As soon as the customer left he approached the counter. “Mom?”
“Yes, dear? One moment while I file this.”
Flynn watched her and felt a knot twist in his stomach.
“Right.” Margaret took off her glasses. “Well I met her… Freya. I’d done what you asked, groceries, et cetera, enough for a couple of days. She looked a little stunned to see me there, I thought.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Flynn smiled. “And?”
“You’re not going to like this, but I think she might stay.”
Although his heart had lurched at the words, Flynn kept his face impassive. “That’s okay. I can cope with that. So, what’s she like?”
Margaret raised one eyebrow. “Extremely pretty, in fact I’d go as far as to say quite beautiful. And you can tell she’s Archie’s daughter.”
“Oh?”
“Mm. That thick, golden-red hair and those green eyes, very much like his would have been before age faded everything.” Margaret pondered. “I wanted to step closer, see if there were olive hints in her eyes, such an unusual shade of—”
“Ma!”
“Sorry, hon. Personality you mean? Well, I’d say amenable would describe her. Yes, most definitely amenable, but with an inner strength. The type who makes friends wherever she goes and keeps them, but who won’t,” she added, “take any nonsense from anyone.” Margaret frowned. “I fear I may have given off a few bad vibes earlier. I hope I didn’t upset her.”
Flynn rubbed his jaw. “That’s easily remedied. I might just drop by on my way home, you know, introduce myself.”
“Do you think that’s wise, dear?”
The shop bell tinkled and a family walked in.
“Catch you later, Ma. And hey,” he added, leaning over to kiss her cheek, “don’t look so worried. I’m not going to eat her!”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “It’s not her I’m worried about!”
»»•««
Freya emptied her car, dumping her suitcase, the coffee machine she couldn’t live without that had travelled with her, and her laptop. Leaving them on the porch, she went inside to inspect the house.
In the wood-floored wide hallway, her heels sounded loud. She slipped her shoes off.
On either side of her were four closed doors, and centrally situated at the end of the hallway, a grand staircase. What struck her as odd was the fact there was not one piece of furniture, or a single picture, anywhere to be seen in the large space.
A Spartan life!
The two doors on her right opened into rooms devoid of any furniture, but they were well-proportioned and attractive, each having ornate stone fireplaces, elegant cornices, and tall windows. She left both doors open. The rooms smelled musty, but other than being in dire need of a paintbrush, Freya thought they were in good condition.
The first room on her left contained a sagging old sofa and chairs, side tables, and a faded oriental rug in front of a white marble fireplace.
“Nice!” Freya murmured, imagining it cleaned up. The second door housed the kitchen, which, though stuck in a 1950s time warp with a huge enamel sink and old wooden cabinetry, she liked. In the center sat a large scruffy pine table surrounded by mismatched chairs. While it was definitely not in the same league as Sammy’s designer piece, she nevertheless found it charming. Sitting on top was a brown paper bag holding a crusty fresh loaf and beside it a note that read, Provisions in fridge.
“Oh, Margaret!”
Serious rust had attacked the hinges and the handle of the old refrigerator, and Freya opened the door gingerly. The light flickered but stayed on, and she saw Margaret had indeed left provisions—milk, cheese, a dish of homemade lasagna, and a bottle of Chardonnay.
She closed the door, walked to the shuttered window, and pulled them open to peer out onto the large, badly overgrown garden down to an orchard. She could see rotting fruit lying beneath the trees, and her heart sank a little. Had she bitten off more than she could chew, she wondered. Besides work on the house she was definitely going to need a gardener. As she’d walked around, her accountant’s mind had already begun adding up what she’d need to spend just to get the place in order. She quickly realized the small amount of money left by Archie would not go very far, and her own savings, though not huge by any standards, would have to be called into play.
Do I really want this?
She jumped hearing a male voice shout, “Hello, anybody home?”
Freya frowned. Clearly someone’s home, she thought, if the door’s open and my stuff’s on the porch! She padded into the hallway and stopped dead. Leaning against the door frame as casual as you please was a tall, dark-haired man. With the sun behind him, Freya couldn’t see his face, but on seeing her he straightened up.
“Yes. Can I help you?” Freya walked toward him, squinting as the low sun caught her eyes.
“Just a neighborly call.” A hand was thrust at her. “Flynn O’Neill. You’re Miss Martin?”
“Oh, well …” Freya stood to one side where the light didn’t strike her and felt the most peculiar sensation rush through her body. Piercing, deep blue eyes held hers, and the handsome, craggy face broke into a wide grin showing perfect white teeth. She saw the resemblance straight away. “You’re Margaret’s son,” she managed to gulp.
“Yes.” He waited.
“Please, come in. I…um. I was about to start bringing my things inside. Your mom was very kind leaving provisions for me.”
Goodness, I sound like a complete idiot, Freya thought as she walked to the kitchen, aware of the man behind her, and wishing she’d thought to wear her decent jeans.
“I imagined with flying in you wouldn’t have any provisions,” he said.
“Oh?” Freya turned as he followed her into the kitchen. “It was your idea?”
“Gentleman Flynn O’Neill at your service.”
He gave a slight bow and Freya giggled. “I thought they were as extinct as the Dodo.”
“Not quite, but we’re getting there I believe. You must let me help you carry your gear in, Miss Martin. Looks as though you’ll be here for a while.” He’d started back to the porch and Freya followed, her eyes unable to stay away from his lower half in the tight designer jeans. Her gaze roamed up past his broad shoulders to the thick, black hair just curling onto the collar of a crisp white cotton shirt.
Whoa, girl! She admonished silently.
He’d turned quickly waiting for an answer, and Freya thought she glimpsed a flicker of triumph in those deep blue eyes and was mortified to think he knew she’d been weighing him up.
“Er, yes, until the New Year. Really, there’s no need,” she said as he stooped to pick up her laptop, “it’s all quite lightweight. And please,” she added, “call me Freya.”
“Won’t take me two minutes…Freya,” he said as he passed close to her.
She smelled—lemon? Whatever. It was something sharp and citrusy. She bit on her lip, folding her arms defensively across her chest.
“Why don’t you open that bottle of Chardonnay and we’ll celebrate your arrival?” he called over his shoulder.
Freya’s lips pursed and her eyebrows rose.
Well, he’s certainly not backward at coming forward!
While Flynn carried the boxes in, she searched the cupboards and found two grimy glasses, which she quickly rinsed before opening the wine.
“Anywhere?” he said, holding the box containing her coffee machine.
“Please.” She poured out the wine, half glasses only.
“Cool bit of kit.” Flynn nodded appreciatively as he pulled the machine out of its box.
Freya smiled and handed him a glass. “Cost me an arm and a leg, but it was well worth it.”
Flynn raised his glass and touched hers, his gaze fixated on her eyes. “To your arrival in California, and us…new neighbors.”
“Cheers.” Freya held his gaze steadily and raised the glass to her lips.
“Cheers.” Flynn took a
sip, held the glass up, and studied its contents. “Nice. A hint of something in there, not quite sure what.”
“Pear maybe? Definitely something fruity,” Freya said, thinking how safely ridiculous the conversation was and how unnerved the man made her feel.
“Mm. Pear? Yes. Well, you could be right.” Flynn finished his and placed the glass on the counter top. He smiled. “Cool. Thanks for that. Must get back to the office. My brother Mike and I work together and I daren’t swing the lead as they say.”
“Swing the lead?”
“An Irish saying. Comes from my granddad, he uses it all the time. It means I daren’t shirk.”
“Oh. Never heard that before. And what sort of business are you and your brother in?”
Flynn smoothed back a lock of hair slowly. “Golf courses. I design, Mike installs, so to speak.”
Freya, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly, wondered if she was going to fall in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of him. “Huh? Golf courses?” She put a hand to her throat, staring at him.
The verbal agreement! This then is the investor who wants to buy my land.
Flynn frowned and then smiled. “It’s not that bad a career! Quite respectable in fact.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean…” It came out as a hoarse whisper. “What I meant to say was that now I know you’re the man who designs golf courses, I understand your connection—your whatever—with Archie. Not,” she hurried on, “that it’s something I’ve given a great deal of thought to yet. Everything has been a bit full on just lately with the move.”
“I can imagine.” He carried on studying her with that unnerving gaze. “Perhaps we can at some point get around to discussing the matter…when you’re settled in of course. And you’re an accountant, I believe, Freya?”
“Retired.” She coughed lightly. “Sorry, semi-retired. I’ve given it up for the time being. I’m looking forward to the break.”
They’d walked into the hall, wide enough for them to be side by side, and were almost at the door when Flynn turned to look at her.
“Big house,” he said. “Especially for someone on their own.” He stroked his chin. “It’ll need a lot of work to bring it up to scratch. There was some concern regarding the wiring and plumbing once I believe. Archie never did get around to fixing either of them.”
A spurt of anger replaced the shock of discovering who he was. So that was the reason for the kind deed, the Let’s-Be-Good-Neighbors rubbish. Did he imagine a few words from him would send her running back to Philly with her tail between her legs at the thought of a bit of work?
“I’ll manage,” she said tersely. “Any work that is needed, will be done.”
Flynn shrugged and stepped out onto the porch. Freya saw the sporty silver Jaguar, roof down, the leaping cat on the hood, matching exactly what she thought of her new neighbor—predator.
About to amble to the vehicle, Flynn stopped and caught her by surprise with his question. “Perhaps you’d like to come to the family barbeque on Saturday and meet everyone? Gramps will be there. He knew your father real well. I’m up there.” He pointed to the long white house nestled into the side of the hill. “Easy to find, just carry on down the main road outside Byron gates until you come to the end. There’s a private driveway. Will you?”
“What?”
“Come.”
About to refuse, Freya had second thoughts. She would love to meet his grandfather, and, she reminded herself, no one could make her sell anything, nor chase her away! “Yes, I will, thanks, I’d enjoy meeting your granddad.”
“See you Saturday then. About three?”
Freya nodded. “Should I bring anything with me?”
Heat rushed to her face as Flynn’s gaze flicked briefly over her.
“No,” he said. “Just yourself. That’ll be more than enough.”
“Okay.” Freya didn’t watch him drive away. She stepped back into the hallway, closed the door, and leaned her head on it. “Good heavens,” she said. “What on earth made me say yes?”
But she had, and now she had two days to get her head together before another meeting with the remarkable, charismatic man, Flynn O’Neill.
Over the years Freya had worked with many single, handsome men at the offices in Philadelphia. Good-looking guys were ten a dime in that metropolis, yet she’d never met anyone quite so devastatingly handsome. But beside looks, Flynn had what she could only describe as magnetic appeal, an aura about him which she felt certain attracted women by the droves—yet, she must stay on her guard. His only interest in her, which wasn’t hard to fathom, lay in what she owned, something she was not ready to relinquish at this moment in time—if at all.
Back in the kitchen she opened her laptop to contact Suze and Lucy. Freya smiled thinking of her two dear friends—Suze, the original earth mother living out in the Pennsylvania countryside with her adored husband and brood of four young children, and Lucy, a physiotherapist, at the moment madly infatuated with a doctor at the hospital. The likeness of her situation to that of her mother and Archie all those years ago seemed painfully similar to Freya.
She sighed as she thought about it. The Doc, Lucy’s name for him, had recently been acting strangely, as though cooling off, Lucy had said anxiously, and Freya worried about her. Was he, she wondered, like Archie…married? Hopefully not, but it made her realize how much she would miss her monthly meetings in Philly with both Suze and Lucy. They’d been friends since high school and had always stayed close enough to share their innermost secrets with each other.
She tried Suzy first and enjoyed a pleasant hour chatting, laughing at the story of Suzy’s youngest who had befriended a wild rat beneath the porch of the farmhouse. In turn, Suzy was very interested indeed in Freya’s meeting with Flynn.
Suzy walked slowly to the stairs. Flynn had left her suitcase on the bottom one. Picking it up, she made her way up the beautiful oak staircase. After studying the original Art Deco style green-and-white-tiled bathroom with pleasure, she took a cursory look at the bedrooms, one of which had clearly been Archie’s, still with a tartan rug thrown over the bedding, and a lump came to her throat at the sight. He had been sleeping in that bed until only two months ago. She found the thought of eventually having to strip it upsetting.
Four other bedrooms were completely empty.
The sixth bedroom at the front of the house held a large bed, bedside table and lamp, and a rug on the wide-planked floor, which she decided to make hers. The walls were unadorned, but on top of the mahogany dressing table sat a cut glass trinket tray with a lovely set of glass bowls on it. Freya picked one up, lifted the lid, and smiled to see the remains of face powder in it. So this was where Pamela, Archie’s wife, used to sleep. Still holding the bowl, Freya walked to the window. The view down the unkempt lawn and weed-filled driveway to the gates, although lovely, would take a lot of hard work, and money, to bring it back to its former glory, and for a moment she considered giving up the idea of living in a place which obviously needed so much work. But it quickly passed.
She deliberately kept her eyes away from the house on the hill to her left side, replaced the powder bowl on its tray, and went downstairs.
With no household goods with her besides the coffee machine, Freya had envisaged spending her first night in Morvenna in a motel, but not having seen one, and with the provisions provided by Flynn, she went looking for bed linens. On the landing in a large well-stocked linen cupboard she found everything she needed—thick cotton sheets and pillowcases and tartan blankets. It pleased her that she would be able to spend her first night in California in her new home.
That idea—her new home—caught her unawares, surprising her.
Oh, she’d loved her Philly apartment with its clean, modern lines and minimalistic furnishings, but Byron House just had a feel to it. Not entirely surprising, she mused, since my father lived here! Even with hardly any furniture it had warmth and atmosphere, a place she could imagine filled with laughter and love. A fam
ily home.
Freya shook her head. On the other hand, it could have been a home of loneliness without children to breathe life and happiness into it. She collected the bedding and towels and returned to the room. The linens, good quality, smelled faintly of lavender and mothball. She made up the bed, smoothed two soft woolen blankets on top, collected a towel, and went to the bathroom looking forward to a long, hot shower.
But standing in the bath beneath the cold, barely dripping brown water, Flynn’s words about the plumbing came to mind. Tentatively she turned the tap farther around, and with a loud noise, more cold water gushed out.
“Ooh!”
She washed quickly, making a mental note to call a plumber first thing in the morning. Donning her nightwear, she went downstairs and ate the cheese, bread, and pate, washing it down with what was left of the wine. Wandering into the lounge she switched on the TV. A blank crackling screen greeted her and she switched it off, adding it to her mental ‘need’ list. By nine o’clock Freya was ready for bed, when the telephone rang.
“Hello.”
“Freya, honey? It’s me.”
“Lucy! Great to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m okay. So, girlie. How goes it?”
“It’s going well, Lucy. I called you earlier but you were engaged, then I was busy, and well, you know how it is. I left you a text message but knew darn well you wouldn’t read yours.”
“Hey, doll, you know how I hate them. I only use them when I really have to. Now, um, let’s get to the chase. Suze called, mentioned a guy?” Lucy made a purring sound. “She said he’s blue-eyed and very Gaelic-looking, your words I believe. He sounds de-lish!”
Freya laughed. “True. He’s called Flynn O’Neill.” She twirled a lock of hair around. “And yes, he is delicious. He’s tall, well built, and devilishly handsome with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen…” Freya stopped and sighed. “Oh, Lucy, honestly, he is drop dead gorgeous!”
“Enough, enough!” Lucy said. “A gal can only take so much! Just tell me, did he, you know, show any signs of interest in you?”
“Mm. Sort of, I suppose. Remember I told you about the speculator?”
The Way Love Goes Page 3