A Bitter Feast(82)

It was even darker once she left the terrace. The glasshouse loomed in front of her, and for a moment she thought of taking refuge in it. But it was too close to the house. She went on, down through the kitchen garden, falling once and skinning her knee on the edge of one of the boxed herb beds. When she reached the river path, she stepped right into a puddle left from last night’s rain, soaking both feet.

Reaching the clearing, she realized she’d known all along where she was going. As before, Joe seemed to sense her presence and came out before she reached the porch.

“Melody? What on earth are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She couldn’t seem to stop her teeth chattering and her feet felt like blocks of ice. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

She stumbled again on the porch step and he hurried forward to help her, putting his arm firmly round her shoulders and propelling her through the door. “What happened to you?”

“Fell. Stupid,” she managed, trying to push the hair back from her face, realizing too late that she must look an awful mess. “Needed to get out of the house.”

The hanging lantern cast a soft light, and a fire crackled in the woodstove. Joe had obviously been sitting at the table, using a little battery-powered work light to tie fishing flies.

“You’re freezing.” Fetching the tartan rug from his bed, he draped it over her shoulders and urged her into the other chair, then studied her. “And you look a bit pissed, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Not a’tall,” Melody said, not sure if she meant she wasn’t pissed or that she didn’t mind him saying so. “Can I have some of that good whisky you keep for my dad?”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but fetched the bottle and tumblers and poured them both a generous measure.

“Ta.” Melody accepted the proffered glass, took a swig, and coughed. Joe thumped her on the back.

“You sure you’re all right?” he said, sitting down beside her when she’d got her breath back.

Melody sipped more gingerly. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just . . . things.”

“I heard about Jack Doyle.” Joe studied her, his dark eyes serious. “Is it true? That someone ran him down on purpose?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know the police think it’s possible. But I haven’t really been in the loop today.” Her head was swimming. She tried to blink the room into focus. “Did you know him?”

“Well enough. Nice bloke.” Joe drank half his whisky in one swallow. “Can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that to him.” It sounded like a question. “You’re still shivering,” he added, frowning at her.

“Feet. Stepped in a puddle.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Joe knelt beside her and slipped one shoe off. “You’re sopping. The bottoms of your jeans are soaked, too.” He pulled off her other shoe, then fetched a towel from the bookcase by his bed and rubbed her feet briskly. Blotting her shoes, he said, “I’ll put these by the stove, okay? Take your jeans off and we’ll dry them, too.”

“But—”

“I won’t look. You can wrap up in the rug.” He turned his back.

Standing unsteadily, Melody slid her jeans down round her ankles, then wrapped the rug haphazardly round herself before plopping back down in the chair. The tartan wool was scratchy against her bare skin. “All clear,” she said, and giggled.

Turning, Joe knelt and pulled her jeans free, then rubbed her feet again, this time with his hands. “Christ, you are cold. I always thought you were an ice princess, Melody Talbot.”

“Not.” She drank some more of the whisky. “I’m not, really. I promise.”

Joe sat back, looking up at her, and she wanted to tell him to keep doing whatever he’d been doing to her feet. “I have an idea.” Standing, he turned the gas on under the kettle on his little cookstove.

On the table beside Melody, his mobile buzzed. He ignored it. “Don’t you want to get that?” she asked.

With a quick step, he swiped the mobile from the table before she could read the caller ID, then switched the power off. “No. There’s no one I want to talk to more than you.”

Melody felt a clutch of panic as she realized she’d left her mobile in the house. But then she sat back, trying to tuck her feet under the rug and sip her drink at the same time. No one would be calling her, she didn’t want to talk to anyone, and she didn’t even want to think about Andy Monahan. “Are you making me a hot toddy, then?”

“No. A foot bath.” Joe carried the now-steaming kettle over to his copper tub and poured the boiling water in. Then he moved his own chair to the edge of the tub and said, “Come on, shuffle over, sit here. The tub is cold, so the water will cool fast.”

Setting her almost empty drink on the table, Melody did as she was told, edging carefully onto the chair and lifting her feet. Joe dipped a finger in the water, then splashed in a bit more from the big jug that stood beside the tub. Swirling the water, he said, “Okay, try it now.”

Melody eased her feet in, gasping at the tingle. “Ow.”

“Too hot?”

“No, no, it’s lovely. It’s just that I can feel my feet now.”