She briefly told them about the firing, spinning it so that it sounded like a mutual parting that would allow her to focus on an exciting new direction. Their interest was unwavering, like she was a celebrity and they were fawning co-anchors on a morning news show. It felt strange to be the subject of their undivided attention, without a cell phone to interrupt at just the right moment and break the tension. With hers essentially a thousand-dollar paperweight in her purse, she had no easy out.
When the conversation veered toward her father’s passing, Elizabeth shut it down with the same practiced responses she always gave: it was a beautiful service, well attended, his colleagues and students will miss him. She almost took the opportunity to ask them why her father had never mentioned them, but the weighty question didn’t feel natural, and she didn’t want to make their interaction any more awkward than it already felt for her. She had twenty-four hours to uncover the truth; there was no need to push.
Elizabeth heard the ancient floorboards creaking as someone headed toward the kitchen. Major stepped out of his bed, stretched into an exaggerated downward dog, and trotted over to where she was sitting. She froze, not sure what he was capable of. Hopefully whoever was coming could call him off before he sank his teeth into her flesh.
“Please don’t bite me. I swear I’m not delicious. I taste like detox tea and kale,” Elizabeth begged the dog, leaning away from him to minimize his potential strike zone.
Major took a step closer, then placed his head on the bench next to her thigh, his mouth inches from what she imagined was a perfect latching-on spot. He looked up at her and made a little noise as Trudy burst into the room.
“Making friends, are you? Just look at that waggy tail, Major loves you already!” She grabbed the teapot and began her morning rituals, and Major finally walked to his mistress for attention. “How did you sleep on that wicked old window seat? Was my throw warm enough? I weave those, dear, and I have dozens strewn about. I’m quite the wool artiste, if I may say so. I’ll show you my studio later, let you pick out a few things. I’ll just put the kettle on and off we go. You need to meet the ladies. What size boots do you wear? Your lovely shoes will be destroyed by the muck. I’m sure I have wellies to fit you, Lord knows Rowan has a closet full for guests. And wait until you see Major at work. He’ll dazzle you with his prowess, I’m sure.” Trudy took a breath and realized that Elizabeth was staring at her from the edge of the bench, overwhelmed by her early-morning energy.
“I don’t think Major wants anything to do with me. He was growling right before you came in.”
“Growling? Oh, that wasn’t a growl! He’s been whingeing, because he wants you to pet him. He’s chatty, I told you that, and if he feels like he’s not getting the attention he deserves, he complains. Just give him some love and he’ll be your best mate for life. Same with the ladies.”
“Who are the ladies?”
“You have to meet them in person, they defy explanation. Come.” She waved her hand to coax Elizabeth off the bench. “We have a lovely dotty print that should fit.”
Trudy disappeared around the corner and returned with a pristine pair of rubber boots printed with cabbage roses and hot pink and red polka dots. Elizabeth hadn’t worn anything so colorful since she was a child. “Let’s be going, the kettle will be ready by the time we get back.”
Elizabeth slipped her cell phone in her back pocket, pulled on the boots, and tried to figure out how she could gracefully demand to leave. She felt like she was being held hostage by a friendly pigeon.
“Don’t worry, Rowan will get you sorted at the Coach right after breakfast.” It was as if she’d read her mind. “Let’s hurry, dear, they’re waiting for us.”
Trudy continued chattering as they walked toward the collection of stone buildings down the driveway, naming the flowers and trees they passed, taking note of the haze on the fields in the distance, and commenting on how the weather would shape up later in the day. The property was expansive, and the different hues of the pastures stretched patchwork-quilt-style up the hill and into the distance. Elizabeth wondered which nature-inspired hashtags would get the most likes.
“You stand here for now, so you can see them in their glory, and then I’ll bring you in to meet them.” Trudy positioned Elizabeth by the edge of a metal fence door and walked into a stone building. Elizabeth heard shuffling and Trudy speaking in comforting tones, and then two brownish-white sheep ambled into the muddy field.
“Elizabeth, meet your cousins, Blossom and Rosie. Blossom is the graceful one who thinks she’s the Kate Middleton of the sheep world.” Trudy leaned over and put her face close to one of them, and the sheep snuffled her hair. She straightened and scratched behind the other sheep’s ear, and it leaned into the petting like a dog. “This is Rosie, who has the soul of a troubadour and the kind eyes of a nursemaid.”
They looked identical. The sheep stood in the field, observing Elizabeth from a distance. She had never seen live sheep and had no clue how to react to them. Should she say Good girls! as if she were talking to a dog she was pretending to like, or coo over them like a human baby? Trudy hadn’t mentioned children, so Elizabeth wondered if the sheep were her replacements.
“Well, look at them! So . . . fuzzy.” Despite making her living finding the perfect thing to say in any circumstance—except when ambushed at a tech conference—she couldn’t summon another word.
“They are indeed fuzzy. Shearing day is almost upon us, and then my ladies will be free of their fleece. Why don’t you come in and meet them? They’re very friendly. I brought ginger biscuits; if you give them a few they’ll follow you for life.”
The sheep were milling around Trudy, nibbling at her pockets.
“Um, that’s okay. I can see them just fine from here.” They looked nothing like the pristine white sheep she’d always seen in photos, and they probably smelled like poop and mud up close. Elizabeth mentally framed images of them from her safe vantage point at the gate, hoping the zoom on her phone would make it look like she was close to them. Even though she was petrified of the massive creatures, she had to fake that she adored them. She added researching sheep hashtags to her to-do list.
Just then Major slipped in through a small gap in the fence and inched toward Trudy and the sheep in an exaggerated, belly-dragging crouch. Trudy spotted him and gave a low whistle, and he collapsed into a down.
“Now then, let’s show Elizabeth what you can do.”
Trudy walked to the far end of the field and opened the gate while Blossom and Rosie picked at the grass where she’d left them. She did a series of impressive whistles, which triggered Major to leap up and dash around the sheep, moving them from left to right and finally through the gate and into the larger field. Despite Major’s dedication to the cause, it looked like the sheep were unimpressed by his passionate wind sprints. They took their time making their way, as if they were on a Sunday stroll, occasionally stopping to watch him as he dashed and stalked. At one point it looked like one of them was about to head-butt Major when he got close.
“That’ll do, Maj.” He trotted back to Trudy with his tongue hanging out. She looked back at Elizabeth and said in a stage whisper, “He believes he’s really helping me, but those girls know exactly what to do every day. They let him think he rules the flock. Sweet of them, really.”
Elizabeth nodded and fished her phone from her pocket, eager to try to connect from the new location while Trudy fussed over her dog. She navigated the useless thing while swatting away the flies that kept landing on her hands, nearly sending it tumbling into the mud.
Rowan ambled up beside her. “Good morning, Bess!”
She looked at him quizzically. No one called her Bess, but she didn’t have the heart to correct him. He seemed so happy to see her.
“Ladies, I have some interesting news,” he said, raising his voice so Trudy could hear him. “Sam over at the Coach rang t
his morning to ask what happened to our American guest, since she never checked in last night. It seems the Clermont wedding had unexpected additions, and one of his employees gave your room to them. And they’re now fully committed.”
“Wait, I don’t have a room for tonight?”
“Well, not at the Coach, but we have plenty of room for you here. Much nicer than that bench in the kitchen, I promise you. Lovely rooms, far too many rooms for two doddering old knockabouts, in fact. How long are you staying? I’ve forgotten what you told me.”
Elizabeth had never intended to stay with them, despite what had happened the prior night. There was no need to put them out by staying longer.
“Oh, I have a car picking me up early tomorrow morning at the inn, and then I’m heading to Bath. I wish I could stay but I have a pretty tight itinerary for the rest of my trip, so I’m hoping that we can work out the details of my father’s property today. Oh, and I have another, uh, issue to take care of before I leave.”
Trudy joined them at the fence. “Is it something we can help you with?”
“Actually, yes.” Elizabeth had been dreading this moment, with the weighty potential of the two of them shedding more tears and asking questions that she couldn’t answer. “My father requested that his ashes be scattered in the River Dorcalon. I looked it up and it’s a long river. Can you help me find . . . the right place?”
“He wants to be here?” Rowan looked at Trudy.
Trudy placed her hand on his shoulder. “You see?” Something passed between them that Elizabeth couldn’t understand. Trudy’s bottom lip trembled, and they embraced each other awkwardly over the stone wall. Elizabeth felt unnecessary, as if she were spying on a private moment of bereavement even though the man they were mourning was her father.
Rowan collected himself and turned to Elizabeth. “Yes, we’ll bring you there. The river runs along the edge of the property. It was a very important place for your father. We would be honored to be a part of spreading his ashes, if you feel it’s appropriate.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth wasn’t sure what her father would have preferred. She’d managed to push the dispersement instructions from her mind the moment after the attorney finished reading the letter with her father’s final wishes. It didn’t feel like a real request until the box with Priority Mail labels arrived and parked itself on her front hall table. How could a six-pound box take up so much space?
She couldn’t understand why her father wanted to “go home” when he had barely spoken of the place. And he had to have known that forcing her to disperse his ashes in Fargrove meant that she’d discover Rowan and Trudy. It was yet another mystery from the man she had given up trying to decode.
“Are there any other hotels or inns nearby?”
“We won’t hear of it. You’re with us tonight. In fact, we were hoping to convince you to stay a tad longer; we have something monumental coming up on Saturday night,” Trudy said. They drifted down the lane as they talked, trailed by a skulking Major, who opted to walk directly behind Elizabeth. She steeled herself for the inevitable nip to her bum, like she was a naughty sheep that needed a reprimand.
An extra day in Fargrove? Impossible, but she tried to break it to them gently. “My plans are fairly solid. I really can’t back out—”
Trudy interrupted her so that she didn’t have to formally decline. “We understand. It’s fine. We would love to have you stay for the retrospective party, but we understand if you can’t.”
“Retrospective?”
They’d ended up in front of the largest building down the lane from the house, an ancient white barn made of irregularly shaped rocks and bricks with a high peaked roof. Rowan pulled the handle on the door and slid it along a track, emitting an ear-piercing shriek as it moved.
“Yes, we’re celebrating Rowan’s fifty years.”
It didn’t make sense. Rowan was well over fifty.
“Come see,” he said, beckoning her into the building. He spread his hands and gestured around the room. “Welcome to the Operculum.”
Elizabeth followed him in and waited for her eyes to adjust to the change in light. She was greeted by a familiar aroma that she couldn’t quite place. Three slit windows high on the roof threw blinding slivers on the far wall, and Elizabeth could make out a huge window facing out to a perfect puffy-cloud-dotted blue sky over a field. But she couldn’t match the scene to what she had just walked past on the driveway. She was sure there were trees beyond the building, but the window looked out on an open meadow. She noticed windows of various sizes around the room, each with a vastly different view and each as crisp as a high-definition photograph.
Then it hit her; she was looking at paintings. Paintings hanging from floor to ceiling, stacked six deep against each other in corners, leaning against every wall and piled on every flat surface. Gorgeous, photorealistic, widely sought-after, museum-worthy paintings.
Her mouth dropped open and she turned to him. “Oh, my God. You’re Rowan Barnes.”
chapter six
Elizabeth sputtered and blushed as Rowan roared with laughter.
“You didn’t know?” he brayed, slapping his leg and gasping for breath. “My friends at the gallery were sure that you were an opportunist coming to beg for a landscape or two before you sold off your father’s plot and disappeared back to the States.”
“Rowan!” Trudy said sharply. She looked at Elizabeth with an apologetic expression. “I knew it wasn’t at all like that.”
Rowan Barnes had paintings hanging in the National Gallery, had been commissioned by the queen to paint her favorite vista at Balmoral, and had been the subject of a documentary that chronicled his prickly relationship with Her Majesty as he worked on her landscape. Elizabeth had merely noted his last name when she saw the documentary mentioned on Huffington Post, chalking it up to an interesting coincidence and nothing more. She’d watched a few minutes of the preview, which showed his hands at work on a painting in extreme close-up while he described his process. Surely her father would’ve mentioned the relationship when the documentary hit the news?
Once again she was speechless. She looked at Rowan with wide eyes, then looked around the barn at the collection of work.
“These aren’t included in the retrospective at the museum, though they should be,” Trudy said, throwing another angry look at Rowan. “He paints like a madman, locked in here for days at a time, and then they never see the light of day. He hoards most of them, and selects a few per year to show and sell. Someone needs to organize this mess.”
Elizabeth looked around the room and quickly tried to count the paintings. She had no idea what they sold for, but even at a few thousand a piece she was standing amid a fortune. And there wasn’t even a lock on the door, or protection over the windows. And what if the old roof sprang a leak?
“Why aren’t these at a gallery or museum?” she asked.
“They will be, someday, when I’m dead and gone. For now, they keep me company.”
“His gallery doesn’t even know how many are here. He won’t let anyone in. He set up a pretend studio in a different barn when they filmed that documentary. Do you know what operculum means, Elizabeth?” Trudy asked.
She shook her head.
“It’s that little trapdoor that a snail uses to close itself off from the world. That’s what Rowan does in here, closes the door and disappears. I’m shocked he let you in. You’re among an honored few.”
“Family is different,” he said with finality. “Now, Bess, you must know that I’m mortified by this museum retrospective. My gallery forced me to do it, but the good news is that we’re having a raucous party here on the property to kick it off. We’ve got a group of marvelous people coming, all ages, not just fuddy-duddies like us, and there will be plenty of good food and drink. It won’t be all drab art talk, I assure you. Would you reconsider staying?”
T
rudy tutted at him for forcing the issue, then looked at Elizabeth with a hopeful expression.
The change in circumstances intrigued her. She was no art-mooching schemer, but she knew a business opportunity when she saw it. The party was bound to attract the top tier of British society, probably all the way up to the monarchy given Rowan’s history. The potential social media opportunities alone were mouthwatering. She could envision Cecelia and Whitney scrolling through the party pictures, jamming their fingers on images of Elizabeth next to people hashtagged with #duke and #royalfamily.
Plus she was shocked to realize that she wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to her newfound relatives.
“What’s the dress code?”
“It’s ridiculous. The gallery insisted on ‘creative landscape cocktail,’ whatever that means,” Trudy said. “I’m sure I’ll be wildly inappropriate, and the society pages will have a good laugh at my expense.”
“Will there be hats?”
Rowan looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Will there be hats? Everyone will be in hats, from Major to the sheep-ladies to yours truly. Our milliner has been on high alert. Just wait until you see what she’s dreamed up for the Barnes clan.” The more he talked about it, the more animated he became. “Now, the invitation said ‘creative,’ and this crowd is creative to the core. That means the average dress from your suitcase won’t—”
“Rowan, please.” Trudy interrupted. “You’ll scare her away.” She turned to Elizabeth. “You don’t have to give us an answer now, Bess. Think it over and let us know, yes?”
“Thank you for the invitation, I definitely will.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms and smiled at Rowan and Trudy, touched by the hope that radiated from them. They barely knew her and yet they wanted her to stay.
So this was family.
Who Rescued Who Page 4