Chapter 10
Arthur
Who was Hettie? Fucking hell—
Sorry, Hettie. I didn’t mean to swear.
I kept the laugh to myself.
“Mrs. Henrietta Parsons.” I stirred the sauce, remembering my small hands on my first wooden spoon. “She was a chef who cooked for us for almost thirty years.”
Except she wasn’t just a chef. Mrs. Parsons, as my father called her, was five feet two and had a voice that could stop a grown man at twenty paces.
My mother had called her Hettie, and so did I.
She called me “my boy” while everyone else in my father’s employ called me “Master Arthur” or “young Mr. Penn.”
“She showed me this recipe for the first time when I was five,” I said. “I stood on a stool so I could reach the stove, and she let me stir.”
“She let a five-year-old near a gas stove?” Gwen asked.
“She let me stir.” I could still feel Hettie’s fingers wrapped around mine on the big spoon she’d also rapped my knuckles with once. “She did everything else.”
‘Slowly, my boy. You’ll splash it if you rush.’ She’d said it every time, even when I was fourteen and taller than her, standing at the same stove without the stool. Still stirring too fast. Still being corrected.
“Her waffles were my favorite,” Lance said.
“Mmm.” I could have tasted them if the kitchen weren’t so full of garlic and olives. “Strawberries, whipped cream, and maple syrup she had imported from Quebec.”
Gwen yawned. “From another family farm?”
I pointed at her with the clean end of the spoon. “Precisely.”
Lance chuckled, clearly traveling down memory lane with me. “Do you remember New York Thanksgiving 2015? That turkey must have been fifty pounds.”
Gwen looked between us. “New York Thanksgiving? Is that different from normal Thanksgiving?”
“It was different from the Thanksgiving in Miami in 2014, when she roasted half a pig,” Lance said. “And definitely different from the one in London in 2018, when she added Yorkshire puddings.”
Gwen opened her mouth. Not a yawn this time—probably to ask why we celebrated Thanksgiving in so many places.
“We traveled a lot,” I said, wanting to gag Lance. “Hettie did this thing where she’d carve the meat at the table with a commentary. Play-by-play, like a sports announcer. ‘And the left drumstick is looking nervous, folks.’”
Lance grinned. “She made your father laugh. That alone was worth the trip.”
It was true. My father didn’t laugh often, but Hettie pulled it out of him. She did it without trying, which was probably why it worked. My mother always said Hettie was good to me because she was more grounded than the rest of the world around me.
“She passed a few years ago.” I tapped my chest, reminding my heart not to squeeze too much over the memory of her funeral. “But the recipe’s still in here.”
“She was a force,” Lance said quietly. “Tiny woman. Absolutely terrifying.”
“She was not terrifying.”
“She threw a potato at me once.”
“You deserved it.”
Gwen laughed, and my heart squeezed again.
She’s a client. Finish the pasta.
I checked the noodles. They were almost ready. “Lance, can you grab the plates and forks?”
He slid off his stool. “Do you want your mum’s blue china with the little cornflower pattern, the handmade ones she puts the fruit displays in, or should I scrounge for paper plates?”
“Use the white ones in that cabinet.” I pointed behind him and Gwen.
“Boring.”
“Functional.”
He set three plates and forks on the island and settled back onto his stool beside Gwen. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“It depends on what Gwen needs.” I pulled the pasta from the pot with tongs just before it was al dente and dropped it into the saucepan along with some starchy water.
The water and oil came together as I tossed the noodles through.
Another splash, and I kept tossing until the sauce clung to every strand instead of pooling at the bottom.
Hettie would have told me the tomatoes were underripe, but they were imported, and I hadn’t been the one who’d bought them.
“I need to see the carvings in person,” Gwen said. “I’m hoping there’s more text hidden in the shadows that will help me figure out what’s written on the sword’s pommel.”
I plated Lance’s first, twirled a portion with the tongs, and finished with an extra drizzle of the Umbrian oil.
“St. Catherine’s is a small building.” I’d pulled up the floor plan and pictures on the jet.
Single nave, a tower arch, not much else.
It was located in Temple and was called Temple Church by some.
My father had likely taken me there when I was younger, to visit the site where the Templars had worshiped centuries ago.
I couldn’t distinguish it from the hundred other places where I’d stood listening to him tell me how important our lineage was. “How long do you need inside?”
“A few hours? I want to photograph everything and compare the carvings against the sword. Maybe see if there’s any additional documentation, and check the outbuildings, as well.” She put up a hand to decline the pasta when I offered. “I’m not actually hungry.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. When she’d first come into the kitchen, she’d accepted the bread from me, and her whole body had sagged as she ate it. She wasn’t going to leave without tasting this.
“Okay,” she said with a smile. “Just a small plate.”
I gave her a plate that wasn’t quite small, but she didn’t argue.
“One of us will stay inside with you, one outside,” I said, leaning against the counter across from them with my own plate.
“We rotate every thirty minutes so neither of us goes stale. The church sits off a narrow lane with heavy tree cover on the south and east sides. Hard to see from the road, which is good for privacy but bad for monitoring approaches.”
Lance nodded and spoke around a mouthful of pasta. “Who takes first interior?”
“I will.” I’d already mapped the layout from Gwen’s research images. “I was originally thinking we’d leave at eight in the morning, but it’s been a long day, so how about ten? We’ll arrive before the day gets too busy.”
Gwen picked up her fork and took a bite. Her eyes drifted closed, and I was back at The Train Station, watching her eat her chocolate dessert. Listening to that tiny noise she’d made. Filing it away for later, but instead winding up dealing with her break-in.
She swallowed and let out a little sigh.
What kind of chocolate do we have in the pantry?
Shut up, Penn.
“I’m particularly interested in the oldest stonework.
” She twirled another forkful. “Areas like the tower, the font, and the outbuilding might have something imprinted on them that will give me clues about the sword’s provenance.
But it’s complicated, since they rebuilt with some of the original stones, so what used to be floor might be upper wall now. ”
I speared an olive and a chunk of tomato. These would be wonderful with the bread, too. “So you want to examine every stone in the church?”
“Pretty much.” She shrugged. “I’ll need photographs at multiple angles, but I want to run my fingertips over the carvings, in case I can feel something I can’t see.”
That meant a lot of standing around while Gwen concentrated on her work. Hopefully an easy day.
She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been two days crammed into one,” Lance said.
“Don’t remind me.” She yawned, longer this time, and pushed her plate forward. Half the pasta was gone. Not bad for someone who wasn’t hungry. She stood, and the stool scraped against the tile. “Thanks for all of this, but I think my brain’s finally ready for sleep.”
“Good night,” Lance and I said in unison.
She padded out through the archway onto the hardwood beyond and was gone.
I stopped bothering with manners and shoveled a forkful of food into my mouth.
“So,” Lance said.
As I chewed, I grabbed Gwen’s plate, pushed the leftovers into the pan, and took the dish to the sink at the end of the room, under one of the big windows.
“Interesting evening,” Lance said from behind me.
I turned on the tap and, while the water warmed, I rummaged through one of the lower cabinets for a glass container. “A wild day, more like.”
“Right.” He drew the word out. “Is that why you told her a neighbor came to turn on the heat?”
“What?” I emptied the pasta and sauce into the container, and put the pan under the water.
“A neighbor.” He came to stand next to me by the sink, resting one hip against the counter.
“Ethan isn’t a neighbor. He’s the caretaker.
You called one of the three permanent staff members who live a stone’s throw away to open the place up for you and bring food. But you told her a neighbor popped by.”
I turned off the water and put the food in the refrigerator. “It wasn’t an important distinction.”
“It’s a very important distinction if you’re embarrassed about your money.”
“I’m not embarrassed about my money.”
“You’re being weird.” He folded his arms. “It was like at the restaurant last night, how you were leaning in to her, recommending wine, telling her about the winery as if you were trying to impress her.”
“I was making conversation.”
“And then this morning at Grace’s café, when I pitched the protection assignment, you were a complete asshole about it. You accused me of trying to get into her pants, over a sound operational recommendation.”
I began cleaning my plate. The water was too hot, but I didn’t adjust it. “That was a strategy discussion.”
“That was you with your head up your ass because you didn’t want to admit you were the one with the problem.” He unfolded his arms and put his hands flat on the counter. “You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I took the five paces back to the island and grabbed his plate.
He’d left a forkful of pasta on it. “I was eating that!”
“Meal’s over.” I scraped the last of his food into the drain and rinsed it. Before he said more, I flipped open the tiny compartment next to the sink and turned on the garbage disposal.
But as I washed his plate, Gwen’s face popped into my mind. The way her eyes had closed when she tried the first bite of bread with the oil. She’d loved it as much as she’d loved the pasta.
Lance just stood there and stared, waiting me out.
I turned off the racket and switched topics before he could continue. “We need to talk about the car from the airfield.”
“She’s a fucking amazing woman, Arthur. And for the record, you’d be a—”
“Enough, Lance. I didn’t want to talk about it with her here, but we need to make sure we’re on the same page.”
He pivoted and rested his back against the counter. “I clocked it when we turned onto the main road. Dark sedan. Stayed about six car lengths back for most of the drive.”
“I think it was behind us when we left the airport, but I lost it for a few minutes, so I’m not sure if it was the same car.”
“Could be nothing.” He frowned. “Could be someone who recognized the Penn heir—”
“Fuck off.”
The corner of his mouth slid up, and he winked at me. “Or some gossip hound who heard a Gulfstream was flying into a tiny airfield in the middle of nowhere and thought a celebrity scandal was coming to town.”
“Or it’s connected to Gwen and the sword.
” I placed Lance’s plate in the drying rack and pulled my phone from the counter.
I opened the monitoring app and was greeted by a screen full of green lights.
No motion detected, no perimeter breaches, and the camera feeds showed empty gravel and dark gardens.
“Is it smart for us to stay here?” Lance asked. “We might be better off lying low at a rental or a hotel.”
I set the phone face-up on the counter where we could both see it. “The security system covers every approach. If anyone gets within a hundred feet, we get an alert. And if the absolute worst happens, the safe room’s stocked and ready.”
“This morning, I wouldn’t have thought that was even a vague possibility.”
“So, we stay. If any direct threats emerge, we reassess.”
Lance nodded. “Okay.”
He was right. I had been weird at the restaurant. I’d wanted to keep talking to Gwen and ignore the rest of the table, but a gracious guest paid attention to everyone sitting with them. Although if I hadn’t been driving Lance home, I might have tried to prolong the evening with her.
Fuck, who was I kidding? I definitely would have. Physical only, though.
Because emotional connections are dangerous, right, Dad?
Emotions meant letting your guard down and risking everything. Now that I had a company of my own, my team’s success required I keep my head on straight.
“You should get some shut-eye,” I said.
“What about you?”
I gestured toward the cutting board and the stovetop. “No staff here right now, so I’ve got to clean up.”
Lance straightened, stretched, and yawned. “Any chance you’ll make us Hettie’s waffles for breakfast?”
I pulled the dish towel off my shoulder and snapped it at him. “Go to bed.”
He nudged me, then went to get his jacket at the end of the island. As he pulled it on, he turned and said, “She’s fucking amazing, but I didn’t have my head screwed on right at the time.”
“Go to bed.”
“Just saying.” He left, and I let out a sigh.
I turned back to the sink and ran more hot water into the saucepan. Watched the last of Hettie’s puttanesca swirl down the drain.
Emotional connections are dangerous, Arthur. Remember that.