Читать книгу One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 9

‘There’s a cowboy living in my house.’ Alice shrugged her damp coat off and left it on the hooks just inside Niamh’s front door. She’d huddled inside the hood of her parka and made an early morning dash from the caravan to the cottages, eager to talk about the new tenant of Borne Manor.

Dropping into the armchair by the fire, she gratefully accepted the mug of tea Niamh had already made for her in anticipation of her arrival.

‘A cowboy?’ Niamh perched on the seat of the other armchair. ‘As in Elvis and horses and all that stuff?’

‘Are you sure Elvis was a cowboy?’

Niamh shrugged. ‘I’ve definitely seen him in a Stetson, and he sure sounded like one, ma’am.’

Alice raised an eyebrow at Niamh’s dodgy attempt at an accent. ‘Not as much as this guy does. He has a guitar, and he wears his jeans like a cowboy, and he speaks with this deep drawl.’

Niamh considered Alice’s words for a moment then held up her palm. ‘Whoa. Back up there a second. He wears his jeans like a cowboy? What does that even mean?’

Alice floundered for the right words and pulled a face. ‘You know … all low slung and snug. As if he’s just got off his horse or something.’

’Please, God, tell me he’s good-looking?’

Alice paused, trying to decide how to answer.

‘He’s sort of striking, yeah. He’s got that laid-back, tanned cowboy thing going on.’

She looked at Niamh, who raised her eyebrows and waited for more. Alice shrugged, not wanting to over commit about the handsome but somewhat grumpy man living in her house.

‘I don’t know, really. He’s just got this capable way about him. Charismatic, I suppose.’

Niamh laughed into her coffee mug.

‘I think I need to see this man for myself. Think he’d fancy sitting for me?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Doubt it. He seemed a bit grouchy, to be honest. Although …’

‘What?’

Alice glanced across at Niamh’s canvas on the easel behind the armchairs, at the all too evident beginnings of yesterday’s octogenarian nude.

‘Nothing,’ she said, her eyes dancing as she looked back at Niamh. ‘It’s just that from the way those jeans fit him, I think you might need more than an old fig in your fruit bowl.’

A little later that morning, Robinson pulled back his bedroom curtains just in time to catch his resident woodland nymph running across the grass towards her mystery residence beyond the trees. Although she was more Eskimo than nymph this morning; he wouldn’t have recognised her except for her telltale red boots and the long blonde trails of hair escaping the hood she’d turned up as protection against the lashing rain. ‘Welcome to England,’ he muttered, scrubbing his hands through his hair to wake himself up. Jetlag was one hell of a bitch to shake.

His thoughts turned back to his new landlady as he brushed his teeth. Where had she been so early, anyway? Or had she just been coming home after a night elsewhere? He pushed the disturbing thought away and headed downstairs. He didn’t really object to her coming and going, but it was going to be kind of hard to keep a low profile if his garden became a thoroughfare for a steady stream of Alice’s friends and lovers.

Maybe that fence she’d mentioned was going to be necessary after all.

‘Alice?’

Even though she’d barely had one conversation with him, Alice recognised Robinson’s voice straight away. No one else in Shropshire, or in England for that matter, had that odd mix of gravel-rough and silky smooth when they said her name. She swung the caravan door open, frowning at the grey, drizzly day beyond the canopy awning.

‘Morning,’ she said, keeping her guard well and truly up. ‘Have you decided you need that guided tour after all?’

‘You live in an Airstream.’

Alice looked at him steadily, taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Yes. I do.’

His face had confusion written all over it. ‘You moved out of that huge house into a van in your own garden?’

It nettled her that he didn’t keep his confusion to himself, mostly because she wasn’t any more ready to elaborate on her situation than he’d been when he’d arrived yesterday.

‘Is that a problem to you?’ she said, not quite challenging, but not quite polite, either.

He looked mildly taken aback, shaking his head with a tiny shrug.

‘I guess not, so long as you don’t plan on throwing all-night parties down here.’

Alice considered her options for a moment. If she argued her right to do whatever the heck she pleased down here, then she’d also need to prepare herself for a reply that involved six-foot fences and privacy rights. On balance, she decided not to go in hard straight off the bat, mostly because it was still early and her brain needed more coffee.

‘Lucky for you I’m not the party sort, then.’ She nodded slowly. ‘You better come in out of the rain.’

Stepping back into the caravan, she flicked the gas on beneath the kettle, glad that the cooker co-operated easily for once.

‘Coffee?’

Robinson stepped inside the caravan, and Alice watched him silently size the place up. She knew perfectly well what he must be thinking.

Why would anyone move out of the manor into this? He looked at the eclectic collection of rugs she’d used to cover the old lino for warmth as well as appearance, and the faded cherry-red leather banquette seating covered in a mish mash of pretty cushions Niamh had made along with the new curtains. It wasn’t a palace, but the interior of the Airstream had a feminine, kitsch charm now that hadn’t been there before Alice and Niamh had set to work on it. Alice was particularly fond of how the polished chrome roof over her bed had come up; its curves and bolts all looked fabulous by candlelight at night. It was unexpectedly intimate, having him look at her bed. In the close confines of the caravan he was in her kitchen, her lounge and her bedroom all at once, and the breadth of his shoulders seemed more pronounced in the small space.

‘I love these old things,’ he said, surprising her as he ran an appreciative hand over the coach built cupboards. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t read his thoughts well at all. ‘My folks had one when we were kids. All of our holidays were spent pulled up beside one lake or another, climbing trees and running riot.’

Alice patted the worktop, basking a little in his approval of her new home despite herself.

‘I’m not sure she’s up to dragging around the country just yet, but I’m happy enough in here. Sit down,’ she said, motioning towards the banquette that ran around the opposite end of the caravan to the bed. He passed behind her where she stood at the cooker, close by necessity. He didn’t touch her, but all the same her body was unexpectedly aware of his in a way that made the hairs on the back of Alice’s neck stand up.

‘Sugar?’ she asked, flustered. What the hell was her body playing at? She was in the completely wrong place in her head for her body to be making such rash overtures, and it scared the hell out of her.

He shook his head, taking the mug she held out and placing it on the table in front of him. Alice picked up the drink she’d been part way through and joined him, perching a safe distance away on the end of the banquette opposite.

‘So, Mr Duff. How was your first night in the manor?’ She successfully fought the urge to say ‘in my manor’, or even worse, ‘in my bed’.

‘It’s Robinson, please.’

Alice frowned slightly, unsure she was happy to be on first name terms when her body had just acted in such an irresponsible fashion to his. Robinson Duff. Did something about his name ring a familiar bell? He must have sensed it in her, because he sighed a little and looked less comfortable than a moment ago.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said. ‘It’s just your name. I feel as if I’ve heard it before somewhere.’

He picked up his mug and drank slowly then lowered his eyelids, staring into his coffee.

‘I doubt that.’

He dismissed her words with a careless shrug.

Alice frowned, unconvinced, her head on one side as she looked at him.

‘No … I’m pretty sure I have,’ she said, sensing his annoyance and not understanding where it came from.

He sighed audibly.

‘Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t. It’s a pretty common name. Does it really matter?’ His carefully controlled look aimed for bland, but his eyes told a different story. They told her to back off. Alice received the message loud and clear and held her tongue, even though she wanted to point out that, actually, Robinson Duff wasn’t a very common name at all.

‘I used to be a singer, back home,’ he said, his tone flat, his eyes back on his coffee. ‘Next subject.’

Alice wished he’d look up. It was hard to read his expression without the luxury of seeing his eyes, but the quiet melancholy in his voice spoke of a heavy heart.

‘Must be it,’ she said, privately planning to look him up later. She’d heard of him, she was certain.

‘Where is home, Robinson?’

He didn’t reply for a few long beats.

‘Here, now,’ he said, finally glancing back up.

He said it in a way that closed that line of enquiry down too, told her very clearly that he’d rather talk about something else. Alice didn’t push it; recent events in her own life had taught her that some things are difficult to say. If Robinson needed to keep his secrets, she was okay with that. She just hoped he wasn’t planning to keep them for ever in her house, because some time soon she was going to want it back again. It was clear from his testy attitude that although they were going to be neighbours, they weren’t going to be friends. Alice found she was fine with that, because something about Robinson Duff made her profoundly uncomfortable. He was too much of a man; all broad shoulders and vitality and charisma. Her body approved, but her head and her heart didn’t, which put him right at the top of her ‘best avoided’ list. Wiping her palms down her jeans, she donned her professional landlady hat. She could be that, at least. She could be his landlady.

‘Want me to give you a guided tour of the house? There’s a few eccentricities to the place you should know about.’

His expression cleared back to neutral, as if he too found their professional relationship easier to navigate.

‘That might be a good idea, darlin’. I managed to find a bath and a bed without getting myself into too much trouble, but it sure is quite the house.’

Robinson’s accent was pure cowboy, as Dallas as Bobby Ewing and the way he said darlin’ sent a second unexpected and unwelcome prickle of awareness down Alice’s spine. She wanted to ask him not to say it again but knew that to do so would make her sound gauche and mildly militant.

‘It’s yours, I take it?’

She looked at him hard. What had they been talking about?

‘The house,’ he prompted. ‘You own it?’

Back in the room. ‘Yes. Yes, the manor’s mine.’

Robinson looked at her for a few silent seconds before he spoke again.

‘And will your family be joining you in the Airstream soon?’

He loaded the question with just the right balance of sarcasm and innocence, but he didn’t fool Alice.

Right. So that was how they were going to play it. She knew she’d read his fleeting expression of annoyance properly yesterday when she’d asked if his family would be coming to stay, and he was firing an answering shot across her bows.

It was her turn to play her cards close to her chest. Robinson’s eyes were full of questions, and she chose not to answer any of them.

‘You’ll like the village,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘There’s everything you might need, and The Siren’s a decent local.’

‘Local?’ he said, frowning.

‘Pub,’ she explained. ‘If you fancy a drink, it’s usually fun in there … a good crowd …’ Alice trailed off, aware that it sounded quite a lot like she was asking him out, which she absolutely wasn’t.

‘I’m pretty private.’

And that sounded quite a lot like a knock back.

‘I didn’t mean …’ he said, after a second, and then just shrugged and let his sentence hang in the air.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, over bright and too quick, then pushed her cup away from her on the table and stood up decisively.

‘Come on. Let me show you around the manor.’

Robinson followed Alice hurriedly across the lawns and in through the back door of the manor, pausing with her to shed his coat and wet boots.

‘Is it like this much?’ he asked, already disenchanted with the English weather.

‘April showers, I’m afraid. There’s talk of a hot summer though, if that’s any help.’ Alice smiled as she stepped out of her boots, hanging her wet parka up. ‘Come and warm up by the Aga.’

She moved across the kitchen tiles, her feet once more bare.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when he joined her by the stove. ‘I said that as if it’s my kitchen, didn’t I? Old habits.’

‘Change takes a while to get used to,’ he offered, wondering how the hell she’d wound up living in an Airstream in her own garden. Maybe in time she’d know him well enough to tell him. She was a very different kind of woman to those who’d filled Robinson’s life back home; there was a quietness about her, a self contained way that intrigued him despite his quest for privacy and peace. He hadn’t got the measure of her yet, but one thing was abundantly clear: she loved this house.

After a quick and complicated lesson on the Aga, Robinson resolved not to buy anything that couldn’t be microwaved and followed Alice back into the lofty entrance hall.

‘Dining room,’ she said, pushing open a wide door to reveal a high-ceilinged room with double aspect views over the lawns. The furniture was scaled to match the room, the long table grand and suitably aged beneath the central chandelier, but somehow the pretty interior decor choices allowed the room to avoid standing on ceremony. It was impeccably done, like the rest of the house, as far as he could see, a perfect blend of relaxed luxury and welcoming informality.

‘This is the living room,’ Alice opened another door to show him another equally large, airy room with French doors onto a terrace, this time with oversized ivory sofas that beckoned you to sleep on them and a fabulous original stone fireplace. Logs filled a basket beside the hearth, and Robinson made a mental note to light a fire in there later that evening.

‘There’s satellite TV in here, and the music system is decent,’ Alice said. She probably assumed that was important to him. In a previous life, it would have been pretty darn crucial.

He nodded, non-committal, and she led him back into the entrance hall towards the sweeping staircase. Pausing by a door under the stairs, she backtracked on herself and opened it.

‘Down there’s the cellar,’ she said, feeling around on the wall for the light. ‘I’ll show you, because you’ll need to know where the electric box is. The lights can trip sometimes if you overload the system.’

She stepped down and then turned back to him. ‘Mind your step, it’s pretty steep.’

Robinson followed Alice down the steps into the coolness below the house.

‘Is this the part where you kill me and store me in the deep freeze down here along with all your previous tenants?’

‘Keep paying the rent and I’ll let you live a while longer yet,’ she murmured, flicking the lid down on the fuse box and pointing out what he needed to know.

Robinson really didn’t need the explanation. He knew his way around electrics. Before hitting pay-dirt in Nashville he’d made a living on building sites as a carpenter, and he’d worked around enough electricians to have more than a rudimentary grasp on the basics should he ever need it. All the same, he let Alice demonstrate and nodded in the right places, because it was clear that sharing her knowledge of the house gave her pleasure. When she turned to close the box up he inspected the room behind him.

‘You play the drums?’ he couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

Even from behind he didn’t miss the way her shoulders tensed. She turned slowly, her expression carefully bland. ‘Not me. They’re my husband’s, not that he used them much.’

‘Your husband?’ She’d ducked out of answering his earlier question about family, and Robinson instinctively looked down at her hands and found her fingers bare of rings. She didn’t miss it and met his eyes steadily when he quickly looked back up again.

‘He’s away just now,’ she said, her voice way too breezy for the troubled expression on her face. ‘Feel free to make use of the drums if you’d like.’

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t make use of the drums, nor would he play the gorgeous baby grand piano he’d spotted in the living room earlier. He wasn’t even sure he’d play his beloved guitar again; he’d brought it only because travelling without it felt like leaving one of his limbs behind. He hadn’t been anywhere without it since he was fifteen years old; not even his honeymoon. Right now it was propped against the wall in the corner of the bedroom, almost out of sight, even if never entirely out of his mind. Just because he wasn’t playing it didn’t mean that his fingers didn’t ache to hold it and strum its familiar strings. Would this bitterness ever leave him? Lena really had done a number on him; she hadn’t just hacked his heart up, she’d as good as hacked his hands off too. He didn’t know which hurt more any longer; losing Lena, or losing the will to play, to sing. Forcing the thoughts away, he followed Alice back up the cellar steps and onwards up the staircase towards the bedrooms.

‘The house has seven bedrooms in all,’ Alice said. ‘Five on this floor, and then a further two en-suite rooms upstairs in the attics. You might want to take one down here though, the ceilings up there aren’t really designed for people over five foot.’ Alice nodded towards the second-floor staircase as she spoke, towards the rooms she’d once hoped would house her children. Squaring her shoulders, she continued on down to the far end of the wide hallway.

‘This is my favourite of the bathrooms up here,’ she said, leading Robinson through a door off to the left. ‘A loo with a view.’

One of the many things that had enchanted her when they’d first viewed Borne Manor had been the magical corner bathroom with huge picture windows looking out over the gardens. She’d since spent countless candlelit hours in the huge roll-top bath that stood central in the panelled room, a fire in the hearth in winter, a book in her hand whatever the season.

Drawing the door closed, she moved back down the hall, opening each of the original oak doors to reveal the pretty bedrooms that lay beyond.

‘And this one’s the master,’ she said, opening the door that up to a day or two back had been her own bedroom, and just a few months ago had been the room she’d shared with Brad.

‘Yeah, I’ve …’ Robinson’s words dried up as he and Alice stood in the doorway and surveyed the unmade bed, the guitar propped in the corner and the suitcase he’d thrown open on the floor last night in search of his razor.

There was no reason for it to come as shock to see her bedroom being used by someone else; part and parcel of renting your house out furnished, after all, was that the tenants used your things. They cooked in your kitchen, they watched your TV on your sofa, and they slept in your bed. Nonetheless, Alice needed a minute to find the right words, or to find any words at all. It was a shock to imagine him sprawled out in her bed. Had he slept on her side, or on Brad’s? It was hard to tell from the way the quilt was tangled on the sheets, it looked as if he’d spent the night tossing and turning.

Robinson seemed to realise her discomfort, because he reached past her and pulled the door shut again.

‘I think I’ve got this one covered already,’ he murmured.

‘Quite,’ Alice said, trying to pull herself together. ‘Quite.’

Walking ahead of him, she took the stairs at a skip and walked briskly back to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the familiar flagstones.

‘Thanks, Alice. I’m sure I’ll have a hundred questions while I get used to the place,’ he said, resting his ass on the kitchen table as he watched her. That’s my table you’ve got your backside on, she thought. That’s my table and you’re sleeping in my bloody bed.

‘Maybe you could make a list,’ she said flatly.

Touring Robinson around the manor had reminded her all too vividly of the life she’d planned to live there, and left Alice ungraciously resenting his presence rather than being glad of his rent.

He nodded easily. ‘I know where to find you.’

‘I’m out quite a lot,’ she said quickly, a complete lie to deter him from dropping by. ‘Leave a note under the Airstream door if it’s urgent.’

She saw her dismissal register on his face and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Pushing her feet back into her wellies at the same time as grabbing her coat, she had the door open in seconds.

‘Right. I’ll leave you to it. Have a good day!’ she called brightly into her hood, and then ducked out into the rain and made a dash for the safety of the Airstream. She was glad of the rain. It hid the tears that streaked her cheeks, and the wind took the sound of the sobs that choked from her body as she ran.

Robinson leaned against the doorframe and sighed heavily. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that Alice McBride was a girl with a damaged heart. Watchful eyes. Defensive words. Bare fingers. Walls around walls around fragile hearts to keep people out.

He recognised the symptoms, because he’d been an in- patient on the same ward for a while now. From the way she’d reacted just now he’d say she’d probably been there for less time than he had; her pain seemed fresher, less under control. He wasn’t in a position to offer her any hopeful words of wisdom; just keep breathing and hoping it hurts less tomorrow didn’t really offer any kind of solace.