Читать книгу Red Clover Inn - Carla Neggers - Страница 8
ОглавлениеGreg managed to take a shower, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and tie on a pair of running shoes when he woke up at oh dark thirty. He’d been wiped out when he’d arrived in London yesterday. Mop-the-floor-with-him exhausted after months of nonstop, high-intensity, high-stress work. Not an excuse for passing out in an English pub, but no harm, no foul.
As he started down the steep stairs, he remembered more of his encounter with Charlotte Bennett last night than he wanted to remember.
“Should have had more to drink.”
Breakfast was set up in the same room as last night’s party. Eric Sloan, a police officer and the eldest of the Sloan siblings, invited Greg to join him. Greg had met him briefly in February. Eric resembled the rest of the Sloans: dark haired, blue eyed, strong. Straightforward. Another Sloan trait. It was still the middle of the night back home in New England, but Eric looked wide-awake. Probably used to odd hours. He, too, had on jeans and a sweatshirt.
Greg sat at Eric’s table by a partially open window, exchanged a couple of pleasantries, ordered coffee and then got up again and went to the cold buffet table.
He returned with Weetabix and cut fruit. “I’ve never had Weetabix,” he said. “Have you?”
Eric shrugged. “It’s like Shredded Wheat?”
“Sort of. I think it’s one of those things you can do anything with. Add fruit, peanut butter, cream cheese, hot milk, cold milk. Probably can make tacos out of it.”
Eric didn’t look amused or interested. He had coffee. Black. Nothing to eat yet.
“Brody and Heather made it back to the wedding hotel?” Greg asked.
“As far as I know. Just my brother Christopher and I are here. The rest of my family’s at the hotel, too.”
“Christopher’s the full-time firefighter?”
“Yes. The youngest brother. Justin’s a volunteer firefighter.” Eric drank some of his coffee. “I skipped the buffet. Just having the hot breakfast.”
“There’s a hot breakfast?”
A slight smile. “You aren’t restricted to Weetabix.”
Suddenly starving, Greg ordered a full English breakfast minus the black pudding. He wondered if Charlotte would be down for breakfast before leaving for the wedding. Since she’d come in from Scotland, she was on the same time as the Cotswolds and wouldn’t be jet-lagged. Early riser? Late riser? He gave himself a mental shake. Last night was over. Time to behave.
“You’ll enjoy staying at the inn for a bit,” Eric said.
Greg tore open his Weetabix. What inn? Had he zoned out and missed something? He dumped the two biscuit-like triangles into his bowl. “I have some time before I need to be in DC for my new assignment,” he said, neutral.
“Great,” Eric said. “Brody says you like to camp. You can pitch a tent out back if you want. The inn could have bats.”
Bats. Still clueless, Greg added some of his cut fruit to the Weetabix. “Good location?”
“It’s within walking distance of the village but feels more remote.”
Okay, getting some specifics. This village? Another village in the Cotswolds? Was this mystery inn located in England? Was staying there Brody and Heather’s idea? Greg was stumped. He had no memory of discussing an inn, with or without bats, with anyone, ever.
“It has an open field on one side,” Eric added. “Makes sense given its name.”
The waiter set a coffee press on the table as Greg poured cold milk over his fruit and Weetabix. Maybe he should have waited and had some coffee before going to the cold-buffet table. “I don’t remember the name of the inn...”
“Red Clover Inn.”
“Cute name,” Greg said, desperate now. What had he done? He cleared his throat. “Homey sound to it.”
“Justin and Samantha want to keep the name. I don’t care one way or the other. It sounds more like it should be out in the country rather than a half mile from the village. We bought it on a whim. The owner died without a proper will and there was a family squabble. It took some time to get sorted out. They couldn’t wait to sell the place.”
The Sloans hadn’t struck Eric as people who did things on a whim, but Heather Sloan had married Brody after a short romance and now Justin Sloan was marrying Samantha Bennett after meeting her in a fire last fall when she’d slipped into Knights Bridge in search of pirate treasure.
People who knew their own minds, maybe.
But...wait...the Sloans owned this inn?
Greg poured his coffee and set the press down. He was an elite federal agent who protected ambassadors and other dignitaries in and outside the United States, and he damn well could figure out that Eric was talking about Knights Bridge, his hometown in rural New England, about two hours west of Boston. Greg hadn’t expected to return to Knights Bridge except maybe to visit Heather and Brody when they built their place on the lake where Brody had grown up. And that was a big maybe.
Greg tried the Weetabix. It was fine. Good, in fact. “Definitely waited too long to give this stuff a try.” He was buying time. Given Eric’s narrowed eyes, Greg suspected the guy’s cop instincts had clicked into gear. He ate more of his cereal. Hard to look suspicious eating cereal. “The fruit helps. The inn sounds like a great family project.”
“We’ll see. It’s a regular country inn. Or it was. It hasn’t been anything for a while.”
Glad his mouth was full and he didn’t have to respond, Greg waited for Eric to head to the cold-buffet table. He got out his phone and surreptitiously texted Brody.
I’m staying at an inn in KB?
Brody’s answer came right away. Yes.
Greg grimaced. Why?
You’re at a loose end. You’re looking after the place.
How long?
While Justin and Sam are on their honeymoon.
A week?
Maybe two.
When did I agree to this?
Text last night after I got back to my hotel.
I was asleep.
Ha.
Greg drank some of his coffee. His head was going to explode. He didn’t want to mess up anyone’s honeymoon, but he’d obviously been impaired when he’d agreed to this mission, or whatever it was. He typed again: Animals?
Bats, mice, spiders. No pets or farm animals.
That meant no cat or dog or pet gerbil to look after, just the place itself, which presumably had been uninhabited for a few years and would be fine without him playing caretaker. He could bow out. Two or three days, never mind longer, next to a field of clover—there had to be clover, right, considering the inn’s name?—would send him over the bend. He didn’t do well sitting still.
He had time to come up with a face-saving excuse and ease out of this thing.
Eric returned to the table with fresh fruit. Their hot breakfasts arrived. Greg dove in. Weetabix would do but even better was a plate of fried eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, sausages, bacon, fried bread and baked beans. Even with wedding food in his near future, he figured stoking up now was a good idea. He needed his full faculties. Fatigue and a slight hangover wouldn’t help him work out how to get out of this Red Clover Inn deal without pissing off a bunch of Sloans, not to mention his friend Brody.
Christopher Sloan joined them. He, too, seemed to Greg like a solid sort. He’d come to England alone for his older brother’s wedding. The Sloans had struck Greg as a tight-knit lot. That didn’t mean there weren’t occasional tensions between them.
He didn’t bring up Red Clover Inn and instead asked Christopher his plans while in England.
“I got here last weekend,” Christopher said. “I had a great time. Good break. I go home tomorrow. Have to be back at work on Monday.”
Eric was also headed back tomorrow. Greg relaxed. There’d be enough Sloans around to look after this old inn of theirs. They didn’t need him.
After breakfast, he went up to his room. He glanced down the hall but Charlotte’s door was shut tight. He knew she’d lied about staying down the hall. He’d heard her going into the room adjoining his. In her place, he probably would have lied, too, what with his behavior last night.
He’d been tired as hell, and in a mood.
Had she ever been to Knights Bridge now that her cousin was making her home there, marrying a local?
“None of your business, pal,” Greg muttered, going into his room.
He could bolt. No one would miss him at the wedding. He’d been invited only because he’d made a stop in England to see Brody and Heather on his roundabout way to Washington.
But as he debated grabbing a cab and fleeing the Sloans and Bennetts, he got dressed for an English country wedding.
* * *
The wedding hotel was charming, located a few miles from the village in the rolling Cotswold countryside. The informal ceremony was held outdoors in a garden brimming with roses, which Greg recognized, and climbing purple flowers he assumed were the wisteria. Samantha Bennett wore a gown designed by Alexandra Rankin Hunt, Ian Mabry’s fiancée. They were guests at the wedding. Alexandra, an elegant, attractive woman, had her own tangled ties to Knights Bridge through her great-grandfather, an RAF pilot who’d ventured to rural Massachusetts on the eve of World War II. He’d fallen in love with a young American woman, now in her nineties and living in little Knights Bridge. He’d meant to come back for her but had been killed over the English Channel early in the war. Greg didn’t have all the details. Brody had tried to explain a few of the connections of his hometown as he and Greg had found a place to stand for the short wedding service.
Greg might have felt out of place at the simple but elegant wedding, but he wasn’t the type. He appreciated rugged Justin Sloan’s love for Samantha and, likewise, his awkward pleasure at expressing that love in front of his family and friends. Greg thought back to his own wedding. He and Laura had been young, filled with hopes and dreams.
I’m seeing a great guy here in Minneapolis. I wanted you to know.
Laura, a couple of weeks ago. Their divorce had been finalized months ago and Greg was glad she was getting on with her life. No problem there. The problem was his own life. Getting wounded in an ambush on the job and its isolating nature hadn’t helped him with his personal life, but the biggest issue, he knew, was inertia. Laura had always been there. He’d taken their life together for granted. He didn’t want to make that same mistake again.
After the service, he noticed Charlotte Bennett laughing with the bride and groom. Her maid-of-honor dress was a deep coral, its cut perfect for her curves. She didn’t look as cool and judgmental as she had last night. The warm color of her dress and the lush late-spring garden setting probably softened her hard edges. According to Brody, her parents were in Australia on an underwater salvage project and couldn’t make it to the wedding.
Interesting family, the Bennetts.
Greg congratulated the happy couple and found his way to the bar.
A beer, a table in the shade, a breeze stirring in a trellis of peach-colored roses—despite not having a woman at his side, his life, he decided, was pretty good. At least right now, at this moment. He felt some of the weariness and rawness of the past months lift. He was able to focus on his surroundings without being poised for threats. Instead he could sit back and enjoy the beauty of the place. Warm-pink roses in addition to the peach-colored ones, bumblebees, pots of herbs and flowers. Nice. Damn nice, in fact.
He observed Charlotte as she greeted guests and relatives. She struck him as a woman who preferred to be here, at her cousin’s wedding, alone. Her body language said loud and clear she didn’t want or need a man on her arm. Was she getting over a relationship? Thinking about sunken U-boats? Greg knew better than to speculate but figured there was no real harm in it while he was drinking a beer and smelling the roses.
Brody joined him. “You look awake and sober.”
“I was awake and sober when you saw me last night.”
“Sober, maybe.” Brody pulled out a chair and sat down, loosening his tie. “Great wedding. Heather says she doesn’t regret that we didn’t have a more formal wedding.”
“She’d tell you if she did,” Greg said, noticing Heather making her way toward them.
“True,” Brody said. “Sloans don’t hold back their opinions.”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Also true. When do you head to Knights Bridge?”
“Haven’t figured that out. I haven’t even decided on my flight out of here. Probably Monday but I could leave tomorrow. I don’t have anything I need to do in London. Do you know this Red Clover Inn?”
“I remember it from when I was a kid. Quiet place. It did a good business with fishermen and graduations at local colleges. Do you fish, Greg?”
“No.”
“Lots of rivers, streams and lakes in the area, and the reservoir allows fishing.”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind if I get bored.”
“You’ll get bored,” Brody said with a grin.
“I’m not staying two weeks. There are plenty of Sloans who can look after the inn. I like that I can help out but I figure my bleary eyes last night at the party are half the reason the idea came up.”
“You always have bleary eyes these days, Greg.”
“Point taken.”
“You could use the break.”
“I guess. Anyway, I need to see my kids. They’ve got stuff going on this summer. It’s not like when they were little.” He drank some of his beer. He could hear a bee humming in the roses. “Maybe I’ll invite them out to Knights Bridge before their summer gets crazy. We can pop down and do a few days in DC, too. See the sights there. There aren’t any sights in Knights Bridge.”
“Rivers, streams, lakes and a reservoir.”
“So you said.”
Brody stretched out his legs, drank some of his beer. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the bucolic setting. “You all could tour Emily Dickinson’s old house in Amherst. You read her in high school, right? Nineteenth-century poet. Historic Old Deerfield and Old Sturbridge aren’t far.”
“Old being the operative word here. Make a list. We’ll see.”
“It can feel like time stopped in Knights Bridge,” Brody said.
“But it hasn’t. It marches on there just like everywhere else. Can’t stop the clock.”
“Cheer up. Hell, Greg. It’s a wedding.”
“What? I am cheerful.”
Brody just shook his head. Greg followed his friend’s gaze to Heather, who kept stopping to greet other guests. Finally she made it to their table and sat next to Brody, grabbing his hand. “What a great day,” she said.
Eric Sloan, the best man, stood to toast the bride and groom, followed by the maid of honor, neither of whom let anyone’s champagne get warm. Succinct was fine with Greg but he was intrigued watching Charlotte address the gathering with such poise and graciousness. Not exactly his experience with her. He could hear her laugh of affection and delight when she hugged her cousin after the toast. Maybe he’d been a bigger jerk last night than he’d realized and he’d misjudged her.
“Got what you deserved, my friend,” he said under his breath.
A few minutes after the toast, Charlotte made her way over to his table. It was fun watching her move. He could see she was fit, but he’d had an up-close-and-personal taste of just how fit last night. All that diving had worked wonders.
She didn’t sit. She greeted Brody and Heather warmly, then turned to Greg. “I see you made it to the wedding.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You ever come eye to eye with sharks while you were diving?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He pointed his champagne glass at her. “I bet you could take on a shark. You’re in good shape. Into CrossFit? I know some guys who are. It’s smart to stay in shape when you dive for sunken treasure for a living. You never know what you’ll run across underwater.”
“I don’t dive for sunken treasure.”
“Right. You’re a serious scholar. Not going to tell me about sharks?”
She touched a fingertip to a rosebud. “We’re at a wedding, Agent Rawlings.”
“So we are.” But his inappropriateness didn’t fully explain the sudden strain in her voice. He’d struck a nerve. He changed the subject. “Are the younger bridesmaids your cousins, too?”
“Ann and Eloisa, yes. They’re the two youngest of Caleb Bennett’s four children. He’s Harry’s younger son. He’s a professor of maritime history and his wife’s a rare-books specialist. They live in London. Samantha and I are closer in age than she is to her first cousins. We have similar interests.”
“Cool.”
“I went on too long?”
“No. I should have said more in response?”
“You seem bored.”
Greg shook his head. “Not bored. You’re here on your own, right?”
“What? I just explained I have family here.”
“I meant a guy. A date. Didn’t it say ‘Charlotte Bennett plus guest’ on your invitation?”
She frowned. “You’re direct.”
“I like to be clear.”
“Mm. That must be it.” She sounded dubious. “Yes, I’m on my own.”
“Why don’t you sit down, have a beer with us?”
She glanced at Brody and Heather, who were chatting with Adam, the stonemason Sloan brother. She turned back to Greg and shook her head. “Thanks but I’ve had champagne already.”
“Back to Edinburgh soon?”
“I haven’t decided. As I mentioned, I worked with Sam’s parents on a project to discover and explore sunken World War II submarines off the British coast, but it’s wrapped up. I’m not under any pressure to get back to Edinburgh.”
“What’s next?” Greg asked.
“We’ll see.”
“Who’s we?”
“A figure of speech, Agent Rawlings. Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
Dodging him or just making small talk? He shrugged. “Perfect. I sleep fine when I sleep.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Does to me. How’d you do? No tossing and turning after putting me to bed?”
“No tossing and turning.”
Brody shifted in his chair and frowned at Greg, who ignored him and studied Charlotte instead. She wasn’t telling the truth but the makeup job for the wedding would have dealt with any obvious signs he could point out to her of a bad night. He let it go.
He set his glass on the table. “Samantha and Justin are an unusual pair. Think they’ll be together in five years?”
Charlotte looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You don’t say such things at a wedding, you know.”
“Okay.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I see that you’re on your own, too.”
“I was shoehorned onto the guest list when I turned up in London.”
“I see.” Charlotte straightened. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”
Greg watched her weave back through the tables to the Bennett family. She seemed to have an easy relationship with Samantha’s parents and her uncle and aunt and their four kids, the eldest of whom, Isaac, was, according to Heather, starting at Amherst College that fall. It wasn’t far from Knights Bridge and it was Harry Bennett’s alma mater. Greg wondered exactly what Max Bennett, Charlotte’s grandfather, had done with himself. Packed Harry’s adventurer bags for him?
“My last family wedding, my sister threw up in the men’s room,” Greg said, addressing Brody, who had hardly touched his champagne. “I cleaned up after her since it was her first drinking offense, at least that I knew about. She’s a piano teacher in Manhattan.”
“Whose wedding was it?” Brody asked.
“My cousin Johnny. Three, four years ago. He’s a paramedic. Wife’s a nurse. They have a toddler—a little boy—and another baby on the way. They’re living the life my mother wanted me to live.”
“You have two kids.”
“Yeah. I do. I didn’t stay within ten blocks of her, though.”
“Instead you’re living the life you wanted to live.”
“Made my choices.” Greg’s gaze landed on a trio of Bennetts up by another trellis of roses. “Think Charlotte is in a champagne-and-dancing mood or a wallflower mood?”
“Only two options?”
“She looks uncomfortable. Something’s bugging her.”
“There’s what you know, and there’s what you think you know,” Brody said. “That’s something you think you know.”
“Nope. I know.”
“She told you?”
“Didn’t have to.”
“Greg...”
He waved a hand. “Forget it. Let’s eat.”
* * *
“Weddings are for champagne and dancing,” Charlotte said after the lunch dishes were cleared and she’d made her way to Greg’s table. Her comment caught him by surprise. She smiled, obviously relishing that fact. “Do you dance, Agent Rawlings?”
“If I have to. Is that an invitation?”
Her brown eyes sparked. “Well, why not? You don’t have to dance with me. There aren’t many unattached guests but I can get my cousin Isaac—”
“Can’t let you dance with your cousin.”
Greg was on his feet. Brody’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance, Greg.”
“It’s been a while but it’s like riding a bike.” He slipped an arm around Charlotte’s waist and turned to her. “Don’t worry. I won’t step on your feet.”
“I might step on yours,” she said.
Greg eased Charlotte onto the makeshift dance floor on the garden terrace. “I don’t know about this prissy Jane Austen music they’re playing,” he said.
“At least you don’t have to wear tights.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? All us guys in tights.”
“Not if I had to wear a Regency gown.”
“You look fine in your maid-of-honor dress,” he said, feeling the soft fabric under his hands.
“Alexandra’s an incredible designer.”
“Want to kick off your shoes and pretend we’re on Dancing with the Stars?”
“What?’
Next to them, dancing with her new husband, Samantha laughed. “She has no idea, Greg. She doesn’t watch much television.”
Neither did he. Finally something they had in common, even if he had heard of Dancing with the Stars.
The harpsichord music or whatever it was ended and switched to rock—or something. It wasn’t loud, but Greg could make out a beat and that worked for him. He didn’t recognize the song playing but Charlotte looked as if she didn’t, either.
“I love to dance,” she said. “I don’t get much opportunity. I’ve never had a lesson. I really might step on your feet.”
“Just follow my lead,” he said.
“You’ve had lessons?”
“My grandmother insisted. I did lessons at Lady Bella’s Ballroom Dancing School when I was twelve.”
“Torture?”
“Getting shot was nothing in comparison.”
He felt her stiffen. “Don’t make jokes about such a thing.”
“Only way to get through it. For me, anyway.”
And that was all they had a chance to say. He had to concentrate or he’d bump into someone or trip over his own feet trying to avoid hers, and the music, the atmosphere—everything was great. Pretty, uptight Charlotte Bennett didn’t exactly loosen up, but she was smart and fit and seemed to enjoy herself.
“Woo-hoo,” Brody, hopelessly obnoxious, shouted from his table. “Go, Greg.”
Charlotte flushed, whether from the attention or exertion, Greg couldn’t tell. “Ignore him,” he said in a low voice.
But the Bennetts noticed she was dancing and gave way, creating a semicircle around her and Greg. In another moment, they had the dance floor to themselves. Samantha was clapping. “You go, Charlotte!”
“Families” was all she said, with a slight smile.
It took some work but Greg, remembering his instructions from back in the day, took a firm lead, getting her to focus on him and not their audience. He had no trouble focusing on her. Nothing to do with dance lessons, either.
When the song ended, everyone clapped. Charlotte laughed, waving to her family, taking a slight bow. “Thank Greg for keeping me on my feet.”
“Thank you, Greg,” the young Bennett cousins chimed in unison.
He kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “Dancing with the Stars is next for you. Look it up.”
Another song started, and she smiled. “One dance was plenty for me in these shoes.”
“Told you to kick them off.”
“I will should I ever dance again in this lifetime. It was fun. Was it fun for you, too?”
“More fun than a 10K run in the desert for sure. I resisted looking down your dress and patting your butt, seeing how your family was watching.”
She sighed. “Good of you.”
“I know deep down you’re disappointed. Rest assured that I was tempted, but I’m a man of great discipline and control.”
“As evidenced last night when you passed out in the pub.”
“I fell asleep. There’s a difference. More fun to dance than to explore sunken wrecks?”
“That’s my work.”
“And your work is your life, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer and instead excused herself to go in search of strawberries and chocolate. Greg headed back to his table. Brody didn’t make a smart remark, even without Heather having a hand over his mouth to keep it shut. “Nice job,” he said when Greg sat down. “Top agent and a top dancer.”
“You’re always full of surprises,” Heather said. “Samantha mentioned that Charlotte’s heading home to the US for a bit and plans to stay at the old inn my family is renovating. Justin and Samantha are in the process of moving in from the cabin where they’ve been staying. It’ll be good to have someone look after the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Charlotte will be on her own. A good chunk of my family’s staying in England to see the sights, but I’m sure she’ll find ways to amuse herself. I gather she’s been working nonstop for months.”
Brody’s eyes narrowed on Greg. “Have you backed out of going?”
“Nope. Knights Bridge sounds good. Better and better.”
His friend’s gaze darkened. “Greg...”
“Relax. I’ll behave.”
Heather frowned. “What are you two talking about? Did I miss something?”
“Not a thing,” Greg said.
“I’ll explain later,” Brody said. “Let’s go find your nephews before they tear up the place.”
Greg wandered to the outdoor bar. He was ordering a beer when two buff men in their midthirties arrived. They weren’t wedding guests. They greeted Samantha and Justin, apparently wishing them well, and then spoke for a few minutes with Malcolm and Francesca Bennett, Samantha’s parents. As they started out, the taller one, a serious stud of a guy, shot Charlotte a scathing look. She went deadly pale. Ten seconds ago, Greg would have said it was impossible. The Bennetts were all watching her and the guy, as if they were holding their breath for something to erupt between them.
Then it was over. The two men left without incident.
Greg, trained to observe a crowd, wasn’t sure how many people noticed the tension between Charlotte and the drop-ins. Brody Hancock and Eric Sloan probably would have if they’d been paying attention.
Pint in hand, Greg eased next to Isaac, the Amherst-bound Bennett. “The swaggering studs,” Greg said. “Who were they?”
Isaac grinned. “They did swagger, didn’t they? They’re contract divers. They did a few dives on the submarine project with Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Francesca. The tall one with the dark hair is Tommy Ferguson. I don’t know the other guy’s name.”
“How do you know Ferguson?”
“He’s the SOB who left Charlotte at the altar. No, wait. It’s the other way around. She left him at the altar.”
“When was this?” Greg asked.
“Last spring. I think it was spring. I was still in school. My junior year. So it’s over a year ago now.”
Greg took a drink of his beer. Well, this was interesting. “Our boy Tommy was in his tux, waiting for his bride-to-be to walk down the aisle, and she bolted?”
“She never showed up. It’s okay. They both say it wasn’t meant to be. Tommy’s over it.”
Tommy didn’t look over it, but Greg let Isaac return to the wedding festivities. He wandered back to his table. People were starting to make their goodbyes. Heather and Brody were going back to London. Greg didn’t know how many Sloans were showing up at their apartment. He’d stay at the pub again tonight. Then what?
Rural New England. The Red Clover Inn.
Bats, mice.
One Charlotte Bennett.
Time to book his flight. A few days in little Knights Bridge could be fun after all.
