The Will (The Magdalene Series) (Volume 1)(20)

That pulse thumped through me again and it was far more unpleasant.

Boston Stone of Stone Incorporated.

A man behind a company.

Not a family with children, the wife cutting lavender to put in the family room and on the kitchen table, the kids playing Frisbee in the back yard around the arbor with petals of wisteria blowing through the air around them, the husband knowing how to fix the sink and keeping the house in tiptop shape with loving care…forever.

I tasted something sour in my mouth and forced through it, “Mr. Stone, I don’t wish to be rude, but as you can see, I’m busy. And as you know, my grandmother died only five days ago. There are a variety of things on my mind and one of them is not having lunch with someone to discuss my plans for Lavender House.”

This wasn’t strictly true. I’d given vague thought to it.

It was just that it was vague.

Now, with this man standing in front of me, it was not vague in the slightest and I didn’t like how that felt.

“Of course, my apologies. It’s too soon,” he murmured.

“It is,” I agreed.

“Then I’ll repeat my offer of lunch but I’ll do it in order to give you a lovely meal and, perhaps, take your mind off your recent loss.”

I studied him as I processed his words.

And then I processed his words.

Good God, I’d just met the man in my grandmother’s driveway and he was asking me out.

Although he was quite handsome and it was done smoothly, in a kind tone, and with respect, I couldn’t believe it.

“Mr. Stone—”

“Ms. Malone, just lunch, no business, getting you away from memories and taking your mind off things. I know a place that does wonderful things with mussels. If you like seafood, I’d enjoy introducing you to it.”

He was quite nice, not to mention I loved mussels and all seafood.

I just had no desire to have lunch with him.

“That offer is kind, Mr. Stone,” I said quietly. “But I’m afraid your endeavors wouldn’t succeed. I have much to think about and even more to do.”

He nodded and lifted then immediately dropped a hand. “Of course. But if you change your mind, the information Terry gave you includes a direct line to me. Just phone and we’ll make plans.”

“If I change my mind”—highly unlikely—“I’ll do that.”

His smooth voice dipped lower and even smoother when he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Josephine. Lydia was much loved and there were many reasons for that. So please know, I understand this loss is grave.”

I felt my throat close so I just nodded.

“I hope you call,” he finished, still talking lower and smoother.

“I’ll think about it. Have a nice day, Mr. Stone.”

His sunglasses held my sunglasses before he dipped his chin, turned and moved to his SUV.

I watched him get in and slam the door. After he did that, I moved to the house.

When I’d entered, I kicked the door shut behind me with my pump and stopped dead.

I did this because it hit me.

All of it.

Everything I was seeing.

Everything I was experiencing.

But most of all, everything I was feeling.

The shafts of light piercing the shadows, dust motes drifting making the air itself seem almost magical.

The abundance of furniture stuffed in the large rooms opening off the foyer. All of it old, all of it plush, all of it comfortable.

And then there was the profusion of knickknacks, some of them likely worthless, some of them perhaps priceless, but all of them precious. The gleaming wood of the antique tables. The framed prints on the walls that had hung there for decades, maybe some of them for over a century.

My mind’s eye conjured an image of the land around the house. The rough gray stone of the coastline. The rocky beach with its deep pier. The massive bushes of lavender that hugged the sprawling tall house all around. The green clipped lawns. The arbor covered in wisteria with the white wicker furniture under it pointed at the sea. The rectangular greenhouse leading to the mosaic-tiled patio, also pointed at the sea. The small garden surrounded by the low, white fence.

My family had lived in that house for over one hundred and fifty years. My grandmother had grown up there. She’d lost her sister there. She’d escaped there after her husband used and abused her. She’d helped me escape there after her son used and abused me.

I’d only ever been truly happy there.

Only there.

Only there.

On this thought, I numbly moved through the house to the kitchen and, once there, dropped the bags on the butcher block, shoved my sunglasses back on my head and took in the huge expanse.

The Aga stove that stayed warm all the time and produced sublime food. The slate floors. The deep-bowled farm sink. The plethora of cream-painted glass-fronted cabinets. The grooved doors of the cupboards below. The greenhouse leading off it where herbs grew in pots on shelves in the windows. The massive butcher block that ran the length of the middle of the room, worn, cut and warped.

I shrugged my purse from my shoulder and set it beside the bags. I then moved back out to my rental car, getting the last bag, slamming the trunk and taking it into the house.

I put the groceries away and I did it not feeling numb anymore.

Not even close.

My brain felt heated, even fevered.