Chapter 3 #2
She realized she had no room to criticize given the sizable subterfuge she was engaged in herself, but she’d fully intended to confess.
She had also planned to honor her primary commitment of making sure her parents’ nest was in good shape before they arrived.
The idea that her parents might have indulged in a little creative fiction about papers and pansies, though, when they’d fully intended to exchange the same for jongleurs and mead was almost more than she could wrap her mind around.
She shook her head and dismissed the thought with extreme prejudice.
Her parents had been making their yearly pilgrimage to England for as long as she could remember and their reminiscences of the same had always revolved around academic events.
Admittedly there was the problem of the costumes she’d just seen, but her parents were adults.
If they wanted to pretend to live in medieval times and flirt like a pair of teenagers after their academic work was done for the day, who was she to stand in their way?
She also wasn’t going to watch, but perhaps that didn’t need to be said out loud.
She turned her attentions to the other trunk that was sitting there, daring her to roll the dice a second time.
If she picked the lock on it with quite a bit less enthusiasm than she had the first, who could blame her?
Fortunately, a tentative peek inside revealed nothing more alarming than her mother’s favorite trowel and a selection of tea-party-appropriate frocks.
She paused to consider the possibilities.
She could pretend she was doing research with the local gardening club and needed a 1950s-era dress to impress, true, but while her mother would look smashing and chic in those vintage togs, she would look like a poufy snowdrop who’d repurposed some obliging grandma’s extra couch fabric or the matching drapes.
She investigated a bit more, but all she turned up were things that belonged to her father.
Mid-century college professor at his leisure with a glass of whiskey and a pair of reading glasses was a great look for her father, but not for her.
She resigned herself to making do with what she was wearing and carefully repacked everything how she’d found it.
She was fairly sure there was a trip to London on the conference schedule for the following day, so with any luck she could find herself a vintage thrift shop where things were priced for the savvy traveler.
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then looked around herself again, avoiding eye contact with the sofa.
It occurred to her that she hadn’t paid any attention to the outside of her parents’ cottage on her way to the inside, but it had been that sort of day so far.
She would make certain everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion, then consider her duty done for the day.
She shuffled over to the front door, yawning uncontrollably, then spent a slightly alarming amount of time merely trying to get that door open. She persevered, then took a cautious look outside.
The cottage opened out into a tiny little courtyard that would have held a couple of picnic baskets and maybe Yogi Bear but not Boo Boo. Charming, but thankfully not nefarious. Relieved and reassured, Harriet turned her attentions to the view beyond the garden gate.
And it was then that she realized she had relaxed far too soon.
A village green lay there in front of her.
Dotted along its edges like clots of creamy misery were, in no particular order, a honey-hued building housing a pair of shops selling heaven only knew what, more houses—singly or connected in various configurations—made from the same golden stone and boasting equally charming front gardens, and, more dire still, the beginnings of path that she could plainly see led to a church that looked as if it had been there for seven, perhaps even eight centuries.
The whole place was something from her worst British mystery series nightmares.
A medieval church no doubt housing dodgy vicars, a village park with benches and a pagoda where disgruntled gardeners and offended ladies’ aid society members could gather to plot, and a collection of tiny stores where shopkeepers likely sold questionable herbal concoctions to those with nefarious intentions? Absolutely appalling.
She didn’t see anyone suspicious loitering in any of the aforementioned spots, but it was still early.
She eased carefully back from the doorway, shut the door, then locked it.
Out of sight, hopefully out of mind for at least the next couple of hours.
Obviously that new list of things to avoid needed to be made very soon.
She checked her watch and considered her other plans.
It was only noon, which left her four hours to kill before she could check into the conference.
Stuffing everything back into her backpack was the only thing she had left to do, but she could leave that for later.
The cottage was immaculate, so there wasn’t anything to do there either that might have distracted her from her looming case of nerves over exactly how she was going to corner TD Piaget and encourage him to reveal his deepest, darkest secrets.
Perhaps arriving early to the venue for the reception would be more important than she’d suspected. Identifying a spot where she might pin the man and grill him about his life choices was going to be of utmost importance.
She wandered over to the fireplace, arranged her parents’ trunks more artistically, then relented and looked at the sofa.
It was a lovely cream color with contrasting throw pillows made from fabric she felt compelled to walk over and inspect a bit more closely before settling on a date for the pattern.
Her mother would absolutely want to know.
She straightened those patterned throw pillows because she was responsible like that.
And if she took a moment to sit and give the couch a bit more attention than she had before, just to make certain it was up to her father’s standards of nappability, what else could she do but feel pleased that she’d satisfied her commitment to her parents’ comfort?
There was also, come to think of it, no reason not to engage in a bit more investigation so she could give her father a full report. She’d taken off her shoes earlier, so there was nothing standing between her and the burden of trying out the entire span of couch.
She realized after she’d stretched out and made herself comfortable that it might have been better to have closed the drapes for the full effect, but perhaps closing her eyes would be enough.
Just for a moment or two.
Harriet woke.
She opened her eyes and realized by the angle and number of the sun’s rays barely hanging on in their quest to pour light into the room that she had fallen asleep. To be honest, she didn’t remember it. Worse still, she wasn’t entirely sure she was actually awake.
She heaved herself to her feet, then had to sit back down until the stars stopped swirling around her head.
Resisting the impulse to lie down took a bit of effort, but she already knew where that would lead.
She counted to ten in every language she knew just to keep herself sharp, then opened her eyes to see if her body was going to cooperate with her plans for the evening.
The room had stopped spinning, so maybe that was the best she could hope for.
She got to her feet, then made her way over to the kitchen and considered her options.
She had no means of taming her hair besides her scrunchie and a quick glance at the clock informed her that she was going to have to run to get herself to the venue in time to get to the reception, never mind checking herself in.
She would just have to pretend her private jet had been facing a stiff headwind and put her behind schedule.
She would channel her inner-MacKenzie and silently dare anyone who looked at her askance to question her story.
She shoved everything she owned into her backpack, made sure she had the keys to the cottage in hand, then let herself out the front door and locked things up.
She pulled the map out of her wallet, made certain to put her wallet back where it had come from, then unfolded her directions. The inn wasn’t far as the crow flew, but she wasn’t about to march straight over that village green with the sun heading below the tree line. Better safe than sorry.
She headed in the appropriate direction, but her destination turned out to be farther away than she’d expected.
It was tempting to rush, but she didn’t want to run and potentially disturb the casually windswept look she had going.
She settled for walking quickly and trying not to get too caught up in the terrible charm of the village as a whole.
And if the honk of a car had her jumping back up on the sidewalk just as she was stepping off it, that was probably a blessing in disguise.
She lasted another five minutes before she had to stop and lean against a wall she was fairly sure wasn’t hiding anything untoward behind itself.
She scanned the street, just to be thorough.
Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe the village was small, but she was absolutely certain the dark-gray Ford that was finishing up a first-rate parallel parking job ten feet in front of her had been the same one to almost run over her a few minutes earlier.
Admittedly she’d been looking in the wrong direction before crossing the street, so the fault was hers.
It was also true that the driver had only tooted at her instead of leaning on his horn.
For all she knew he was a distracted grandfather who might need her help.
The door opened. She put on her best customer-service smile as she started toward the car to help Grandpa with any bags—