Kiss Me Forever

Nineteen

Prologue

You want me to give her an unwelcome?

Sebastian Caughleigh almost smiled. His nephew caught on quickly. We’ll call it a…discouragement. With that laugh, James had definite possibilities.

I can take care of one old lady.

This is the granddaughter. The daughter died years ago and it seems the Misses Underwood’s sister snuffed it a few weeks before old Miss Faith. This Dixie LePage is thirty and conveniently sent me her picture.

James peered at the photo on the desktop. An auburn-haired young woman with green eyes smiled at the camera. Nice, James murmured. Do I get to choose the inconvenience?

No! She’s arriving on the twelfth and obligingly gave us the flight number. You find her at Gatwick. Lift her wallet. Without money or credit cards, she won’t get far. With a bit of luck she’ll run home in distress. A fainting female who can’t take inconvenience.

A glint of appreciation lit James’s pale eyes as he smiled at the photograph. Maybe I won’t lift her wallet—first thing.

You will. It’s survival. For all of us. We can’t have her poking around the house and finding stuff the Sunday supplements would kill for.

What if losing a wallet doesn’t delay her?

How far can she get without passport or money? She’ll be stranded and run home—where she should have stayed. The damn woman could have had nice regular checks and no hassle, but she just had to come and see a ‘real, quaint English village.’ Sebastian snorted. I’ll give her quaint.

James chuckled. The wallet should work. Nice idea, Uncle. I salute you.

It was Emily’s. She lost her wallet and passport in Madeira last year and she’s still talking about it.

A smirk played on James’s pale lips. Always knew you were attracted to the woman for her mind. He nodded. I’m off then, Uncle. Got to work out the details of my ‘welcome.’

Sebastian frowned at the closed door. He hadn’t told his nephew the half. If this wretched woman arrived and insisted on claiming her property, they’d have problems beyond measure. Once she was in the house…Sebastian pushed his chair from his desk. She couldn’t get that far. James’s little diversion had to work. If not, they’d have to get awkward, maybe even nasty. Others stood to lose along with him. Maybe it was time to call in favors.

Chapter One

Dixie LePage prayed for patience. A train strike! Just her luck! And all because she’d listened to her travel agent, who insisted the train was the best way to travel in England. Fast, easy, and none of the problems of driving on the wrong side of the road. She’d tossed over a paying job and flown across the Atlantic on the strength of two letters and a phone call only to find herself stranded. She’d come out of curiosity, the promise of a sudden inheritance, and the prospect of being on a different continent from the man who’d made a fool of her, and was now stuck.

Dixie’s plan B: to hire a car and drive the thirty or so miles, might have worked. But half the population of Southern England beat her to it. Her attempts to call Mr. Caughleigh, the lawyer, didn’t go too well either. She lacked the necessary small change or a phone card. Resisting the temptation to smash the receiver into the wall, she muttered heavenward.

Having trouble? a smooth, very proper British voice asked.

Dixie turned and stared at the bluest eyes she’d seen since her ex-fiancé. It’s these stupid phones. There are no proper instructions! This was unfair, she knew. Directions came in half-a-dozen languages.

Oh! Blue Eyes laughed. American, are you? What was so amusing about that? Use your credit card. You do have one, don’t you? His long arm reached too close beside her and a manicured finger pointed at familiar logos. If she hadn’t been so wound up, she’d have noticed them herself.

Mr. Caughleigh, or Corly as the secretary said it, wasn’t in. He’ll be in about nine-thirty. I’ll tell him you called, Miss LePage. So much for thinking he could help her.

Need a ride?

Blue eyes had lurked while she called. No, thank you.

I’m driving into Surrey, perhaps I could drop you somewhere?

She remembered Gran’s warnings about white slavers hovering around train stations. Airports made a good modern equivalent. Thank you, I’m fine. She made to walk away.

Don’t trust me? The idea seemed to amuse him.

No. She’d never again trust a Norse god with moussed hair, a plastic smile and shallow blue eyes. She’d learned that much.

The smiling clerk at Travelers’ Aid suggested she take a coach to a place with the improbable name of Leatherhead, a short distance, he claimed, from Bringham. Dixie’s image of something out of a Regency romance didn’t last long. The coach proved to be nothing more exotic than a long distance bus. The so-called express bus made a dozen stops in a couple of hours. Dixie vowed to walk next time. Shoot, there wouldn’t be a next time. She should have taken the lawyer’s advice and let him sell the house and send her the proceeds. She settled back in the surprisingly comfortable seat and shut her eyes. Time to catch up on lost sleep.

I’m sorry but I think you’re in my seat. Dixie blinked. The reincarnation of Miss Marple half-smiled at her.

Dixie’s neighbor settled with a flurry of packages and a gracious smile and chatted for the next hour. Or rather nattered on while Dixie listened to details of Miss Marple’s married son, his wife’s taste in kitchen decor and her grandsons’ success in football. Dixie knew enough to know she meant soccer, however she did learn that Leatherhead was one word.

Here’s your stop, the same as mine, her neighbor announced and Dixie found herself and her suitcases on the sidewalk.

Someone picking you up? her companion asked.

I thought I could get a taxi. Truth was, she hadn’t thought beyond the bus ride and had no idea how far she still had to go. I’m going to Bringham.

Bring’em, she said and Dixie made a mental note to remember to swallow the ‘h’ like everyone else. She held out a wrinkled but surprisingly strong hand. I’m Ida Collins. My son will give you a lift. He lives near Bringham. Stanley, she said to the man who’d appeared on the sidewalk with a young boy. This young lady needs a ride to Bringham. No sense in her wasting money on a taxi.

Stanley took this in his stride. Maybe his mother foisted strangers on him all the time. If it’s not too much trouble…. Dixie began. She figured she’d be safe. Rogues and abductors wouldn’t have a small boy trailing behind them.

Stanley grinned. Nah. We live in East Horsley, it’s on the way.

I’ve got luggage.

We’ve plenty of space. I brought the Rolls. Mum likes it.

Stanley, with his blue jeans and zippered windbreaker didn’t quite fit the Rolls-Royce image, but the coach hadn’t matched her imagination either. Thanks, I’m really grateful. My name’s Dixie LePage. She held out her hand.

He took it. How do you do? Stanley Collins. You’ve met my mum, Ida, and here’s Joey.

Dixie smiled at a small boy, complete with freckles, Dallas Cowboys’ sweatshirt, and a Chicago Bulls’ cap. Hello, he said through a wad of chewing gum.

Settled on the butter-soft leather upholstery, Dixie appreciated why Ida liked the Rolls. Beautiful car, Dixie said, eying the rosewood dashboard and the soft carpet.

She’d said the right thing. Stanley beamed. Best one we have. We keep it for weddings mostly—and picking up Mum, he added with a chuckle.

Dixie’s jet-lagged mind clicked. You rent it out?

Right you are! Collins Car Hire. That’s me. If you ever need a car…

I do. Like now. You have regular cars? She leaned over the high seat back, wide awake at the prospect of transportation.

Stanley grinned. What’s a regular car? I’ve a nice little Metro on the lot and a Fiesta due back in Saturday.

I’ll take whatever you have today. Dixie would have handed over her plastic money there and then.

Stanley chuckled. You Americans make up your minds quickly.

I made up my mind hours ago. The airport rental companies couldn’t deliver.

Stanley grinned. Cheers then! Let me drop Mum and I’ll take you down to the shop.

The Metro turned out to be a small, red car—stick shift, but Dixie could handle that.

Stanley called Joey over to look at her license. South Carolina driver’s licenses were an obvious novelty here. For her address, she gave the one Mr. Caughleigh had written, Orchard House, Bringham. That’s all I have. No street or number I’m afraid.

Stanley’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. You’re living at Orchard House? You bought it or renting or something?

I’ve inherited it. It was my great-aunts’.

Sheesh! Stanley muttered between tight lips, his eyes not quite meeting hers. You’re an Underwood? He made Underwoods sound like roaches.

My grandmother was. She died just before Faith Underwood.

Stanley Collins sucked in his cheeks and looked Dixie up and down like a secondhand car of doubtful provenance. I heard there was another sister who ran off with an American during the war.

Gran would laugh at that one. She and Charlie Reilly were married in the Grosvenor Chapel with his commanding officer’s blessing, even if Gran’s sisters had boycotted the ceremony. That was my Gran.

Stanley rubbed at an invisible mark on the car hood. Mentioned this to Mum, did you?

It never came up. Did she know my aunts?

Stanley shrugged and looked away, intent on aligning the windshield wiper blades. Everyone knew them. Interesting old ladies but you’d know that.

Dixie shook her head. Never met them. And Gran never came back here after she married either.

He looked straight at her for twenty long seconds. Good luck to you then. Now how long would you be wanting the car?

They agreed on two weeks, or what Stanley called a fortnight and Dixie drove off with directions to Bringham scribbled on the back of an old envelope. She wondered about Stanley’s words as she maneuvered the narrow lanes, remembering, most of the time, to stay on the left. A black sports car passed with about two inches to spare. Dixie gasped. Had renting a car been such a good idea with drivers like that on narrow roads?

Stanley’s directions got her to Bringham in fifteen minutes. It took longer than that to find a parking place. The packed High Street stretched for fifty yards, a snarled mass of cars, pedestrians and baby carriages. At one point, it was blocked by a baker’s van. Dixie looked around as she waited, fascinated by the narrow street and the old buildings. A wool shop and its neighboring florist had bow windows and paneled doors that hinted of hooped petticoats and reticules. On the opposite side of the street, a modern grocery store sat next to a Tudor tea shop. Definitely a street to explore on foot.

She parked in an impossibly narrow space in a crowded car park hidden behind the grocery store. Actually getting out of the car involved gymnastic feats, and she eased herself sideways between her car and the large BMW beside her.

Mr. Caughleigh’s address was Mayburn House, 29 High Street. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. A narrow alley led from the car park to High Street, and a sign on the fence asked, Have you paid and displayed?

Paid and displayed what? Dixie muttered to herself, a vaguely obscene image coming to mind.

You’re American, a cheery voice announced.

Dixie turned. A young woman pushing a stroller loaded with two toddlers and groceries stood at her elbow. You were thinking aloud. Pay and Display. It’s for parking. She slowed her voice as if talking to a child. You did park in the car park didn’t you? Dixie nodded. You have to pay. She led Dixie to a yellow machine. It needed £1 and 50p coins.

I don’t have change. I’ll have to skip it and take my chances with the fine.

You can’t do that! The fine’s fifty pounds.

Fifty pounds? She had to be kidding. Seventy or eighty dollars for a parking fine? What did you pay for speeding? The smallest thing Dixie had was a ten-pound note. Minutes later, Dixie had a five pound note, five heavy coins, and had learned the intricacies of the parking system. A small round coin paid for an hour’s parking. She received a large seven-sided coin for change and a ticket with small print giving precise directions for placing it on the inside of the driver’s window.

Dixie squeezed between her car and the BMW, unlocked her door and set off the alarm. Silencing it took a good three minutes of searching for the manual and finding the right page. Why hadn’t Stanley explained this instead of all the stuff about dipped headlights and windshield wipers?

To Dixie’s surprise, the passersby ignored the siren. She wished she could and finally emerged, red-faced, after slapping the ticket on the window.

Mayburn House wasn’t the gracious Georgian structure she’d expected, but a yellow-brick building housing a baker and an off-licence. The latter looked like a liquor store. A brass plate by the front door announced Woodrow, Hartscomb and Caughleigh. Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths. Oaths fit Dixie’s mood right now. At the top of the uncarpeted stairs, a glass paneled door stood ajar.

I’d like to see Mr. Caughleigh, Dixie said as she pushed open the door.

A secretary glanced up from her typewriter, flicked her purple nails and asked, Do you have an appointment?

Mr. Caughleigh’s expecting me.

You need an appointment, she repeated, tapping her artificial nails.

The click of her long nails snapped Dixie’s nerves. Planting both hands on the desktop, she leaned over until they were nose to nose. "My name is Dixie LePage. I flew in this morning from the States. Mr. Caughleigh is expecting me. I wrote to him and left a message this morning. Tell him I’m here."

Secretary blinked her impossibly long eyelashes, pulled her shoulders back and pursed her mouth. I’ll see if he’s in, she said and teetered across to the inner office.

Muffled voices sounded through the closed door. Dixie regretted her temper but gave Caughleigh five minutes before she pushed open the door herself. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. Battleship gray filing cabinets looked old enough to house secrets from World War I. Stacks of old deed boxes with faded names covered two walls and both chairs by the window appeared to have been quietly fading since the sixties.

Miss LePage, I’m delighted to meet you at last. Dixie’s images of a Dickensian lawyer were way off base. Manicured hand extended, Sebastian Caughleigh looked down at her, all six foot one of him, with bedroom eyes and a smile that could melt butter.

You had a good flight, I trust, he said in a too-smooth voice.

The flight was fine. Everything went downhill after I landed.

Yes, yes, I got your message. These strikes! He raised his eyes upward as if that would get the rails rolling. Terrible. If you’d only left a number, I could have sent a car for you.

It’s hard to take return calls at a pay phone.

He showed pristine white teeth when he smiled. Never mind. You’re here now. That’s what matters and we have a lot of business to discuss. He closed the door behind him. You’ve met my secretary, Valerie Fortune. Valerie smiled graciously and Dixie decided anyone called Miss Fortune could be forgiven purple fingernails. It’s a bit late to ask Valerie to make coffee. Perhaps you’d rather a spot of lunch?

She could use more than a spot. The clock said two. Her body was still at breakfast time with scant sleep. Lunch would be very nice.

We’ll be at the Barley Mow, he told Valerie as he took Dixie’s elbow.

Uncle? The inner door opened. Sebastian Caughleigh drew in his breath. Dixie felt her jaw drop. The Adonis from the airport stood in the doorway. Hello, he said and smiled. Sebastian Caughleigh didn’t.

We’re just going out, James. I’ll talk to you when I get back. Then, as if remembering Dixie, he added, My nephew, James Chadwick. Reluctance shadowed Sebastian’s voice.

We’ve met, Dixie replied. James helped me out with a pay phone at the airport.

James’s eyebrows rose, slowly. I wish I could join you for lunch, he said with a sly smile.

So do we, James, but I know you’ve got things to do. See you later. Caughleigh opened the outer door wide. Dixie stepped out and he slammed the door behind them.

The Barley Mow is our local down on the village green. I thought, being American, you’d like lunch in a genuine old-English pub. She would, but she wasn’t picky—anywhere that served food would be fine right now. Just a short walk, not worth taking the car, he said as he went to cross the road.

We might as well drive. I have to move my car. I only paid for an hour. A seventy-dollar fine would make an expensive lunch.

Sebastian Caughleigh stopped mid-stride. You have a car?

A rental.

He jackknifed his long legs into the Metro’s passenger seat. It took a good fifteen minutes to exit the car park, negotiate the traffic in High Street, turn right at a Norman church that invited exploration, and find a space in the Barley Mow’s graveled car park. They could have walked it in ten.

The Barley Mow stood on the edge of the village green, just yards from a wide pond that edged onto the lane. Inside, it was an antique hunter’s dream. Horse brasses hung on oak beams. A hammered copper hood decorated the chimney of an inglenook fireplace. Willow pattern plates, copper kettles, hunting prints and old maps decorated every niche and wall.

Sebastian led her through the pub. Alf, he said to the dumpy man behind the polished bar, this is Miss Dixie LePage, the Misses Underwood’s great-niece. She’s over from America to see about settling the estate.

Hi, Alf.

Afternoon. Alf looked up from counting money and smiled—at Dixie. What can I get you?

Two ploughman’s please, Alf. Sebastian turned to Dixie. You’ll like this. It’s a pub specialty.

She would, would she? Irritation pricked down her spine. He hadn’t bothered to ask before ordering. Were Englishmen still living in the Victorian age? And what the heck was he expecting her to eat? Meat, if the plates on the table she’d passed were anything to go by. What’s a ploughman’s? Dixie asked, pointedly looking at Alf.

His mouth twitched as he looked straight at her and gave her a little nod. American, aren’t you? Alf paused, acknowledging her agreement with another smile. It’s a pub standard: bit of salad, pickle, a chunk of baguette, and Cheddar, Stilton, or ham depending on your choice.

That was something; she could have a good lunch without explaining or justifying her reluctance to eat meat.

Two Cheddar ploughman’s, Sebastian went on, sounding a little irritated at her interruption.

I’d prefer Stilton, Alf, Dixie said.

Alf’s smile broadened to a grin. Right you are. He gave Dixie a distinctly interested look as he turned to call the order through a hatch behind him.

Dixie rested a foot on the rail of the bar and leaned on her elbows. Jet lag sapped her energy. Chauvinistic Brit lawyers didn’t help. Food might.

A pint of bitter too, Alf. Sebastian turned to Dixie, How about you? G and T? White wine?

She shook her head. Guinness, please.

Right you are. Alf filled a heavy glass mug with great care, settling the head just right, rested the glass on a towel to take up the drips, then set it on a coaster advertising Merrydown Cider.

Dixie sipped, drinking through the foamy head. The taste took her back to evenings on her grandmother’s lap, relishing the one sip Gran allowed. Something pinched deep in her chest at the thought. She took a deeper taste and met Alf’s questioning eyes. Great, she said. Gran was right. It does taste better over here.

That’s because your people mess with it, changing the alcoholic content and I don’t know what. Alf wiped a couple of drips from the bar top. Staying long, are you?

Caughleigh tapped her elbow. We’ve got business to cover. Let’s sit in the conservatory.

Irritated, Dixie followed him. Suppose she’d preferred to stay at the bar. Had he thought about that? She had a hard time not making a face at his broad, pinstripe-covered shoulders.

The conservatory looked out on green lawns, flowerbeds beginning to show bloom and a large jungle gym. Dixie sat down on the chintz-cushioned chair Sebastian held for her and set her drink on the wrought-iron table. They were alone except for a cat, curled up in sleep in a pool of sunshine. Dixie looked around at the faded roses on the upholstery, the polished tile floor, the geraniums on the windowsills and the mismatched wrought iron and mahogany furniture. Fashionable interior decorators would charge a small fortune to put together this look.

Dixie’s arm brushed an immense, pink geranium as she turned in her seat. The sharp scent took her back to Gran’s piazza overlooking the Battery. And her reason for being here. Sebastian, she said, I’d like to see my house after lunch.

He almost choked on a mouthful of bitter.

I’m afraid that’s not possible, he replied after he’d coughed into a linen handkerchief. I only have one key. Mike Jenkins has it. I asked him to value the house. He’s a local estate agent, very reputable. I’d recommend him to handle the sale.

Can’t you get it back? Dixie looked across at his smooth, dark eyes. They didn’t quite meet hers.

He took a slow sip from his beer. How about in the morning? It gets dark early and the electricity’s turned off.

Alf arrived with two plates overflowing with salad, a slab of cheese, pickles, relishes, and a small loaf. The sight and smell of food reminded Dixie how long ago she’d eaten her last real meal. Plastic food on an airplane didn’t count.

You didn’t say how long you’re staying.

Dixie looked up from buttering a hunk of bread. I’m not sure. She hadn’t really thought about it.

I’ve booked you for bed and breakfast at Miss Reade’s. She’s here in the village. I’ll take you there after lunch.

He had, had he? I’d planned on staying in my house.

Sebastian’s brows wrinkled. He smiled. He showed very white teeth. Well, you could…but there’s no electricity or gas and the water’s turned off. I know how you Americans like your creature comforts.

We do. But I’ve come quite a long way to see my property.

He put a lot of effort into his smile. His eyes weren’t half bad either. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do. The house isn’t habitable right now. Your great-aunts were the local eccentrics, I’m afraid. I think you’ll be more comfortable at Miss Reade’s. If not, there’s a good country hotel over in Bookham.

I’ll stay in Bringham. She hadn’t come this far to end up miles down the road.

Suppose I take you over to Miss Reade’s after lunch? Leave you to get settled, unpacked and whatever you ladies do. In the morning, we can meet at my office and sign a few things that need taking care of. I’ll have the key then. We can go over the house and find out what Mike Jenkins thinks.

Reasonable enough. Every muscle ached and her head throbbed. A whole pint on a jet-lagged stomach hadn’t been a good idea.

Sebastian gave her a key for the front door of a tile-hung cottage by the Green. Miss Reade worked in Leatherhead and wouldn’t be home until six. He carried Dixie’s suitcase up to a floral-papered room in the eaves, explained the intricacies of the electric kettle in her room, and left after agreeing to meet her at ten in the morning.

Overcoming the odd sensation of inhabiting the house in its owner’s absence, Dixie explored. This was her idea of an English country cottage: oak furniture, polished brass, open fireplaces, a spotless kitchen overlooking a neat back garden and a narrow, dark stairway hidden behind a door in the dining room. After hanging her clothes in the corner closet and placing the rest in the carved oak dresser, Dixie showered off the grime of travel and made a cup of coffee using the kettle and rose-decorated china in her room. Too weary to finish it, she crawled between the lavender scented sheets and slept the afternoon away.

"What the Hades were you trying? I told you to stay out of my office!" Sebastian Caughleigh stormed through the door.

James raised an eyebrow. I wanted an eyeful of the American heiress.

You already had one.

No harm done then. James lounged in the wingback chair.

No? Sebastian sneered down at his nephew. If you’d taken her wallet as you were supposed to, she’d have been delayed, maybe even gone home in disgust. Instead, she’s here and oh so very anxious to look over her property. I’ve stalled her until the morning. You’d better find what we need tonight. There must be enough of it to fill a van.

I’ll find it. Trust me, Uncle.

Trust you? I’m not that stupid!

James ignored that. He stretched his thin legs out towards the empty fireplace. Where is our eager American now?

Safely ensconced at Emily’s.

How nice. Tuck away your newest opportunity in your inamorata’s cottage.

Sebastian sat in the opposite chair, rested his forearms on his thighs and snarled towards James, A word of advice. Don’t fail. It could get difficult for you if you don’t succeed tonight. Remember whom you’re letting down.

Such unkind words, Uncle. Threats even. You hurt my feelings. Maybe I won’t tell you what I took from Miss LePage.

You will.

James reached into his pocket and hefted a small brown leather book. He made as if to toss it to his uncle, then pulled back his arm. Interested? He smiled at Sebastian’s outstretched hand.

The hand stayed open. Give, Sebastian hissed. James tossed the book at him. Sebastian caught it and flicked the thin pages. Her diary. Wonderful. Now we know when she plays bridge.

More than that, Uncle. I had a good read while you were out courting her. It’s one of those ‘everything’ books—phone numbers, addresses, bank account numbers and every lunch date and dentist appointment since January. Without it she won’t be doing much telephoning or sending postcards to her pals back home.

Sebastian wrapped his fingers around the soft leather. It might make interesting reading but its loss was hardly enough to make her leave. He glanced at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. It’s almost four. I’m taking her over to the house at eleven. That gives you eighteen hours. Find everything.

James tilted his chin. Or else? What?

You may have to get an honest job.

James paused in the doorway. Don’t worry, Uncle. It won’t happen. Who’d hire me?

Sebastian frowned at the empty grate. Hadn’t James understood anything? They couldn’t risk those papers falling into anyone else’s hands. Too many reputations were at stake and too much money. If only the wretched woman had stayed on the other side of the Atlantic. She could have had a comfortable three-quarters of a million. He would have settled some old scores, and been set up for life. Now—who knew?

She had to be gotten rid of. No, a better idea. Woo her? Why not? Court her a little. Break her heart and she’d go running back home.

A knock on the door woke Dixie. She stared at the unfamiliar pitched ceiling, and remembered. The door opened; she’d noticed earlier there wasn’t a lock, only a wrought iron latch.

A pleasantly plump face smiled around the door. Sorry to disturb you. I’m Emily Reade. I’m about to put the kettle on. Would you like to come down in a minute and have a cup and I can explain things?

Miss Reade liked to chat. She also wanted to be called Emily, took three sugars in her tea, and worked in a bank in Leatherhead. Such a lovely house you have, beautiful. Worth a small fortune at today’s prices. Of course, whoever buys it will have to spend a pretty penny on it.

Why did everyone assume she was selling? Where exactly is it? I haven’t seen it yet.

Emily’s pudgy eyes widened. Orchard House? It’s just across the Green.

Why hadn’t Mr. Caughleigh pointed it out? They must have passed it driving here. She’d look for it later.

Her arrangement with Emily involved bed and breakfast and unlimited cups of tea. Other meals Dixie fended for herself. She planned on exploring neighboring villages and the Leatherhead everyone referred to as the local metropolis, but tonight she’d content herself with the Barley Mow.

She’d walk. She needed the exercise. She’d barely moved her muscles the past twenty-four hours, except to sit or sleep. The evening was colder than she expected so she doubled back to the house and slipped upstairs.

Pulling a sweatshirt over her head, she heard a voice from the bedroom next door, …. Out to get dinner…. I don’t know…. An hour or so I expect…. No, of course I didn’t…. I’m leaving all that to you…. When can I see you?…. Alright. Uncomfortable at overhearing a private conversation, she tiptoed downstairs and closed the door quietly behind her.

The Barley Mow packed a fair crowd in the evenings. Alf had a helper, a young man with a Mohawk and a large ring in one ear.

Evening, Miss LePage. Guinness wasn’t it?

A small one.

Half pint it is then. Alf called to his helper, Vernon, half of Guinness and watch the head. Anything else? he asked Dixie.

I need dinner. Do you have a menu?

Up there. Alf nodded towards a chalkboard on the wall.

Dixie scanned the scratchy writing: shepherd’s pie, lamb curry, Cornish pasty, steak and kidney, scampi, bangers and mash, Dover sole and an assortment of salads. I don’t eat meat. What do you recommend?

Vegetarian, eh? If you eat fish, I’d go for the sole or the scampi.

Scampi then, Alf. In the spirit of adventure she added a jacket potato. Whatever that was.

Dixie settled in an empty table near the window, took out a paperback mystery, and settled into reading as she sipped her Guinness.

Why, hello there!

Dixie glanced up from Stephanie Plum to meet James Chadwick’s pale blue eyes. His smile implied she was just so lucky he’d found her. Hi, she said and purposely went