Dear Charlotte,
As promised, peas fresh from my garden.
Enjoy,
Evelyn Sloan
Greg put the colander in the sink and headed back outside. How could peas from Evelyn Sloan’s garden be part of whatever she and Charlotte were up to?
He gave himself a mental shake.
“Peas,” he muttered. “Damn.”
Maybe he was bored.
His book and the hammock beckoned.
* * *
Captain Mallory and his men were on the move in The Guns of Navarone and Greg was settled in the hammock, enjoying the quiet, when his phone buzzed with a text. He thought it might be Charlotte asking for him to pick her up, but no such luck. It was Brody Hancock in London.
Vic got in touch. He says bring the kids to the lake for a cookout on Thursday or Friday.
By Vic, Greg knew, Brody meant Victor Scarlatti, the retired US ambassador who had a home in Knights Bridge. Vic was Brody’s mentor and friend. He and Greg weren’t pals. He sat up in his hammock and typed his response.
No way out?
None.
He couldn’t be in Singapore or on the moon this week, could he?
He’s home on Echo Lake. Said he’ll stop by the inn.
When?
Today. Have fun.
Greg didn’t throw his phone in the bushes, though he figured it would feel good to do it. He was a disciplined agent. He’d been shot. He could deal with Vic Scarlatti. He’d certainly dealt with worse in his years with DSS.
He decided not to whine to Brody, who would be unsympathetic, anyway. The only choice was to change the subject.
You still overrun with Sloans?
Yeah. Heather doesn’t notice.
You’re an only child. You notice.
A smiley-face emoticon from Brody ended the exchange.
Ten minutes later, Greg was back into his book, rooting for the good guys, when he heard a car in the driveway. He gritted his teeth but didn’t move out of the hammock. “Speak of the devil,” he said when Vic Scarlatti’s shadow fell over him. “Good afternoon, Ambassador.”
“Vic. We’ve been through this.”
“Right. When I pulled you out of the snow a few months ago. I almost forgot.”
“You never forget, Agent Rawlings.”
Greg grinned. “You got that right.” He rolled up into a sitting position, his feet on the ground as he took in the retired ambassador. Vic was wiry, with thick iron-gray hair and dark eyes. He had on frayed but expensive khakis and a similarly expensive sweater with an elbow blown out. “Gardening accident?”
“Chasing Rohan.”
“You haven’t got him trained yet?”
“He’s still a puppy. It takes time.”
Rohan was Vic Scarlatti’s golden retriever, a rambunctious twelve-week-old puppy when Greg had met him. If not for Rohan’s escape into the snow, Brody and Heather might not be married now, enjoying each other’s company—as well as her family—in London. But Greg didn’t believe that. Rohan or no Rohan, Brody Hancock and Heather Sloan would have found each other.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?” Vic asked.
Greg frowned. “Why would I?”
Vic shook his head, sighing. “Don’t change, Greg. Don’t ever change. The world would stop spinning if you did.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. We’re friends, Greg. Friends.”
“Should I expect a present at Christmas?”
“A card if I know where to send one.”
“I’ll be sure to give you my new address.” Greg rocked gently in the hammock, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Vic would never let him live it down if he accidentally dumped himself out of the hammock. “I hear you’re doing cookouts now. You must be settling into the life of the retired diplomat. You’re a regular country squire these days.”
“I’ve eased into retirement since I last saw you, that’s true.”
Vic hadn’t transitioned quietly or smoothly from forty years in the Foreign Service to his lake house in small-town New England. Last time Greg had seen the retired ambassador, Vic had been grappling with a dark night of the soul about his past, present and future, chasing a golden-retriever puppy, planning major renovations to his lakeside Knights Bridge home and playing Scrabble on his iPad. He looked more relaxed now, more comfortable in his own skin.
“Writing your memoirs these days?” Greg asked.
“Doesn’t every retired ambassador?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track once you don’t need DSS. I’m sure your memoirs will be a page-turner.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
Greg put up a hand. “Never.”
“I understand you’re here with Samantha Bennett’s pretty cousin,” Vic said.
“Are the two of us firing up town gossip?”
“Word is she can hold her own with you.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Good for her. Bring her to the cookout. Thursday. It’s supposed to be warm. You can wade in the lake and your Montana kids can go swimming.”
“Minnesota. What time?”
“Four works but I’m flexible. Nowhere else I need to be. See you then.”
“Thanks, Vic. Rohan will be there?”
“He will, indeed. He loves the water.”
“So does Charlotte,” Greg said. “She’s a deep-sea diver.”
“Excellent. See you Thursday. Call me if you need anything before then.”
Vic about-faced and marched back to his car, more spring in his step than when Greg had last seen him. That was good news, he decided. Vic could be supercilious without even trying, and he’d made mistakes in his life, but he didn’t give up.
Greg tucked back into his hammock, glancing at his watch. How long would it take Charlotte to walk back here? Would she take a detour? Did he care? Maybe he should go look for her, or slip through the hedges and have a private word with Evelyn Sloan.
“Maybe you should just read your book,” he said, opening to where he’d left Alistair MacLean’s intrepid commandos.
* * *
Charlotte had no problem finding her way back to Knights Bridge. She felt great when she arrived at Red Clover Inn. She’d had no issues with the distance, jet lag or her diving accident. She’d simply enjoyed walking along the quiet country roads.
She approached the hammock where Greg was sacked out with his World War II thriller open on his abdomen. “How was your walk?” he asked, eyes still shut.
“Lovely.”
“New England is beautiful this time of year. No argument from me on that one.” He opened his eyes but didn’t stir from the hammock. “We could do worse than this place.”
“I imagine you have.”
“Yep, but no complaints. Have you done worse?”
“Depends on your idea of worse.”
“Crawling around in a sunken submarine would be worse.”
“Not if it’s work you love,” she said.
He studied her, the hammock holding up well to his weight. “Do you love crawling around in sunken shipwrecks?”
“I do.”
“As an archaeologist or for fun?”
“Both.” She made a point of glancing at the inn, taking a deep breath, absorbing the fresh air and bucolic surroundings. She shifted her gaze back to Greg. “Being here has fired up my domestic side. I wasn’t sure I had one after all these years living in tiny quarters on a research ship or out of a suitcase. I did okay with decorating my apartment in Edinburgh. Now I have this mad urge to gather paint chips and fabric swatches.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“This place will make a good bed-and-breakfast or guesthouse. So many possibilities.”
“I imagine there are, especially compared to a sunken wreck.” He sat up, tilting the hammock back so he could lean against it. He shut his book. “Do you see Samantha as an innkeeper?”
“Now I do. I’m not sure I would have without being here. Not that she’ll give up on pirates. I love Scotland but I can see why she fell in love with Knights Bridge. Justin has a lot to do with it, I’m sure.”
“You Bennetts don’t like to settle in one place. I can tell.” Greg patted the hammock next to him. “Have a seat if you’d like.”
She felt a rush of heat, ignored it. “I’m still wired from my walk.”
“Sure.”
His tone was neutral but not neutral. It was the only way Charlotte knew to describe it. “Walking helps me adjust to a new time zone. I’ll go to bed at a normal time tonight, or at least get close.”
“Great. Sleeping in a hammock helps me adjust.” He motioned toward the house. “Evelyn Sloan dropped off peas from her garden. I have a feeling she was looking for you. Whatever she’s got you up to, you’re not going fast enough for her.”
Charlotte settled back on her heels, noting the slight stretch in her calves. It gave her something to do while she considered what to tell Greg about their neighbor. Nothing, she decided. “Did she say I wasn’t going fast enough?”
“I didn’t actually see her.”
“They teach you to read fresh vegetables as a DS agent?”
“You bet.” He stood up, the hammock swinging, empty, behind him. “Take a turn if you’d like. You don’t need to sleep. You can read or stare up at the leaves.”
“I think I’ll take a shower and see what else there is to read. I swear there are books in every room. Then I’ll help shell the peas.”
“They’re not the kind you shell. I learned that from my grandmother. See? Life is good.”
They went inside through the back door. Charlotte glanced at the colander of snow peas in the kitchen sink and read Evelyn’s note—she hadn’t given away her mission about the time capsule. Greg gave her a suspicious look but said nothing as he made his way to the inn’s library.
Charlotte headed upstairs and used her excuse of searching for a book to check the other guest rooms. Surely the time capsule wouldn’t be in a guest room, but she wanted to eliminate the easy spots first. She needed to be thorough and methodical, as much to convince Evelyn as to get the job done. Having a federal agent ready to pounce was something of a motivation, but it wasn’t as if she were searching for anything illicit.
You don’t know that for a fact, she reminded herself. Just because Evelyn was in her eighties and looked and acted like a straightforward, honest woman didn’t mean she hadn’t stepped out of line a time or two in her life. What if the time capsule contained evidence of a past misstep?
Charlotte helped herself to a copy of Pride and Prejudice in room ten, the last one she checked for a time capsule. She’d skipped Greg’s room but doubted she’d find anything there, either. Jane Austen would do for today.
“You know, I’ve never read Pride and Prejudice,” she said, and returned to the kitchen, where she found Greg sorting through the colander of peas. “I watched the BBC version with Colin Firth.”
“Guys in tights your thing?”
“Depends on the guy.”
“There’s that. Thought you might go for guys in kilts.”
“Not a bad thought.”
“Wet suits?”
She smiled. “Let’s make dinner, shall we?”
They did up a stir-fry with chicken and fresh vegetables—including Evelyn’s snow peas—and put it over brown rice. They ate on the front porch, catching the sun as it dipped into the west. It was so quiet it was hard to believe they were less than a mile from the village. Charlotte noticed Greg fight back a yawn. She’d done the same. In Scotland, they’d be having a nightcap, or they’d be dead asleep in bed. Separate beds, she amended to herself.
“Do you think Evelyn really grew the peas herself?” Greg asked as he set his plate aside.
Charlotte shrugged. “I’ve no reason to doubt her.”
“She didn’t just buy them at the country store and use them as an excuse to come by here, check up on you?” Greg thought a moment. “I guess she could have picked them and brought them as an excuse to check up on you.”
“This is driving you crazy, isn’t it?”
“I’ve gone from warp speed to a crawl this past week. Indulge me.”
“It’s called being on vacation. The peas are evidence of Evelyn Sloan being a good neighbor.” As far as Charlotte knew, it was the case—even if Evelyn had been hoping for an update on her time capsule when she’d stopped by. “Are you looking forward to your new job in Washington?”
He shrugged. “All right. We can change the subject. Only so far you can go with mysterious snow peas. I don’t give much thought to the future these days. It’ll be good to be on the same continent as my kids. Beyond that—we’ll see.”
“Where exactly is the DSS Command Center?”
“Across the Potomac from DC in Rosslyn.”
“That’s not far from my grandparents’ house. The last tenants moved out in May. It’s empty now. Do you have a place to live yet?”
“Working on it. Friends offered to let me sleep on their couch.”
He clearly had a live-for-today mentality. Charlotte suspected it had been entrenched even before he’d been ambushed last fall. He lifted his feet onto the coffee table. They’d finished eating, so that wasn’t a problem. Just the view she had of his legs, his jeans tight across his muscular thighs.
“Is your grandfather’s house like his brother Harry’s place in Boston?” Greg asked.
“Nothing like it. Harry’s house is an elegant Back Bay brownstone. Max’s house is a bungalow. He hung on to his New Hampshire farm-boy frugality.”
“Was he frugal or cheap? There’s a difference.”
“Frugal. I didn’t necessarily recognize that as a kid. Harry was an adventurer but he and Max respected each other. I think my father would have liked a bit more adventure and a little less frugality while he was growing up, but as he’s gotten older, he’s started to see his father’s virtues.”
“And you?”
She smiled. “Max and my grandmother were the best.”
“But you ended up becoming a marine archaeologist and working with Harry’s son Malcolm,” Greg said.
Charlotte settled back in her chair. She felt the evening breeze, the air cool, scented with a hint of some kind of flower. She looked forward to her lavender oil. She’d need something to help her relax after a full day with Greg Rawlings.
“My becoming a marine archaeologist and diver wasn’t a rejection of my grandfather,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound defensive. “What did your father do?”
“Electrician. I did reject that. Flat out. Told him when I was seven I wasn’t going to be an electrician.”
“That was okay with him?”
“It was fine. Not that he had a choice. He was a smart guy and did well as an electrician, but it wasn’t my thing. He didn’t have the opportunity to go to college. I did. My brother and sister did, too. No complaints. What about you? This U-boat project’s done. What’s next?”
“We’ll see.”
“Do you get to decide or does this institute you work for decide?”
“A little of both.”
He leaned forward, his turquoise eyes leveled on her. “Vague answers, Ms. Bennett.”
“That’s because I’m not thinking about work. What time do your kids arrive tomorrow?”
“Changing the subject again. Okay. It’s not like I’m interrogating you.” He sat back. “They arrive in Boston midday. I�
�ll head out in the morning to pick them up. If three Rawlings are too much for you, we can find someplace else to stay.”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. Stay here. I can leave.”
“You’re fine. I’m not looking to mess up your vacation or whatever you want to call it.”
“Vacation is close enough.”
He eyed her a moment. “Having Andrew and Megan here will keep us out of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He stood and picked up their dinner plates. “All kinds,” he said, and headed inside.
The screen door had swung shut before it dawned on Charlotte what he’d meant. She groaned. The man’s timing was something. He’d waited until she was feeling relaxed and sisterly before reminding her that she was attracted to him—and he to her, even if it was just because she was female and present.
“Gad.”
She launched herself to her feet and followed him back to the kitchen.
He had the faucet on, the sink half-full as he added the dishes to the soapy water. He grinned at her. “Nothing sexier than a guy up to his elbows in dish suds, is there?”
“Possibly not.”
He shook water and suds off his hands and grabbed a towel, threadbare but serviceable. Charlotte watched his deliberate movements, noted the muscles in his forearms, his blunt nails, the water spots on his shirtfront. And even as she was wondering what it would be like to kiss him, it was happening. She couldn’t have said who’d made the first move. With his mouth on hers, the feel of his arms, warm and strong, around her, it didn’t matter who’d started the kiss.
He stood back, added more dishes to the sink and switched off the water. “I’d hate to explain to the Sloans how we flooded the kitchen,” he said easily.
“I’m too tired to mop the floor, anyway. Well—” Charlotte waved a hand “—that should settle you down while your kids are here.”
“Ya think, huh?”
She smiled. “Good night, Agent Rawlings. I’m going up to read about my men in tights.”
“I like those little dresses the women wear.”
“They wouldn’t work on me.”
Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel Page 14
