“That sounds too good to pass up.”
“It’s decided then, and I’ll save a place next to me at service.” Letice moved toward the door and turned back. “I almost forgot. We’re having a bit of a do next week, or maybe it’s this week. Oh, my. My memory is rubbish.” She tapped her chin with a forefinger. “Tell you what, I could give you a ring.”
“Sure.” Susannah jotted down her cell number and presented the paper to her. “What is a bit of a do?”
“Sorry, love,” She gave a dismissive wave. “A party of the committee, more of a meeting with food.” She continued toward the door. “We need little excuse to eat at our gatherings. Although it’s just a few tidbits, appetizers of a sort. And we’re always open to guests.”
“I see. May I bring a dish?”
“Brilliant. And you can see how you take to our crazy lot. Cheers.”
Susannah waved a goodbye and watched Letice disappear into the crisp morning air. She’d made the right choice, indeed. She belonged here.
∞∞∞
Susannah juggled an armload of shopping bags onto the train platform. Why on earth had she bought so much in Northallerton? She was used to having a car and tossing it all in the trunk. The week had been spent organizing the cottage. Yesterday, she’d had a pleasant roast lunch after church with Letice and her husband, Peter. Tonight, she was to attend the committee gathering and must return home to unload her burden before she had to be at the church.
The walk down High Street toward her cottage brought her in front of a bakery and tearoom, High Tea. The warmth, and the strong scent of cinnamon pulled her in. A break with a nice cup of tea after a full day of shopping sounded like heaven. She piled her bags under the nearest table, stepped to the glass counter and examined the pastries. A tall blonde girl greeted her kindly. “May I assist you?”
“I’d like a cinnamon scone and a cup of Earl Grey, please.”
“Grand. Would you like clotted cream as well?”
“Of course.” Susannah nodded. “And strawberry jam.” She added.
The cash register ring coincided with the doorbell. “That’ll be three pounds fifty.” Susannah passed her a five-pound note. “Back soon.”
Another girl appeared at the counter to help the new customer. “How may I assist you, sir?”
“I called in a takeaway for two dozen cinnamon scones for Mr. Heard.” A deep, smoky British voice seized Susannah’s attention.
“Yes, sir.” The girl scurried to the back.
Susannah turned discretely and glanced at the man as she made her way to her table His gaze was on her. Before she looked away, she noted his lightly tanned complexion and brown wavy hair curling over the top of his collar. A feeble smile was all she could manage under his scrutiny as she slipped into her seat, her server arriving with tea.
“I’m sorry, but we’re out of cinnamon scones. Would you like another?”
A girl at the counter passed two white boxes to him. “Here’s your order, sir.”
“Thank you. Have a smashing night.” The tall man turned to leave.
“What would you like to exchange for the cinnamon scone?” Susannah’s server waited for a response.
The man paused at Susannah’s table and peered down at her. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear your request. It seems I’ve taken the last of the cinnamon scones.” He opened one box. “Please take whatever you’d like. I’m certain they won’t be missed.”
“I’ll choose another, but thank you.” She analyzed her tea, not able to maintain eye contact with the stranger—his light blue gaze was too intent.
“I insist.” He seized a napkin and used it to remove a scone from the box and placed it on the edge of her saucer. Her gaze met his to refuse the offer, but he interrupted. “Would you like another?” His mouth curved into a disarming smile.
She stammered, “Oh, no … I ...”
He persisted. “I’d feel much better if you’d accept.”
Susannah held her breath and nodded with what she knew had to be an idiotic grin.
The man placed another scone on the opposite side of the saucer. “I must say, for the price of two scones that smile was well worth it.” He closed the box. “Have a marvelous evening.” His long legs took him from the bakery. The bell jingled as the door closed behind him.
Neither Susannah nor the girl had moved, their stares followed the man. Susannah smiled up at the girl and shrugged. “And who said chivalry was dead?”
The girl grinned. “Indeed.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Be back with your clotted cream, jam—and a plate for your scones.”
Susannah drank her tea and savored every bite of the scones, the man’s face fixed in her mind’s eye. My, but he was nice to look at—and that voice. She shook off the memory and hoisted the bags and returned home with enough time to drop her packages and head to the gathering.
The dusk air turned cooler as Susannah entered High Street toward the church. She tugged her jacket closer. Though not yet dark, it seemed odd walking alone in a new place. The stroll from the cottage was but a few short blocks, and taking it at a brisk pace, Susannah arrived in roughly five minutes.
The stone church stood at the edge of Neville, watching over it as it had for centuries like a sentinel. It had changed over time—grown, reduced to rubble in parts, rebuilt again and again. The newer building on the grounds of the property held the community center where meetings, celebrations, and the like were held by locals.
She stood at the door as she hugged a tin of teacakes to her chest. A deep breath gave her a boost of courage to enter. With deliberation, she settled into a seat at the back of the room, hoping to blend in until Letice found her.
Susannah grew conspicuous, not knowing anyone other than Letice. Eyes down, she rummaged in her purse until she saw a pair of sensible brown loafers appear at the base of her chair.
“Hallo, dear, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
She looked into the face of a smiling, perky woman who looked as if a little older than Susannah, with bright red hair cut short surrounding a round sweet face.
“I’m Amanda Singleton, the secretary of this lot,” she said with a contagious smile.
Susannah extended a hand and was met with a firm grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine, dearie. So glad you could join us. Letice told me all about you owning the old cottage. Smashing place.”
That was the second time in the span of an hour that she’d heard the word ‘smashing’. Previously from the cinnamon-scone man. “I like it and hope to make a lot of improvements. Nothing to change the character, of course. Simply restoring.”
Amanda sat sideways in the chair in front of Susannah and faced her, arm dangled over the back of the chair. “Wonderful. Too many people think they have to make everything old seem like new.”
“Yes. The character of a historic building needs to remain the same—not made to look like it was built this century.”
“Bravo! A like mind.”
“Amanda. Where’s Amanda?” A firm voice echoed through the room.
She stood and waved. “Over here.” She peered down at Susannah. “Duty calls. See ya.”
Amanda called the meeting to order as Letice slipped into the chair beside Susannah. She whispered, “I see you met Amanda. She’s a prize.”
“Welcome all,” Amanda announced while everyone was being seated. “First, I’d like to say we have not gotten word back from Colin. But don’t lose heart.”
A male voice called out, “Don’t think he’s interested in helpin’ a bunch of dossers and—” Another voice interrupted. “Oh, hush Virgil. Colin’s a standup chap.”
“Alrighty. Let’s not get miffed over nothing,” Amanda chimed, settling the din.
The creaking door drew everyone’s attention to the back of the room. “Sorry to be late, all. Had a last-minute phone emergency.” The man filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and height.
Susannah willed her jaw not to drop as the man stepped into the room. The man with the cinnamon scones.
Chapter 4
Neville, North Yorkshire, England
2019
April strolled the short path to the cottage, hoping she’d be making the trip many times in the future. As she unlocked the door, she trembled. Once over the threshold, the faint sniff of lavender captured her. The modest lounge area lay before her, and she scanned it, but no evidence of the lavender presented itself.
The yellow stone fireplace had a whitewashed mantel with an ornate iron garden gate hung above. The honey-colored stones reminded April of a trip she’d taken to Bath years ago—many of the buildings there were made of the same material. Facing the street, the large leaded window embraced a built-in seat. Drop cloths covered the furniture like languid ghosts. Beyond an archway that led to the kitchen, April saw the back door to the rear garden.
She pushed the door on her right. It gave a squeak that filled the silence before revealing an office. A dust-coated drop cloth covered the desk facing the window facing the street, its vantage point divulging the front garden. April removed the desk chair cover to find it upholstered in pink and cream toile. As she lowered herself into the chair, she leaned back into its plush comfort.
Bookshelves built on each side of the large bow window drew her attention. They were crammed to capacity with books and bric-à-brac—miniatures of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Statue of Liberty—souvenirs from travels, she assumed. She pushed herself up and started as something brushed her foot. Fearful of what she’d find—a spider was one of her greatest fears—she glanced down to find a crumpled paper. Gently, she retrieved it and smoothed out the wrinkles. It appeared to be a printout from a blog post.
WOMAN EXTRADITED FROM ENGLAND ON MULTIPLE CHARGES
I’m questioning the validity of the charges made against a local woman who was the subject of an arrest report posted in the City News. The newspaper had buried the story in the bottom corner of page 15. The headline was misleading. In actuality, they arrested the woman because on multiple charges no first-time offender rights apply. It’s one strike, and you’re out. No lighter sentence. I’ve attached the arrest report below. Note the vagueness of the charges against this woman. What’s the true story here?
The text ended there with no report attached. The paper was torn. Who was this woman?
April placed the paper on top of the desk and stared at it for a time, pondering the possibilities. She shrugged and headed to the kitchen where she saw an old but well-maintained Aga. After a survey of the room, she saw a white-washed drop-leaf table with a vase of dead flowers, heads drooped miserably. The dirt-encrusted window of the back door looked onto the rear garden, enclosed by a stone wall.
Beyond the wall and through the trees, the view resembled a beautiful pastoral watercolor with a field of vibrant yellow canola flowers. A wide stream was a silver ribbon meandering across the landscape, sun glinting off the water between the trees. The scene brought back fond memories of summers with her grandparents. Days of running through fields, avoiding new plants. Her grandfather had been so particular about his plants. April turned back to the room.
The door to her left opened into a small washroom. White distressed cabinets lined the French-yellow walls.
In the kitchen, April noticed the back door had lace panels pushed to each side of the glass, covered with dust that blocked the design. Odd how they had been right in front of her a moment ago, and she’d paid them no attention. The gorgeous landscape captivated her.
April took note again of the lounge’s covered furniture—an overstuffed armchair, a small sofa with a square table between them, a coffee table, and a rocker.
She walked back to the office and opened the door across from it to reveal a loo with plastered off-white walls, a claw-foot tub, and yellow cupboard.
Down the short hall, she stepped into a tiny room. Sun streamed in from the window, dust motes dancing in the air. A small antique settee nestled against a wall. An oval table with more dead flowers in a vase and a rose floral tea service seemed ready for guests at any moment.
Floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with boxes filled the closet, each labeled with the name of a city or country. With care, she touched each box as she read the names aloud. Travel had always been a dream of hers.
She dragged herself from the boxes. The temptation to open one was far too strong. The last room was down the hall—the bedroom. It contained a four-poster bed. Bronze Victorian lamps atop nightstands stood guard on each side of the bed. A corner possessed a burgundy wing-back chair accompanied by a floor lamp and square table. The chest of drawers and a tall, framed mirror on a stand completed the furnishings of the room.
She returned to the kitchen and peeked into the back garden again, over the wall to the hillside. Yes, the garden was meager, but the view more than made up for it.
“I love this place.” April sighed. “Lord, if it’s meant for me, it’ll be in my price range.” The lavender scent wafted to her again. She lifted her head and sniffed the air like a puppy onto a new smell. She walked as close to the wall as she could, inching her way around the perimeter of the room.
The fragrance grew stronger near the fireplace. She knelt and peered inside and spotted a bundle of dried lavender tied with a paper ribbon. April imagined that the smell would permeate the room throughout the summer. When the cool nights of autumn came, the lavender under the first fire of the season would perfume the entire house. April wanted to be the one who lit that fire.
∞∞∞
A blinding storm greeted Ryan as he stepped from the train platform in Neville. He pulled his raincoat tighter and hugged his bag to his chest. As he gripped the umbrella, he sprinted for the curb to a waiting taxi. “Horden Inn, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
The inn was a few short minutes from the station, but the taxi ride saved Ryan from being soaked to the skin. He paid the driver, gave a generous tip, and another sprint carried him into the inn’s lobby. He’d arrived with thirty minutes to spare before meeting April for their six o’clock appointment. He propped his wet umbrella next to the coat rack.
“Hallo, Mr. Wilkinson,” chimed Henry Talbot as he pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his large nose. “Nasty day to be out and about.”
“You got that right.” Ryan placed his bag on the stone floor and shed his coat.
“Here’s your key for number 37.” Mr. Talbot pointed to the stairs. “Sorry, no lifts here. Up the stairs, three floors, second room on the right. Great view of the village and the countryside beyond.”
“Sounds good. I’m meeting someone here at six. Do you serve full meals in the evening?”
“’Fraid not. But since the weather is so horrid, I could get the missus to throw somethin’ together for ya and your lady friend.” He chuckled.
“She’s a business associate,” Ryan said, his voice gruff. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know.”
He snapped open the newspaper and answered, “You’re most welcome.”
“I’ll be down at six.” Ryan picked up his bag and climbed the many stairs to his room without effort.
The room was masculine, in a Victorian-style like the lobby—paneled walls, a mahogany four-poster bed, and a hunting scene tapestry above it. He placed his bag on the stone hearth. Electric logs glowed from the mock fireplace. He changed his clothes and made his way downstairs. Thick Persian carpet muted the creaks of each step.
With five minutes to spare, he stepped into the inn’s lounge and was greeted by a perky server with a long blonde ponytail.
“Hallo, sir. I’m Petronella.” She greeted him with a wide toothy grin and motioned for him to be seated. “’ow may I ’elp you?”
Ryan greeted her and asked for coffee and a small appetizer of her recommendation.
“How ’bout mini Cornish p
asties?” The grin reappeared.
“What’s a pasty?”
“Like a tart but filled with meat and potatoes.”
“That sounds good, but just a small portion as I’m not certain if we’ll be going to dinner later. Where I’m from we have something very similar.” Memories inundated him. “It’s what my grandmother called a meat pie.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda like that. I bet they stole the idea from Cornwall.” Petronella cackled. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail.” She waddled away, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side.
The room wasn’t large, just enough space to house five wood-stained tables and mis-matched chairs of varying sizes and styles. The area was cozy, warm, a place meant for relaxing.
Ryan faced the lounge’s entrance and within minutes was rewarded when April walked in wearing a yellow raincoat and black rubber boots—or wellies as they called them.
“Oh, this weather. I thought I’d have to swim here. It’s lashing out there, and my brolly wouldn’t work. I’m sorry, but I must be a sight all drenched from head to wellies.” She laughed and smoothed her dark hair.
He stood at her approach. She was a mess—damp spots on her jeans and drops of rain spattered on her cheeks. Yet he found her appearance pleasing, and her smile infectious. He matched it with one of his own and helped her off with the coat.
“Thank you ever so much.” He took the coat to the lobby coat rack. She sat and pressed the wrinkles from her red and blue plaid shirt. Ryan noticed a small gold cross dangled from her neck.
“Well, now that’s done. Hello, Ryan. How are you?”
“At the moment, fine, though I was also drenched when I arrived.” He tugged on his shirt cuffs. “Nothing a quick change couldn’t repair—and, don’t worry, you look nice.” He glanced at his watch to avoid her eyes. Did I just say that?
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