sitting. Enjoy your pesto, or did Phoebe take it all back with her?”
“It’s in Olivia’s freezer.”
“I’d never had pesto until I met Maggie. I’ve known Phoebe since nursery school. We’re the same age. She’s a special person in Knights Bridge. She looks after all of us.” He settled his gaze again on Noah. “And we all look after her.”
“Good to know,” Noah said mildly.
It was as clear a warning between two men as one could get without Brandon Sloan coming right out and saying that he’d be watching and Noah had best behave himself with Phoebe O’Dunn.
And why would Brandon think that Noah might not behave himself?
Because he knew that his sister-in-law had dressed up as an Edwardian princess the other night and had seen her dancing with her swashbuckler, who was now dog sitting in Knights Bridge.
That Night on Thistle Lane Page 11
