The Last Garden in England(44)

He nodded. “That was Dad.”

“So your father wanted you to do anything except for farming…”

“Which is why, rebel that I am, that’s all I could imagine doing.” He gestured behind him. “Are you coming in?”

“Coming in?” She looked up to see the sign for the White Lion.

“I thought that maybe you’d given in to Sydney this week,” he explained.

“I would love to,” she said, surprised that she actually would. “But I’ve got these with me.” She held up her bag of groceries.

“Anything perishable?” he asked.

“A pint of milk and some Greek yogurt,” she said.

“Come with me.” He was halfway to the pub door before he turned and said, “If you want.”

Emma hesitated a moment. She had a budget spreadsheet to update, sculpture-repair vendors to contact. And she should probably open the email from her accountant she’d been avoiding all day. But when she saw Henry holding open the pub door for her, she realized that going home to an empty cottage simply didn’t sound appealing.

Inside, the pub was hot, people all squeezed around round tables and high stools. On each table, a piece of paper and pencil sat waiting amid sweating drinks. She couldn’t see Sydney and Andrew through the wall of people.

When Henry reached the bar, he leaned in and shouted over a Little Mix song, “What are you having?”

“A pint, please,” she shouted.

He stuck out his hand. “Give me your shopping.”

She frowned but handed him the canvas bag just as the bartender, an older woman with a deep tan, heavy black eyeliner, and long black clip-in extensions, sidled over.

“Henry, are you up to no good?” the woman asked.

“I certainly hope so. Dinah, this is Emma Lovell. She’s working on restoring Sydney and Andrew’s garden,” said Henry.

Dinah stuck her hand out over the bar. “Any friend of Sydney and Andrew is welcome at the White Lion, but be careful of this one.” Dinah nodded to Henry. “I’ve been throwing him out of this pub since he was fourteen.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Emma, tucking her hair back behind her ears.

“Give us two pints, would you?” Henry asked.

Dinah picked up a pint glass and began to pull cask ale with a practiced ease. “You’re staying for the quiz?”

“Apparently I am,” she said.

“Lucy is starting in a few minutes,” said Dinah, putting down a full glass in front of Emma.

“Would you mind sticking this in the fridge in the back, Dinah?” Henry asked, handing over the groceries. When Dinah gave him a look, he added, “They’re Emma’s, not mine.”

“For Emma, I’m happy to,” said Dinah, depositing another pint in front of Henry. “That’ll be eight pounds fifty.”

Before Emma could move, Henry had paid for the drinks. She was going to protest, but Dinah said, “Let him. It’ll be his penance for when he insists that he has the right answer and costs you the win.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” said Emma.

“He doesn’t. Don’t be shy about asking for your groceries whenever. This lot can wait a few minutes for drinks,” said Dinah before peeling off to the back.

“I like her,” said Emma, taking a sip of her ale.

“I’m legally required to like her. She’s my aunt. I read some P. G. Wodehouse for my A levels. When Bertie Wooster called his aunt Agatha ‘the nephew-crusher,’ I knew exactly what he meant. Come on, let’s see if we can get through this crowd.”

Henry dropped his shoulder and pushed through as Emma did her best not to spill her drink or wing someone with her cross-body bag. When the crowd opened up, she found herself in front of Sydney, Andrew, and two others at a low table.

“Hi!” Sydney cried, jumping up and nearly knocking over her gin goblet. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I captured her just in front of the pub and dragged her in,” said Henry.

“Welcome,” said Andrew.

“Here, take a seat and I’ll introduce you around,” said Sydney, pulling her bag off an empty seat.

“Thanks,” said Emma.

“This is Jaya Singh. She’s the head of events for the Priory in Temple Kinton, just down the road,” said Sydney.

Emma shook hands with the woman who, despite her youthful appearance, had a striking head of salt-and-pepper hair.

“And this is Colby Powell. He’s a professor at the University of Warwick,” said Sydney.

“I’m what they call a pinch hitter in the States,” said Colby.

“Colby’s our resident American,” said Jaya.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” said Emma.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and others,” a voice came over the microphone, “we’re ready to begin.” The noise in the pub fell to a dull hubbub, and a woman onstage raised her brows. “That’s much better. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing most of you my entire life, but for those I haven’t met, I’m Lucy MacFarlane, and I’ll be your quiz master.” Hoots and hollers from the crowd. “Enough of that now. You all know pub quizzes are serious business. If you’ll sharpen your pencils, our first round will be Sport.”