Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(43)

And three security cars. So far.

But it was beautiful. We pulled up to an elegant fieldstone and brick home, Tudor style with black shutters. The little bit of snow that had fallen was neatly shoveled, the path and drive neatly edged. Christmas lights twinkled from inside, hinting at a mammoth tree, and a wreath as big as my bed was on the front door. The house to the left must have been Simon’s, as it was the one he was avoiding looking at entirely. Pine trees along the property line softened the view, but it looked like a brick center style colonial, as grand as the rest of the neighborhood. There were bikes in the driveway. Kids’ bikes.

As we walked up the pathway to the house, Simon let out a chortle. “I can’t believe that’s still here.”

“What?”

“They redid the pavers when I was in elementary school, and her son and I wrote our names in the cement. Boy, did we hear about that one.” He pointed to the first step, and on the corner I could just make out his name. Simon Parker.

“You wouldn’t have made a very good vandal; you signed your full name, for pity’s sake,” I said as he rang the doorbell. I reached out and gave his buns a squeeze, and as he looked at me in surprise, the door opened.

“There you are, right on time!” Mrs. White sang out, opening the door and hurrying a blushing Simon inside. He insisted I go first and I got my own bun squeeze. “It’s so cold out, look at your cheeks, bright red! Good thing I had Arthur make a fire. Arthur, come down here!”

Exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheek, we were ushered into a formal but very comfortable sitting room, where there was in fact a fire crackling. I made small talk with Mrs. White while Simon surreptitiously took everything in: the picture window, the antique desk, the ship in a bottle on the mantel. I saw him take a deep breath, turning as Mr. White came in.

“Simon, so great to see you!” he said, walking right up and shaking Simon’s hand, then pulling him into a one-armed hug.

“Mr. White, good to see you too, sir.”

“I can’t tell you how Penny went on and on about seeing you when she came home last night. How’ve you been?”

“Good, I’ve been good. I heard Todd is married?”

“Oh yes, nice gal. But more importantly, how are you? What have you been up to all these years? Photography we heard, tell me all about that.” Mr. White clapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and walked him into the library, which was all wood and full of books, enough to require one of those sliding ladders.

As they disappeared around the corner, I looked over at Mrs. White. She was smiling, but her eyes looked a bit damp.

“Mrs. White, your home is beautiful,” I started, and she turned her glassy gaze to mine.

“Call me Penny.”

“Not until Simon does.” I grinned.

“Mrs. White it is, then; that boy will never call me anything but. Can I get you something to drink, dear?” she asked, gesturing for me to follow her over to where there was lemonade, coffee, and—

“Is that a Bloody Mary bar?” I asked.

“Oh heavens, yes.” She nodded, sweeping under her eyes a bit with a manicured hand. “Olive or celery?”

“Both?”

“I always knew Simon would end up with a smart girl.” She winked, and poured. Lots of Mary in that Bloody . . .

We sat on the couch and chatted, keeping things light. We discussed the design of her home; she was fascinated by interiors and had helped with every room in the house. We talked a little bit about the town, and how many years her family had lived here. Many. And since the men seemed to be taking a while in the library, we eventually moved on to Simon.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see him. Everyone here had resigned themselves to never seeing him again, after he graduated.”

“I didn’t realize he hadn’t been back since . . . Well, since.”

“No, he left that June and that was the last anyone saw him. He kept in touch with a few of his friends for a little while, but he seemed to need the break. We all understood, losing his family so suddenly.”

“I’m glad he came back; this seems like a lovely place to grow up.”

“It was, and it is. Gail and Thomas, his parents, were wonderful people. So tragic . . .” She trailed off, then turned toward the desk. “I think I have some pictures of them, out on their farm. We spent time out there with them almost every summer. Did you know the Parkers had a farm?”

I shook my head. I knew nothing. He shared nothing. Not about this. She rifled through some drawers, then brought out an album. “I think this is it—yes! Yes, here it is. This is the summer Todd and Simon got caught skinny-dipping with the Wilson girls. Those two!”

She laughed, mulling over the pictures. “Take a look at this one,” she said, handing a picture to me.

I hesitated. Simon had never shown me anything about his family. Should he be the one to show me? Curiosity won out, and I took the picture.

First, we must be clear: The word farm means different things to different people. This was no vegetable patch. In this scenario it meant rolling hills, a three-story house, and a picture-perfect red barn peeking through the trees. This was a Pottery Barn farm. But it’s what was at the center of the picture that filled my eyes with tears and made me want to hug Simon for the rest of my days.