Justin tucked a hand into hers. “The Bennetts don’t do boring. Common sense is different. Charlotte’s in good hands in Knights Bridge.”
“Your little town works magic on people.”
“Our little town,” he amended, pulling her close. “Right now, what do you say we dip into a pub for lunch and then head on to our next hotel?”
Eleven
Knights Bridge, Massachusetts
Greg was sure he’d never be able to describe how different Dylan and Olivia McCaffrey’s Farm at Carriage Hill was from the world he knew. The cream-colored 1803 antique house was located a few miles from Knights Bridge village, on a country road that dead-ended at a gate to the Quabbin Reservoir and its protected watershed. There were old stone walls, herb and flower gardens, fields, shade trees, and a sign, hand-painted by Olivia, with the inn’s logo of blossoming chives.
He glanced at Charlotte as they approached the blue-painted door to a “newer” addition. She looked out of her element, too. “Nothing like your life in Edinburgh?” he asked her.
“Nothing.”
Olivia opened the door and welcomed them. Dark haired and green eyed, she was visibly pregnant. She still had a few months to go before her due date. He’d met her only briefly that winter but knew her story. Charlotte did, too. A Knights Bridge native, Olivia had bought her old house with the idea of hosting showers, weddings, girlfriend weekends and such, not opening it to the public on a day-to-day basis as a traditional inn. The only problem had been the wreck of a house and its eyesore yard up the road. She’d contacted the owner in San Diego, one Dylan McCaffrey, former professional hockey player turned multimillionaire businessman in a high-tech entertainment firm launched by his best friend from kindergarten, Noah Kendrick.
In the course of figuring out how he’d come to own a run-down property in a rural town west of Boston, Dylan had discovered unknown-to-him roots in the form of a grandmother, never-married Grace Webster, now in her nineties, who’d fallen in love with an RAF pilot decades ago. Duncan McCaffrey, Dylan’s father, was their son. He’d arrived in Knights Bridge in search of his birth mother and purchased her dilapidated property on Carriage Hill Road, but he’d died before he could explain to his own son about his adoption as an infant and the unusual circumstances of his birth.
Down the road, Olivia had just wanted the mattress springs out of retired teacher Grace Webster’s former yard. Now Olivia and Dylan were married, expecting their first child.
Olivia, Charlotte and Greg entered a large, homey kitchen. Dylan came in from a mudroom, where a large dog was lapping up a bowl of water. Worth millions, Dylan was clad in jeans and a polo shirt and was just back, he said, from chasing Buster out of the chives. “Buster and I have a gentleman’s agreement that he doesn’t dig in the gardens and I don’t get between him and Olivia,” Dylan said amiably. “Buster came with this place. I had to earn my spot. Glad you two could come. Make yourselves at home.”
Greg could tell the McCaffreys weren’t quite sure what to make of him and Charlotte. “We’re not a couple,” he said. He was a straight-talking guy. Might as well get that one out of the way.
“Oh,” Olivia said, clearly surprised at his comment. “Of course.”
“Greg and I got thrown together at Red Clover Inn by accident,” Charlotte added, marginally less blunt than he’d been. “We only met this weekend. We were both at Samantha and Justin’s wedding in England.”
Her comment verged on overexplaining and drawing attention to what was supposed to be a nonissue, but Dylan seized the moment for the grand tour. Olivia stayed behind in the kitchen. Something to do with essential oils. Greg had noted little bottles lined up on a butcher-block island. He’d heard of essential oils. Best he could do.
Dylan started by pointing to the mudroom, where Buster was now flopped on the floor, and explaining that the back door opened to a stone terrace and herb gardens. “We’ll have lunch out there. By New England standards, it’s warm enough to eat outside.”
Charlotte loved the idea. Greg didn’t argue. Dylan had spent a lot of time on skating rinks but he’d grown up and lived in Southern California. He and Olivia had a house on Coronado Island. As they started their tour, Greg realized he remembered a lot more about his buddy Brody’s hometown than he’d imagined.
Dylan took them through the original 1803 part of the house. The main rooms each had a fireplace on the center chimney but they used only the ones in the dining room and living room. Olivia’s cozy office was cluttered with paint chips, swatches, all kinds of paper, markers, scissors. A graphic designer, she now spent her time transforming her destination inn to her taste.
“Olivia and her friend Maggie are also launching a goat’s-milk venture. Soaps, bath products, that sort of thing.”
Hence, Greg assumed, the essential oils.
“I met Maggie at the wedding,” Charlotte said. “She’s married to Justin’s younger brother Brandon, isn’t she? They have two boys, if I’m not mistaken. They’re in London with Brandon’s sister, Heather, and Greg’s friend Brody.”
“You got it,” Dylan said, grinning at her. “I’m impressed. Last I heard they were visiting the Churchill War Rooms.”
“I’ve been,” Greg said. “Hell of a place. It’ll make an impression on the boys.”
Charlotte angled a look at him, as if she hadn’t expected that one.
Greg made no comment. He was interested in seeing how she operated among Samantha’s new friends. She showed no sign of jealousy, concern or disinterest, and he got no clues—zip, none—on what she was hiding or what she was up to with Evelyn Sloan. His curiosity was a mystery to him, but coffee, porridge and a stint in the hammock hadn’t helped curb it. She’d come downstairs before he had and had done most of the work getting the porridge going, but he’d chopped nuts and dried fruit they’d picked up at the country store. A little honey and cream, and they’d been good to go.
Dylan took them upstairs to a handful of guest rooms, decorated in Olivia’s distinctive style, with Carriage Hill goat’s-milk products in the bathrooms. Each room had a beautiful view, whether of the woods across the road, the flower gardens in the side yard or the backyard herb gardens with wildflower-dotted fields leading to a hill, green against the blue June sky.
“Carriage Hill?” Greg asked, pointing out a back window.
Dylan nodded. “There’s a trail to the summit if you’re into hiking. It has great views of the reservoir. My grandmother’s hometown is underwater now. She remembers sledding down hills that are now islands.”
“Fascinating history,” Charlotte said, eyeing the decorated pillows on a queen-size bed. “Olivia has quite an eye. Did she make the pillows herself?”
“Most of them. She used old linens. She collects them.”
“How fun.”
Greg had a mad urge to text Brody that he was talking about antique linens, but he resisted. If his friend had spent the day touring a World War II museum with his wife’s family, Greg supposed Brody had his hands full, too.
Also he was sort of interested in the old house and the McCaffreys’ plans and multiple interests and talents.
Plus he didn’t want to be a jerk. Now that he was resting up, he didn’t look back on some points of his behavior the past few days with great pride—although it’d been fun crawling under Charlotte Bennett’s skin.
They went back downstairs to the kitchen. Dylan explained that he and Olivia had finally moved into the house they’d built up the road, on the property once owned by his father’s birth mother. Duncan had bought her run-down house a few months after she’d moved into a local assisted-living facility. For decades, no one in the small town had known Grace Webster had borne a child. Philip Rankin, the RAF pilot she’d fallen in love with, had returned to England and planned to come back for her, but he’d died a hero early in World War II. His
great-granddaughter, Alexandra, had designed Samantha’s wedding gown and was engaged to Ian Mabry, the Brit who hadn’t thrown Greg out of his pub.
“Grace was all for us tearing down her old place and building a new house,” Dylan said.
“You added a barn, too, as I recall,” Greg said. “But it won’t be used for cows and horses. It’ll serve as the base for your adventure travel business and entrepreneurial boot camp.”
Dylan grinned. “And here everyone thought you were bored when you visited town.”
“I was bored. That’s why I remember there was a barn.”
Charlotte gave a slight roll of the eyes. Greg wasn’t sure if she appreciated his humor, but Dylan and Olivia both laughed. “It can get hard to keep up with the changes here,” Olivia said. “My brother-in-law—my sister’s husband—is the architect who designed the house and barn. We love how they came out. Mark saw to it they blend in with the landscape.”
“He’s designed an addition here.” Dylan opened the refrigerator, pulled out a tray of cut vegetables and set it on the butcher-block island. “We’re about to start work on it.”
“We’re adding a suite that a live-in innkeeper or guests can use,” Olivia said. “We decided we might as well keep digging and hammering while we were at it. It’ll be good to get everything the way we want it, at least for now.”
“You two seem to have a lot of irons in the fire,” Charlotte said.
“We love it,” Olivia said. “Brandon Sloan will be leading a group on a hike in the White Mountains after he gets back from England, the first of Dylan’s adventure travel jaunts. Dylan will stay here. Brandon works for his family’s construction business—this will be a side venture for him.”
“Adventure travel was one of my father’s dreams,” Dylan said. “Soup and sandwiches okay for lunch?”
“Perfect,” Charlotte said. “Thank you.”
She and Greg both offered to help, but Dylan and Olivia had things under control and were comfortable moving about the country kitchen. “Maggie would have whipped up something wonderful and joined us if she were here,” Olivia said. “I’m glad she’s getting this break in England. She and Brandon love to travel, and their boys have a touch of wanderlust, too. Dylan and I can manage soup and sandwiches.”
Greg browsed the small, opaque bottles of essential oils corralled on the kitchen island. “Anything for cantankerousness?” he asked.
Olivia laughed. “We have several oils that are recommended for evening out moods.”
He grinned at her. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it. I have a cantankerous uncle whose moods could use some evening out.”
“What about anxiety?” Charlotte asked, lifting one of the small bottles.
“Ah, that’s my specialty,” Olivia said. “There are several options. If you want to try any of the oils for yourselves, please feel free to take whatever you’d like.”
Charlotte set the bottle back down. “I’m adjusting to the five-hour time difference between here and Scotland. A good night’s sleep would probably help as much as anything.”
“That’s lavender oil you just had in your hand. It’s a solid option. It can help with sleep as well as anxiety and cantankerousness. Take a bottle. It’s a tester. You can let me know how you like it. You can’t go wrong, unless you’re allergic or something.”
“Go ahead, Charlotte,” Greg said. “I’ll sprinkle some on my pillow, too. It won’t turn me purple, will it?”
“No, it won’t,” Olivia said with a laugh. “Brody warned us you could be obnoxious, Agent Rawlings.”
Greg winked at her. “It’s an art form.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
Charlotte didn’t laugh, just tucked a bottle of the lavender oil into her tote bag. They headed out to the terrace for lunch. The big dog was sprawled in the sun and barely stirred at having strangers show up on his territory.
“Meet Buster,” Dylan said.
“He adopted us last spring,” Olivia added.
Her husband shook his head. “He adopted Olivia. He learned to put up with me.”
Yep, Greg thought. Life on Carriage Hill Road was totally different from what he knew. Charlotte, too, probably. And Dylan, although he seemed to have acclimated.
Over lunch, the conversation naturally shifted to Charlotte’s life in Scotland and her work as a marine archaeologist. Never good at small talk, Greg observed her with the McCaffreys. She was interesting and obviously dedicated to her work but she was also, without a doubt, trying to hide how uptight she was. He was convinced now that his initial assessment that she was concealing something was on target. He had a feeling Dylan, who, according to Heather, was skilled at reading people, was also onto Charlotte. But she wasn’t Dylan’s problem, and he said nothing.
Greg realized she wasn’t his problem, either, but why let that stop him? He wouldn’t go too far. He was just curious. If she told him to go to hell, he’d let it go. His kids were arriving tomorrow. He’d have other things on his mind besides Charlotte’s secrets.
As he watched her smile and thank Dylan and Olivia for lunch, Greg realized it wouldn’t be that easy to get her off his mind. He couldn’t explain it. He’d be smart to accept that she was a momentary distraction while he recovered from his fatigue, coped with nothing much to do in their little town and got his head into his move to Washington. He didn’t need to dive in deep with her. He was starting a new job soon, a promotion that would require his focus, time and energy. This wasn’t the best time to indulge in the pretense that an attractive marine archaeologist who lived in Scotland was the woman of his dreams.
What if she was the woman of his dreams?
Then I really do need to know what she’s hiding, he thought, grinning to himself as he helped clear the table.
Then there was whatever she and Evelyn Sloan were plotting. He hadn’t brought up their elderly neighbor over lunch, and no one else had, either. He recognized he had a tendency to leap to the worst-case scenario, at least as a possibility if not an inevitability, and particularly when he wasn’t on the job. But what did a worst-case scenario look like with Charlotte and their eighty-three-year-old neighbor?
He didn’t want to think about it and headed inside with the dishes he’d collected. Buster followed him into the mudroom. Dylan met the big dog in the kitchen doorway and gave him a look. Buster yawned, unimpressed.
Olivia came in from the terrace. “Buster, you need to stay in the mudroom. I can’t have you underfoot right now with all these essential oils.”
He considered her request, then flopped onto the mudroom floor.
Dylan sighed. “See what I mean? He tolerates me.”
They all laughed, and Greg welcomed the spark in Charlotte’s dark eyes. She’d clearly enjoyed being here, with Olivia and Dylan, getting to know Samantha’s new friends, getting a better feel for her new life. Had she wondered if Justin Sloan was another Tommy Ferguson and her cousin had made a mistake in marrying him—or had she wondered if she’d made a mistake in not marrying Tommy? Greg didn’t think so given what he’d witnessed between the ex-couple in England, but Charlotte could be second-guessing herself for other reasons.
“I’m going to walk back to the village,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful day, and walking always helps me adjust to a new place, never mind a new time zone. Greg, would you mind taking my tote bag back to the inn with you?”
“No problem.”
She handed him her bag and turned to their hosts. “It’s great to meet you finally. Thanks for lunch and the tour. It’s truly a spectacular place.”
After Charlotte left through the kitchen door, Olivia peered out the front window. “Just jet lag?” she asked, glancing back at Greg.
“So far as I know,” he said.
She gave a tight shake of the head but didn’t elaborat
e on her misgivings. “I hope the lavender oil does the trick, but she’s welcome to try alternatives.”
“Samantha didn’t mention any difficulties Charlotte was having?” Greg asked, coming straight to the point.
“Not to us,” Dylan said.
Olivia scooped up several of her essential-oil bottles. “We’ve been so busy with the house, new businesses and a baby on the way, Samantha might have deliberately not said anything. She mentioned she and Charlotte hadn’t seen each other in a while. Staying at Red Clover Inn came up at the last minute, didn’t it?”
“As far as I know. I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll keep an eye on her. Thanks for lunch.”
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do while you’re here,” Olivia said.
“I’ve got two teenagers arriving tomorrow. I might need you to hand them a paintbrush.”
Dylan laughed. “If they get bored, send them over. There’s always plenty to do.”
Greg thanked them again for the tour, lunch and their company and headed out. The afternoon had turned warm enough to suit him. He even rolled down the windows in his car—convenient when he passed Charlotte on the quiet road.
“You still have your phone, don’t you?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“Good. Give me a call if you get lost or tire out and need me to fetch you.”
“I won’t need you to fetch me,” she said, then gave him a forced smile. “But thanks.”
“Anytime.”
He continued up the road. He blamed her annoyance with him on her tension and her secrets rather than his lame humor. He wasn’t used to dealing with people who didn’t give a rat’s ass that he was a federal agent. Usually it got between them on some level. Charlotte didn’t seem to give a damn one way or the other.
It was refreshing, he thought, turning off Carriage Hill Road toward the village.
When he arrived back at Red Clover Inn, he found a metal colander filled with fresh-picked peas on the front steps, with a note.
Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel Page 13