“Yes. Take your time, Owen.” Margo’s cat-who-ate-the-canary smile scared the hell out of him. “I don’t mind keeping Willow company.”
“No need. I’m set to go.” He stepped to Willow and guided her by the elbow to the door, opened it, and motioned with his hand. “After you.”
Willow stepped out into the hallway.
Before he could scoot out, Margo called his name. He glanced over to find her staring at him with that same scary grin. “What?”
“She’s very pretty. Like you hadn’t noticed.”
Heat blasted his cheeks. “You know where to find me if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll be back late afternoon. Cheers.”
He left fast as he could, before Margo said something else to make him feel like a schoolboy with a crush. Which he wasn’t.
* * * *
Owen tooted at a driver that drifted into his lane and glanced over to Willow. “We’re not far from Stonehenge.”
“Great. I can’t wait.”
Owen’s earlier preamble about the day’s activities sounded as intriguing as a travelogue. After Stonehenge, they’d also visit Avebury, Castle Combe, and Lacock National Trust. Not that she knew what those were, but as she looked out the window at the shamrock-green fields, excitement for today’s adventure brewed inside her.
They approached a traffic circle and she grabbed the armrest.
“No sounds while we drive the roundabout this time.” He stared straight ahead, but grinned. Last circle, she’d yelped loudly when she thought a car in the opposite lane was about to hit them head-on. Owen had swerved, almost causing an accident. “Pay attention and you’ll see it’s not that difficult to drive on the left.”
“Says you.” She crossed her arms.
He shook his head and maneuvered the traffic circle like a pro, blending with the large volume of cars merging into it and effortlessly taking their exit. “See?” He glanced at her and winked.
“I find Manhattan traffic less intimidating.”
He chuckled, always so at ease. His relaxed attitude reminded her of the English countryside. Untroubled. Peaceful. Easy to be around.
They flew past a sign for Stonehenge. “Exactly how old is this rock formation?”
“It was built in several stages, the first five thousand years ago. The stone circle, what most people think when they hear Stonehenge, was from the late Neolithic period about 2500 BC.”
“Amazing when you think about it. I read that the Celts built it?”
“At first it was thought Druids or Celts, but carbon dating showed the stones were a thousand years too old to have been built by them.”
He turned into the welcome center lot and they parked. After purchasing their tickets, Owen suggested they walk to the site and bypass a small shuttle bus. Along the way, he talked about burials found on this site and other things of interest.
Willow listened, but her gaze focused on the magical formation. Built in the middle of nowhere, the extraordinary stones jutted from the earth. Robust. Tall. Fearless. Their presence softened by a blanket of endless green grass, where sheep grazed and wildflowers danced with each gentle breeze. Emotion swelled in her throat. The majestic site, in a matter of seconds, held her captive with its magic.
They reached a footpath leading around the ancient formation. Willow couldn’t tear her eyes away from the circle, dumbly awestruck as if she’d just spotted a celebrity. Closer, the sheer size could humble even the most vocal critic. She slowed down, taking in details. How could any ancient civilization have moved stones this size, mounted them in the ground? Could the magic of the stones fix her floundering life?
Owen placed a hand on her back, guiding to the path’s side and stopping. “Pretty awesome, huh?”
“I’m searching for words and can’t seem to find them.” Awareness of the heat of his hand briefly stole her attention. She turned to him, noting his concentration as he looked straight ahead. “Do you still find it amazing? I mean, you’ve probably seen it so many times.”
He shrugged, then turned and met her gaze. “I used to. This part of England is rich with history and scenery you’ll find nowhere else in the world, but I got tired of it. Guess I’ve got a little wanderlust in me. It’s why I worked for bigger tour companies over the past twenty years.”
“Where have you gone?”
“Most of Europe. Russia. Japan.” He dropped his gaze to the ground and a flash of sadness pained his expression. “I came back here to be with Jilly, and I’m happy to do it, but there are days I miss the adventure of exploring new places. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.” He nodded and started to walk again so she followed. “But she means everything to me so…”
A father’s love for his daughter. Jilly was one lucky girl. Willow rode a brief wave of resentment over her mother’s choice to keep Willow’s father from her.
They moved around the stones, both quiet, immersed in their own thoughts.
“If you think it’s crowded today, during both the winter and summer solstice, tens of thousands of visitors flock here. It’s quite amazing.” He pointed straight ahead. “Lots of groups come here for spiritual reasons. I’m guessing that’s what those people are doing.”
They neared the group of maybe twenty-five people or so, all sitting in lawn chairs arranged in a semicircle and holding hands. A man wearing a tie-dyed shirt stood in front of the others. Upon a closer look, every person seated wore the same patterned shirt and they all appeared to be in their sixties or older.
The man in front let out a shrill whistle, immediately quieting the others.
“Want to watch?”
She nodded, suddenly aware Owen stood shoulder to shoulder with her.
At that moment, the ringleader raised his arms like a conductor. “Okay, everyone. Are we ready?”
A man in the first row with thinning white hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a full white beard raised his hand. “What song is it again, Bob?”
Bob lowered his arms. “Bernie, it’s ‘Amazing Grace.’ Remember when Arlo Guthrie sang it at Woodstock? You were supposed to practice before we got—”
The man named Bernie laughed and the others joined him.
Bob shook his head and remained straight-faced. “Okay. Ha-ha. You got me. Now let’s sing!”
The group launched into an a cappella version of the well-known song. People passing by stopped and listened.
Willow got lost in uplifting lyrics, more poignant in this magical setting. Being lost, then found. Her eyes watered. In a way, her entire life she’d been lost. Empty. Wandering. In search of something to define who she was, where she belonged. Who was the real Willow? The teenage girl who ate away sadness she could never quite explain? Or a weight-obsessed woman, who could achieve any mission she set out to accomplish? In either case, this trip seemed to have brought her home.
A lump lodged in her throat as she scanned the gently rolling fields, the sheep, the powerful stones. Home? This could be where she should’ve been raised. A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away and blinked her eyes dry.
Owen chuckled, breaking the spell that had been cast over her. “Well, would you look at that?” He pointed just past the singing seniors. “It’s one of my mates from my former tour company. Mind if we go say hello?”
“Not at all.” Talking to someone new gave her a reason to think about anything besides her vacant lot in life.
Together they walked to a grassy area not far from the singers, approaching a younger man with sandy-brown hair and a beard. He watched the performance with a smile on his face.
“Blimey, if they’ll let you in the country, they’ll let in anybody,” Owen said loudly.
The man glanced at Owen, then his eyes widened and he smiled. “Hey, dude. I’ve been thinking of looking you up, but I’ve been busy with this tour.”
The two men shook ha
nds and Owen introduced Willow to Julian Gregory, a tour guide he knew from his last job, who sounded American.
They chatted about their old tour days, Julian mentioning he’d be moving to the US, where he planned to write a travel series for his fiancée’s employer, a publisher in upstate New York. “I met her on one of my Tuscany tours last year. I’m pretty sure I met up with you in Siena that trip.”
“And you didn’t share that with us? Holding out on your friends?”
He laughed. “Never. I was with these guys.” He thumbed to the travelers wearing tie-dyed shirts. “They go by the name of the Woodstock Wanderers. Thanks to them, I let someone under forty on their tour and found the love of my life.”
Owen congratulated him, patted him on the back, even said he might visit him in the States someday. Willow listened, but her mind drifted. Had her grandparents and mother visited Stonehenge? Or any of the other places she’d be seeing today? This trip unearthed as many questions as it had answered.
They said their goodbyes and continued down the path.
Owen pointed to an area without any other tourists. “Want to go sit for a minute? Sometimes quietly enjoying a place becomes its own little journey.”
“Sure.” She loved how he expressed himself. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
“Well, that’s because I’m giving you the deluxe tour.” He winked. Taking her elbow, he guided her to a spot and they lowered themselves on the soft grass.
Owen stretched his long legs out in front of him and leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stones as if he’d never seen them before. “This really is a fascinating place. Some think it might have been a burial place, others a celestial observatory of some kind.”
“Both could make sense.”
“Then again, it could’ve all been done as a Neolithic team-building exercise.” He grinned. “You know, like they might do on The Office.”
She laughed. “Maybe I’ll try this at my office.”
“If you do, please send photos.”
They sat quietly for a long moment. Then Owen said in a softer voice, “But others think it might be a place for healing. Beyond physical repair, but the healing we sometime need inside of us.”
She turned to him and found his dark eyes searching her face. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But now, I’d forgotten how when I come here, something about this place makes me reflect on myself. My life. My choices.” He frowned. “That can be its own form of healing.”
She nodded, curious to know more about his life and choices. “I think you’re right.”
They both stared out to the stones, silent again. Did Owen search for a piece of himself lost somewhere along the way, just like her?
* * * *
“Ready for the next stop?” Owen reached across the aged-wood table in the George Inn for their check.
Willow grabbed it before he could. “It’s my treat. Lunch is the least I can do to repay you. I mean, this personalized tour, complete with your charming accent, is worth lunch at a minimum.”
“Am I charming you, Willow?” He cast a sly smile and wiggled his brows, making her cheeks get hot. He stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Yes. He’d charmed her all day. The deep timbre of his tone and the delightful conversation between them left her wanting to know more about the real Owen Hughes. Several times at lunch, while they’d talked about her company and life in New York, she’d touched his hand. Or had he touched hers? Were they flirting?
He strolled toward the men’s room. Confident. Nodding at the bartender. Smiling at a waitress who he’d stepped aside to let pass through.
Before lunch, they’d gone to another stone formation at Avebury, and then he’d shown her around the Lacock National Trust, a village dating back to the thirteenth century. She’d loved the quaint streets lined with lime-washed, half-timbered and stone houses that made her feel like she’d stepped out of a scene from Harry Potter or a period film, like an Austen novel. Then she’d learned both were filmed in the richly preserved historical town.
Owen had proved quite knowledgeable speaking about the medieval cloisters, the Abbey, and a handsome 1sixteenth-century stable courtyard that had half-timbered gables.
As he came back to their table, their gazes met. This time, he seemed blind to the activity around him and only focused on her, or was it her imagination?
She stood before he got to the table. “Where to now?”
“A place called Castle Combe. About fifteen minutes away.”
They headed to the van and got back on the road. Willow checked her email from her phone, catching another from the Pound Busters’ board that she didn’t open, afraid it would ruin this beautiful day.
They pulled into a parking lot and headed on foot down a hill toward the town. A few other visitors mingled around them.
Soon they came upon a quaint cottage with a roof thatched just like the one on her property. “Would you look at that? Another house needing a roof update.”
He laughed hard and something about it made her happy.
As his smile faded, he motioned straight ahead. “Here we are.”
The road narrowed at the start of the town. Rows of cozy homes lined both sides of the winding street, many with aged-stone facades and roofs made from split natural stone tiles. Other houses had exteriors of washed limestone and timber, with stone foundations. Rich green vines crept to second-story windows and baskets filled with red and purple flowers hung from doorways. The occasional car would drive by, but it didn’t steal the seductiveness of yesteryear found in this picturesque setting.
Owen stood behind her. His voice landed close to her ear. “What do you think?”
“It’s…enchanting.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture so natural she sank into it. Together they silently admired the village.
She glanced up at Owen. Again, his face carried awe, despite the lip service he paid to not being so enamored with the tourist attractions of the region.
He looked down at her, his handsome face close, his hand relaxed. “They call this the prettiest village in England.”
“I can see why.” Her heart beat faster, his proximity now and throughout the day putting all kinds of intimate thoughts in her head. She cleared her throat, hoping it would clear her head, but it didn’t. “Based on your vast travels, what do you think?”
His smile faded and hand slipped from her shoulder. “Yes, it has an allure all its own.” He motioned with his hand. “Shall we see the rest?”
“I can’t wait.”
They walked and made small talk. In the back of her mind, though, the side of her that loved to calculate business risk reeled with excitement. Castle Combe, Stonehenge, and Bath were the types of things that would make her house quite marketable to an investor.
Her elation vanished, quickly replaced by a sense of loss at having found this wonderful place, only to have to leave it so soon. If she weren’t driven by the desperate need for money…
But she was, and even if she left and never came back, she’d never forget this day. She’d never forget Owen, either.
Chapter 12
Willow yawned as she hoisted the heavy trash bag off the kitchen floor and lugged it outside, thinking about what the electrician who’d just left had said. This wiring is decades old. Electric wiring isn’t something you want to take for granted.
No, she shouldn’t. No matter what the price or the fact she had to wait for his supervisor to slot her in, this had to be done.
She yawned again. Yesterday’s sightseeing had left her exhausted. Sleeping in might have been smart, instead of getting here early to start cleaning a room filled with junk on the second floor.
She tossed the bag inside a can and glanced up at the gray sky. The first dull day since she’d arrived. A car
door slammed.
Going back through the house, she went out to the porch. Lettering on the side of a white flatbed truck read Master Thatcher and a phone number. Next to it stood a man she could’ve easily picked out of a crowd as Owen’s father. Same tall frame, same strong chin, same friendly eyes. Add a few age lines to Owen’s face and speckles of gray to his dark hair and you’d have a match.
She waved. “Hello. Are you Mr. Hughes? I’m Willow Arsmstrong, the owner.”
A slow grin spread across his face, the resemblance to Owen’s warm smile uncanny. “What’s this ‘Mr. Hughes’?” He stuck his keys in the pocket of his baggy tan pants and approached her while smoothing out his well-worn navy T-shirt.
He extended his hand. “Please. Call me Frank.”
Despite the hard callus of his skin, his handshake was gentle.
“I just stopped by the cottage and took a look at that roof.”
“Would you like to come inside and talk? Join me for a cup of coffee?”
“A cup of coffee sounds wonderful.”
She ushered him inside and they went into the kitchen, where she’d set up a card table and chairs found in a closet upstairs.
While she poured two cups from the thermos Edna had brewed her this morning and handed one to Frank, he filled her in on the state of the thatched roof on the cottage.
“In short,” he said, after a very long-winded analysis of the condition, “You do need a few repairs.”
She sat across from him at the table. “Any idea how much it’ll cost to fix?”
He withdrew a pad and short pencil from his pocket of his pants, scribbled for a minute, then pushed the pad her way. “Somewhere in this range.”
Her stomach went queasy. Another large expense.
“If the roof had been maintained over the years, it wouldn’t be so bad. Owen should’ve talked to me about the roof when he moved in.” Tense lines pulled at the corners of Frank’s mouth and he shook his head. “Too busy starting up his new travel business when he knows well enough about roofing matters. He could’ve earned a nice living in this line of work, but he’s got more pride than common sense.”
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