They ambled down the street. “Look at the door knockers,” Jane pointed to one.
A bronze fox was peering at them from the center of a green door. The next had an iron cluster of lavender. The one three doors down, a rather large bumblebee.
“I’ll bet they don’t get many people knocking.”
“The cottage’s nameplate does say Bee Cottage.” But Aaron certainly wasn’t going to try the knocker.
By the time they’d wandered up and back, they’d identified over twenty animals and a dozen different plants as well as some abstracts that might have been someone’s face or the wrong end of a dog.
“It’s a pretty town…” Aaron wasn’t sure what else to say for it.
“For a city girl to say this sounds rather silly, but it’s too big.”
“You’re right. There must be at least two thousand people living here. How big is Charleston?”
“Don’t remind me. A hundred and thirty thousand, I think. How big was Jay?”
“About five hundred. Same as Fosse.”
“And we’re right back to where we started the day. Small towns. Maybe I could get used to living in one.”
“You’d better get used to it—you’re buying a cottage in a small town.” They walked back through town and got in the car. Aaron didn’t have to ask if she was done-in for the day, he knew they both were. Never in his life had he been so aware of someone else’s mood. It had been a good day, but a quiet dinner at the pub in their own familiar Fosse sounded wonderful.
“What’s all that?” Jane should have offered to do the driving on the way back, but was just as glad she didn’t have to. She’d never been one to let a man “take care of things,” especially not driving. It had always been one of those areas she’d carved out from the male egos in her past. With Aaron, there was no contest so it didn’t seem to matter.
“What’s what? Oh. Hey! That looks fun,” and he turned in before she could protest that she’d had enough fun for one day.
“But what is it?” They were almost into Moreton and the field there was filled with at least a hundred cars and a throng of people.
“It’s a car boot sale.”
“My car doesn’t need boots.”
Aaron laughed. “No, but it has a boot. That’s what the Brits call a car’s trunk. A ‘car boot sale’ is a flea market.”
“Why do I want to look at someone else’s crap?”
“Because,” he parked the car.
Assuming she had no choice, she clambered out of the car.
“This is a flea market Cotswold-style.”
And it was. There were all the normal thing: stacks of DVDs, boxes of books, bags of old silverware that no one in their right mind would want. Kids’ clothes and toys lined up next to waist high vases painted in some vaguely Chinese styles. A whole series of paint-by-numbers paintings that clearly showed the evolution of a young artist from their terrible phase right through to solidly mediocre.
But there was also an entire table of cut crystal glassware including plates, serving dishes, goblets, even vases. The next had a dining room set that almost tempted her. If that table had been just a foot or two bigger, she might have gone for it.
“Hey, check this out.” Aaron had moved on to the next table while she’d been considering the dining set.
Jane turned to see him holding Snoop Doggy Dogg cradled in his arms. Except he wasn’t alive. She had to blink a few times before she could make sense of it. It was a near life-size, very rotund Cavalier King Charles Spaniel made of white porcelain. The statuette’s finish coat was shiny and almost Snoop’s exact coloring.
“We have to get this for Hal!”
“He’ll love it.” It made her laugh just looking at it. Aaron dickered them down from forty pounds to twenty and they each kicked in a ten.
“From both of us,” he agreed.
She laughed again for the sheer joy of how perfect it was.
They were almost to the last table before she found something that she just had to have. A woman her own age, with close-cropped hair, dirty coveralls, and an I-chew-nails-for-breakfast attitude (though very pleasantly English about it), sat in front of a table of bronze door knockers.
“All historically accurate,” the woman sat in a small lawn chair with her boots propped up on the end of her table. “I’ve taken the castings myself from all over the Cotswolds. Pour and polish them myself. Even cast the mounting screws,” she waved a small baggie at them. “Strong enough steel for oak, but short enough they won’t come out the back of your door.”
Jane knew exactly which one she wanted the moment she spotted it.
It was heavy bronze. A small clump of lavender at the center. And craning its head around the side, a pheasant looked out to see what was going on. The whole knocker, swung up by grasping the pheasant’s curved neck, raised on hinges hidden behind the lavender blossoms.
She stroked her fingers over it and pictured it hanging on the ancient door of Springs Cottage. It would be perfect.
Aaron was handing a small stack of bills to the woman.
“No, wait. This is mine. I’m buying it.”
The woman, being a smart vendor, took the money and tucked it down the front of her shirt and into her bra with a grin. Then she placed the knocker in his outstretched palms before Jane could stop her.
“But…”
“This,” Aaron placed it into her hands.
Heavier than it looked. It felt so real, so solid, like it was a part of the Earth itself.
“This is a gift from me to you for your cottage.”
“But…”
“It is a way I can show how much these last weeks have meant to me.”
Jane tried not to hear, and for you to remember me by when I’m gone, but she did.
He hadn’t said it.
Probably hadn’t meant it.
But she knew herself, and Jane knew her own track record with men only too well. She heard it loud and clear and hated herself for adding that on top of such an incredible day.
Aaron had debated on different approaches, and finally decided that launching a direct strike was the best tactic.
He led Jane into The Queen’s Guard, hooked one hand around Bridget’s shoulders as she was heading for the kitchen, and steered her up to the bar where Hal was chatting with Raymond the postmaster.
“We got something for the two of you,” Aaron plonked the statuette of Snoop on the center of the bar just as Jane arrived at his other side.
“Lord above! It’s me Snoop made of stone!” Hal plinked a finger against it.
“Why, it’s perfect!” Bridget sounded equally delighted as she stroked it on the head. She turned and fetched the live Snoop from his bed by the fire and set him right on the bar facing…himself. There was a light applause and several hearty laughs from those nearest the bar.
Jane took Aaron’s hand and squeezed it hard in the way she did when she was particularly delighted by something. He squeezed back.
“We found him at a car boot sale outside of Moreton,” Jane explained. “We adopted him immediately.”
Snoop leaned forward to sniff his own statue. Raymond snapped a couple of pictures with his phone. Others were gathering about to see what all of the fuss was. Trent had been sitting with Manfred and helped the old man to his feet to come see. Gwyneth the butcher and her girlfriend were there. Phoebe, Reginald the earl’s sheep man, even Harriet (Jane’s estate agent) and her husband.
Aaron shared a smile with Jane. They’d nailed it. He gave her a one-armed hug and kissed her on the temple.
“Och! Ye gotta do better’n that, laddie,” some Scotsman tourist called out from the crowd, so he did. He swept her into his arms and kissed her hard. Jane placed a hand on top of her head as if her hat was going to blow away, except she wasn’t wearing one. Maybe it was to keep the top of her head from blowing away for the sheer joy they were both feeling.
There was a solid round of applause from the crowd and a blush as
bright as her smile from Jane.
“You two’re so sweet,” Bridget sighed. “From the two of you to the two of us. Now there’s something to keep me heart warm in the night.”
“That’s my job,” Hal kissed Bridget to more catcalls. “But you’re right.”
“Yours and Snoop’s,” Bridget agreed, patting the old dog still sitting atop the bar facing himself.
Hal came around to kiss Jane on the cheek at the same time Bridget did the same to him.
“To the charming couple,” Hal raised a glass.
“Hear, hear,” roared back from the bar.
“To the—” Aaron got that far before total brain-lock kicked in.
Jane’s eyes had shot wide as well.
“To the—” he couldn’t get any further.
Someone pushed forward to take a photo of live and porcelain Snoop.
Aaron took a step back.
Another person shook his free hand before moving in to inspect the similarities and pet both dogs.
Aaron eased back another step and his hand around Jane’s waist pulled her unresisting form with him.
Then another and one more.
They were now near the back of the crowd.
He looked at Jane.
Jane looked at him.
Without a word, they turned and bolted.
“What just happened?” Jane couldn’t catch her breath. Fosse wasn’t that big. They had gone no more than a block, but she felt as if she’d just run a marathon.
“I…don’t know.” Aaron sounded as confused as she felt.
“We…toast…charming couple...” she was stuttering worse than a magpie.
“But it was only our first date!” Aaron protested.
Caught between terror and overwhelm, the only thing that slipped out was a half-gasped laugh.
In seconds they were holding on to each other and laughing until her gut ached.
“Oh my. Oh my.” It was all she could say as she kept wiping at her eyes. “Oh my.”
“Let’s not do that again,” Aaron managed as he gulped his way back to normal breathing.
She couldn’t agree more.
“I hate to sound mundane, but what are we going to do for dinner?”
“I’m not going back in there!” Even a team of wild pheasants couldn’t get her back in there tonight.
“Not a chance,” Aaron looked around and pointed. “Takeaway Chinese. They’re still open.”
“Fine.”
They stepped in and, for the moment, were the only ones at the counter.
“Your usual?” Kim greeted them like locals.
“Yes, please.” Because Jane certainly couldn’t make any more choices at the moment.
Kim took their money and then turned her phone around for them to see. “You two are so cute together.”
Jane looked down at Kim’s phone and could feel her head spinning again.
There, on the pub’s social media page, was a shot of Hal, Bridget, Aaron, and her. They were all lined up behind Snoop and his statue with their arms around each other.
Jane almost didn’t recognize herself. She and Aaron looked so—
“Happy,” Aaron breathed.
It was nice to know that the emotion was as foreign to him as it was to her.
She wasn’t some sad sack, yet that picture was so foreign.
When Kim handed over their meal, they walked through the late evening back to the cottage. Only after the door was locked and they were sitting across the apple crate that was their table could either of them speak.
“Small towns,” Aaron managed.
“Uh-huh.” It was the best she could do.
Chapter 12
Over the long week, the strangeness had worn off around town, at least a little. Aaron still wasn’t sure if they were better off going into town together, where they’d be perceived as “that couple” or separately, which opened each of them up to questions.
Now it was Friday and Aaron had felt disconnected and restless all day. Jane was off to London to consult with an IRS specialist for ex-pats about some tax issue with her closed business. When he’d offered to go with her, she’d brushed it off. “I’m assured that it is simply reporting and paperwork. Nothing I can’t handle. Work with Trent. Have a good time.” Just as well. He didn’t know squat about taxes and business finance.
Have a good time.
What did that look like without Jane around? A stone wall and a pint at the pub after work.
Life after meeting Jane? A whole different world.
Have a good time? When his head was aching and his nerves were all out of place and Jane was a hundred kilometers away and…
Enjoy himself. Yeah, right. Today Aaron’s “fun” was tearing out his stone arch for the third time. Trent’s method of training was infuriating, however effective. He’d wait until Aaron had spent hours, even days on raising it. But then something wouldn’t be right. Trent would poke and prod it as if he was testing a side of beef. Then he’d wiggle a stone free and the whole arch would tremble.
“Uneven pressure from above. Every stone must be well pinned from both above and below. Once you’re up in the curve of the arch, the sides must be controlled as well.”
The next time Trent would casually lean on the outside of the arch well before it was finished, and it would tumble down into the yard.
“Far more than in a wall, every layer of an arch must be fully supported,” then he’d walk away, turning back to building the low wall—leaving it for Aaron to solve, which first required removing the rock before he could try reassembling it.
That was no small task. The arch that Trent had sketched wasn’t some single arc of well-balanced stones. The square base to one side started at over two feet square—a square pillar rising on its own. The other rose integrally from the wall itself—two different techniques to learn. The arch stones radiated upward like rays of the sun, well-chinked with smaller stones, then topped with a thick, stabilizing layer that mated with the large supports to either side.
The arch, just from the top of the walls up, required almost three tons of rock. Merely taking it down was a full day’s task. Putting it back up over a wooden form, significantly longer.
Then he’d remove the form…and Trent would knock it down.
But with each failure, Aaron understood a little better how an arch worked at the most basic structural level. Though he was also getting damned sick of the whole build-tear down-rebuild cycle. She didn’t need a goddamn arch anyway. Two big end-posts and a nice gate between should be enough for any woman. Why so damned fancy?
Simple. Straightforward. That was his way.
His way with women too. Say it straight: Deploying tomorrow. Probably gone at least six months so don’t bother waiting. Really enjoyed you. No matter how he said it, it always pissed them off.
Why did women have to attach words to everything? He knew Jane wanted words—words that he didn’t have. What did she really want from him? Easy! A new bathroom and a renovated kitchen.
What did he want? Why the fuck did it matter, anyway? He was just some goddamn cripple with delusions that great sex would be enough. Some stupid ass, broken soldier—cast aside like a defective unit—and left to build stone walls for an ancient sadist of an Englishman.
Aaron could recognize the Black Demon. Knew it was messing with him even if he couldn’t shrug it off. At least it didn’t consume him alive anymore when it came to visit.
And they didn’t teach Delta to quit, so he went back to work on disassembling his arch.
Jane’s text from London, “All done. All okay. Going to run some errands and be home late,” was disturbing on two levels.
The word “home” jumped out of the message at him. His existence had been very itinerant since…leaving Vermont a decade ago. Even more now than when he was in the Army: no anchors, no real commitments—the B&B fit his lifestyle well. All of his choices were merely temporary, he was safely in neutral as long as he was living t
here. Now a woman said the word “home” and it drew him in ways he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
The other problem was that he was now on his own for dinner. After three months content to be eating alone, Jane had ruined him in only three weeks. It was hard to imagine a meal without her easy smile from across the table whether at the pub, out at their picnic rock, or sitting on the living room floor.
His phone rang as he finished tearing down the goddamned arch. This time because: “you’ve lost the curve, it should mirror that fold in the hill across the way.” At least they were down to aesthetics rather than structure. Regrettably, Trent was right. The mismatched curve made it look as if his arch was about to slide over sideways even if it wasn’t. He hadn’t been careful enough about maintaining even tension as he followed the form.
“Yeah?” Aaron dumped half a bottle of water on his head and then hoped he didn’t short out his phone while it was pressed against his ear.
“Sergeant Lame-brain!” Aaron knew the voice of his former commanding officer immediately. His nickname in the unit had been “Rock Man” or “Rocky”…until he got shot up.
“Captain Jack-off!”
“How the hell are you, soldier?”
Soldier stopped him cold. “Fine.”
Captain Yakov Feynman cleared his throat. Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“How you doing, sir?” Aaron tried to restart the greeting he’d just killed with the effectiveness of a cruise missile.
“If you aren’t a soldier, I’m sure not a sir. I’m Jack. You don’t get it both ways, civvy-boy,” Jack, too, did his best to lighten the mood, which Aaron appreciated. The captain had always been a first-class guy, even if he was an officer.
“We civilians can get away with all kinds of shit…sir.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. Where are you?”
“Fosse-on-the-Wold. Little town in—”
“So am I. I meant, where are you here? We gotta have a beer.”
Heart of the Cotswolds: England Page 15
