The Art of Inheriting Secrets(30)

If I’d had any inkling that I’d be returning to my old life, the tide turned in that moment. I saw myself so clearly in this space, writing in that spot by the fire, cooking in that kitchen. Maybe I could get another dog, I thought, and saw her, too, sitting by the fire, a red-coated retriever. “This is perfect,” I said.

“Chilly, though. Let’s stand in the sunshine and talk.”

Outside, I said, “What do you think?”

“It’s a wonderful old pile,” she said. “That staircase alone is worth the price of entry, as will be the maze.” She looked back to the house, then down to the farms and cottages. “According to the public records, the rents and holdings bring in approximately two hundred thousand pounds a year, which will be enough to support you in the cottage, even give you some funds to do the upgrades it needs.”

I nodded.

“But it won’t be anywhere near enough to do the repairs that are necessary for the house.”

“Okay. So . . . ?”

“I believe the gardens will generate a healthy income if you start there.”

“How?” I asked.

“Tours. The madness for garden tours grows every year—great busloads of tourists from all over the world.” She propped one hand on her hip, gestured with the other arm toward the garden. “We’ll bring in a landscape architect and a historian, get some estimates, get that going, and then in a few years, maybe start to tackle the house. There are also treasures in the house that should be examined and might generate some revenue.”

“I love the idea of starting with the gardens. But I don’t want to just leave the house as it is. I think I told you that I have some funds of my own.”

“That would change the game a bit. Tell me.”

“I’ve sold my mother’s home in San Francisco for more than three million dollars. Not sure what the conversion rate is at the moment or what my tax obligation will be, but I’m guessing I’d have a pool of at least a million pounds to start.”

Jocasta blinked. Then she laughed, tossing back that magnificent hair and laughing with her whole body. It made me think of Julia Child, the way she seemed to always be standing in a river of pure enjoyment. “Well, that is a delightful surprise, Lady Shaw. Wonderful.” She flung an arm around me and turned me toward the house. “It won’t be enough to finish, but it is certainly enough to begin.”

We stopped in the circular drive in front of the house. “I do love this old wreck,” she said quietly, leaning back to take in the top floor. Then she looked at me levelly. “I do not have full autonomy in my choice of material, but I’m going to lobby hard for this. In the meantime, we can get a better picture of what’s going on.”

We mapped out a plan of visits from various contractors, historians, architects, garden experts, and art experts. She made an appointment to come back in a month, once the others had made their reports, and the first segment would be filmed. “I’ll send the various permission forms, and you can see to them. If you have strong feelings about any of the people I bring in, I’m not attached. Just efficient. I know the networks of people in the business, and because of my profile, it goes more quickly.”

“That’s great.”

“I can probably have a contractor out here to look at the place by the end of the week. The landscape historian I’m thinking of is heading to Italy at the end of the school term, so I’d like to get her out here as soon as possible, too, to see if she can unearth some drawings of the terraced gardens and help us make a plan for the restoration.”

“Great.”

“The last thing, my dear, is to think about what you might want to do to support the house once it has been saved. You’ll have to do something. These prodigal houses take endless pots of money, and you will need another means of support. Just giving tours is not enough these days—you’ll have to think about what else you can do.”

“Like what?”

“You said you’re an editor—is that right? Is there something with writing or food that comes to mind? Maybe you can—”

“Maybe a fair on Saturdays, to bring people in.”

“Good start.”

“A cooking school. Or—”

“I suspect you’ll think of something.”

I suspected I would have to.





Chapter Eight

By the time I returned to the hotel, I had worn out my leg completely. It was the first time in days that it had bothered me at all, but I had given it quite a workout. I was half tempted to call Pavi and reschedule.

But of course I could not. It would be rude to cancel at the last minute, and I did know that she was interested in me, at least in part, because of my position at the magazine. She would have gone to no little trouble to create a beautiful meal.

A small part of my mind wondered if Samir would be there. Why would he? It wasn’t his restaurant. I’d hoped we were developing a friendship, but I hadn’t heard from him, so maybe not.

Whatever. I had enough to think about without crushing on a hot thatcher. Though I had to admit, as I flipped through the few clothes I had with me, having a crush was a forgotten pleasure. I’d forgotten the rustle of anticipation, the zing of remembering his wide, beautiful mouth, the way he looked at me so intently. Surely, after everything, I’d earned the right to crush right out.