The Art of Inheriting Secrets(41)

A man came around the side of a cottage with a wheelbarrow full of seedlings. For a moment, I could not place him out of context—not until he looked up, and an expression of pure, unsullied cheeriness crossed his face. “Olivia! Have you come to see me?”

Samir, wearing gardening gloves on his big hands, his hair even more out of control than usual, dirt all over his jeans. “No, I mean, I might have but—I didn’t know. I was out for a walk.” I paused to admire the garden, which burst with the tulips and daffodils and hyacinths that grew in other gardens but boasted many more as well—something that trailed and another with soft little leaves and bright trumpet flowers. “Is this yours?”

“Yeah.” He rested his knuckles on his hip as he looked over his shoulder. “I must admit I didn’t plant it, but I’m sworn to maintain it under the terms of my lease. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Lucky you.”

“Want a cup of tea? Coffee?” He inclined his head toward the door. His jaw showed a Sunday brush of whiskers around the glossy goatee, and the angle of neck to throat caught me somewhere in my ribs. I wanted to see how he lived. To sit with him.

“Yes,” I said and let myself in the gate. Slightly flustered, I pointed to the plants along the fence. “What are those?”

“Primroses.”

“They’re so friendly.”

He grinned. “They are. And tulips are a bit haughty. They think they’re better than everyone else.”

“Well, they’re pretty spectacular. It’s like Tulip Lane, coming down this road.”

“Gardening is a competitive sport around here.”

“So I heard. Jocasta told me that I would have to learn my garden techniques.”

“Did you call her, then?”

“I did! We had a meeting on Tuesday, and she’s very confident she’ll want to feature the house.”

“That’s great!” He tossed his head to fling curls out of his face, then slipped his gloves off and threw them in the wheelbarrow. “Come in.”

He held the door, and I brushed by him, willing myself to just be normal. Inside, sunlight tumbled through the wide picture window, revealing a room that was both masculine and comfortable. A tweedy sofa sat beneath the window, with brightly colored throws flung on the arm. Books filled every available shelf, and stacks sat on chairs and along the wall. A giant Siamese cat reclined in the sunshine and lifted his head as we came in, meowing in greeting. “What a cutie!” I said, reaching out to rub his back, creamy with tan stripes.

Samir leaned over and scratched the cat’s belly. “Billi. He’s a rag doll. The only thing of any value to come out of my marriage.”

“Marriage?” My ears roared a little. “You seem too young to have been married and divorced already.”

“It was unfortunate,” he said, “but I’m not so young, really.” His long fingers nudged the cat’s chin upward. “And I’m told I’m an old soul.”

“Are you?” I petted the cat, feeling a low, warm purr beneath my fingers. “I sometimes think I’m a brand-new one.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re an ancient one. Clear-eyed.”

“Ha. Thanks.” That green bloom filled the air between us again, rustling beneath my skin, making me want to look closely at his mouth. Instead, I looked at the books. “You’re a big reader.” So inane, and I knew it the second it was out of my mouth. “Sorry; that was stupid. I just feel all thumbs.”

He laughed softly. “It’s all right. Come through here. Let’s have tea. Tea’s always good for that.”

For what, I wondered? Giving me back my dignity? My brain?

The kitchen was tiny, but a door stood open to a back garden, and he pointed toward it. “Have a look at the back, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thanks.” I managed to get myself outside without being an idiot again, and once out there, I took a breath, inhaling the fragrant coolness lurking in the barely green shadows. The back garden was as splendid as the front, the borders bursting with color and coordinated height. A small greenhouse stood in the far corner, and beyond the fence the hillside dropped away to show fields on one side and an ugly clutter of rooftops, all made of the same red tiles, on the other.

As I sat down at the small table, the cat sauntered out and meowed at me. I patted my lap. “Come on; I don’t mind.”

He leapt up, all fifteen pounds of elegantly soft fur, and lolled across my legs. “Thank you,” I said quietly, rubbing his belly. “I could use a little unconditional love today.” He flicked his tail against my arm. “Everything is just a little topsy-turvy, and I haven’t had my dog to talk to or my mom, and I’m feeling a little adrift.”

A low, deep purr rumbled into my belly, and he turned his head to look up at me, the blue eyes at half-mast, which someone had told me was an expression of trust. “You’re a sweetie, aren’t you?”

He blinked, and I blinked back, cat shorthand for love. Something at the back of my neck eased. In a tree nearby, a bird twittered, and far in the distance was the sound of a mower. A bee bumped along a row of some small white flowers I didn’t recognize, and I stroked the cat and let go of a long-held breath.

“He has that effect on people,” Samir said, carrying a brass tray with a pot of tea and accompaniments, including a little plate of cookies. “I only had digestives, I’m afraid. I don’t get many passersby.”