The Art of Inheriting Secrets(44)

My gut ached a little as I imagined those rolling fields all turned to houses. “There used to be picnics on the estate. Did you know that?”

“I might have heard my dad talk about them.” His phone buzzed, moving a little on the table, and he glanced at the face. “Ack. Forgot. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to get cleaned up. I have dinner plans.”

I practically leapt to my feet. “Of course. I’m sorry to keep you.”

He caught my arm. “I invited you in, remember?” He dropped his hand but stood there in the dappled sunlight slanting down from the tree overhead. Light danced on the crown of his head and along his brow, spilling into the hollow of his throat. He was like something the forest conjured. “I enjoy your company, Olivia. That’s been rare in my life recently.”

I swallowed. “Me too. Thanks for letting me spill my guts today.”

“Anytime.”

He walked me through the house, past all the books, and I paused. “Which of your books would you tell me to read?”

“None of them,” he said with a small smile.

I faced him. “You know I’ll just go to my room and look you up, right?”

“I would rather you did not.” He crossed his arms. Such a defensive posture.

“Why?”

He sighed. “They’re all products of that big disaster of a time in my life—that’s all. It has no bearing on now.”

“Even the first one?”

A shrug, and he looked over my head to some nameless place in the past.

Inclining my head, I said, “Okay. I’ll leave it alone for now, then. But not forever.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Olivia.”

“You’re welcome.”

On the stoop he said, “Text me after you speak with the Restoration woman. It’s meant to be a week of fine weather, so we’ll be working late, but I’d love to know what she says.”

“Sure.” I raised a hand and let myself out the gate, feeling his gaze on my back as I headed down the hill. Or maybe I only hoped he was watching me go.

Dinner plans surely meant a woman. And of course a man like that would have tons of women in his life. I thought about him sitting alone in that bookish room with his cat nearby, reading and reading to cure a broken heart, and it gave me a pang.

Stop it.

Firmly, I focused my attention on the reminder from my stomach that it was time for dinner, and it had been a long day of nibbles and snacks. Time for something robust. I thought of the Sunday roast at the pub—why not? I could write about it. What could be more English than that?





Chapter Eleven

It took some doing to find an evening when Rebecca’s husband would be home for a dinner, but we worked out a time, and she picked me up in the Range Rover, smelling wonderfully of some spicy cologne.

“We’re going to have to get you out of there,” she said as I climbed in the vehicle. “It must be hellish on the weekend. Don’t they have karaoke?”

I laughed. “They certainly do. And football or something on weeknights.”

“Maybe cricket.”

Bernard sat in the back seat neatly and huffed a soft greeting. I turned and said hello. Would I want a Saint Bernard? I tested the idea. No. Too big. “I really miss having a dog.”

“They’re good company,” she agreed.

“My old dog died six months ago. He was a rescue, a shepherd-husky mix.”

“He must have shed bushels.”

I chuckled. “I could have made blankets for the world every spring.”

“The world is divided into those who love animals and those who do not,” she said. “I can never quite imagine what people who don’t have pets do when they have a bad day.”

“I know.” It made me like her better. “How did the thatching turn out?”

“Beautiful. We’re going to have them back to do the stable.” She turned smoothly into her drive, and I thought of Samir standing high on the roof that first day.

Philip waited within, a bibbed apron around his body. “Hello, Olivia!” he said in a hearty way. He had a genial face, which I had not particularly noticed at the garden party. “We’re so happy you’re here tonight! I’m making chicken shawarma.”

“It smells heavenly,” I said and meant it.

“Philip is a fantastic cook,” Rebecca said, taking my coat. “It was one of the things that captured me.”

“You’re a great cook too,” I said. “I wrote an article on venison stew after tasting that one you made.”

“Really? That’s wonderful! I’m so flattered!”

We settled in over steamed rice and shawarma and Israeli salad with a beautiful, nuanced white burgundy. It still startled me a little to see the French labels, which were so unusual in California, but of course, French was the local great wine, while Californian was the import.

As Rebecca poured a generous second helping of the wine for Philip and me, she asked, “So have you come up with a plan for the estate?”

“A plan?”

“Will you sell or renovate?” she clarified, taking a sip of water.

“Still not at all sure, one way or the other. I’ve been doing heaps of research and consulting with various experts, including Mr. Haver, but there are just so many unanswered questions.”