trip is a waste of time.”
“It is a waste of time. You don’t have to read my mind. I told you.”
“You gave me your professional opinion. I get that, but I have a bad vibe about my return to Knights Bridge. I’ve learned to trust my vibes. They’re not always right, I admit that, but they’re not always wrong, either.” She sniffed. “I’m willing to pay for my peace of mind.”
She settled back in her chair, eyeing Russ as if daring him to argue with her. She wore a close-fitting top with a deep V-neck and slim pants, both in the same shade as her dark green eyes. Even early on a Saturday afternoon, she had on gold earrings, a bunch of rings and gobs of makeup. But she pulled it off. She looked good. She always did. As a costume designer, she’d told Russ, she felt she should make an effort with her attire whether she was running out for a quart of milk or attending the Academy Awards.
Julius piled more plant debris onto the deck rail. He was in his fifties—twenty years older than Russ—and newly married to a San Diego attorney. He had on expensive golf clothes, his usual attire these days. He had two grown daughters by his first marriage, both Los Angeles attorneys. The younger one was buying his house, now that he was moving into his wife’s La Jolla home. Russ figured he could afford a Harry Potter cupboard in either La Jolla or Hollywood Hills.
“Why is this place called Moss Hill?” Julius asked Daphne.
She shuddered. “I hate that I know the answer. It’s at the base of an actual hill of that name.”
“Is there moss?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, Julius.”
He tackled a fernlike plant, grabbing a handful of brown matter. “Was it always called Moss Hill?”
“Yes. Sort of. It was called Moss Hill to distinguish it from the other Sanderson mills in the area. They’re all gone now, most of them demolished when the reservoir was built.”
Russ tried to control his impatience. He didn’t care what the damn place was called. It was in this nowhere-town, and he had to get on a plane tonight, fly to Boston and drive there in the morning.
“My great-great-grandfather, George Sanderson, built the mill in the nineteenth century,” Daphne said. “It produced straw hats until sometime after World War I.”
“Like the straw hat Dick Van Dyke wears in Mary Poppins?” Russ asked.
Julius and Daphne both raised their eyebrows. Julius held his clippers in midair. “You’ve watched Mary Poppins? Seriously?”
“Marty and I watched it on a snow day back when our father was stationed in upstate New York,” Russ said. “I was six. Marty was eight. I’d sing the chimney-sweep song to taunt him.”
Julius snorted. “He didn’t throw your ass in the snow?”
“No, he did. It had no effect.”
Daphne shook her head. “I have a hard time envisioning you and Marty as little boys. You shouldn’t run into snow in Knights Bridge this late in April.”
“If it snows on me,” Russ said, “I’m quitting.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” Julius said. “You can’t quit this week. I can’t fill in for you. I’ll be in La Jolla planning my new office in the poolside guest room.”
“I can’t believe you’re moving down there.” Daphne snorted with displeasure. “Do you have a clause in your sales contract with your daughter that you can get your house back if you hate La Jolla?”
“There is nothing to hate about La Jolla, Daphne,” Julius said.
Russ admired Julius’s patience. After ten years working with her, Julius was used to Daphne, and he considered her a friend. Russ did, too, although he’d only known her a few months, and today she was testing him.
“I’m not quitting Sawyer & Sawyer,” Julius added. “I’m not going to abandon you.”
“Will your daughter invite me to coffee on your deck?”
“When have I ever invited you? You just show up.”
Daphnee pursed her lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “You’re the devil himself, Julius Hartley. But now I have my young PI, Colt Russell. How do you like Los Angeles compared to San Diego, Colt?”
Julius gathered up his pile of debris and threw it over the deck into his backyard without a word. Russ picked up his coffee mug. He didn’t correct Daphne. She knew his name. She was trying to get a reaction from him. He wasn’t irritated, amused or concerned. This was just part of his new life.
“You’re so serious,” she said. “You remind me of Liam Neeson in Taken.”
Julius joined them at the table. “You told me the other day he reminds you of Mark Harmon as Gibbs in NCIS.”
“Gibbs was a marine,” Russ said. “Neeson was CIA.”
“And you were navy,” Julius said.
Daphne waved a hand. “Whatever. Liam Neeson and Mark Harmon are both older than you, Russ, I mean Colt, but you have that same kick-ass look. I like it. I’ll bet you can kill people with your left thumb.”
“Easier with my right thumb.”
Russ could tell Daphne didn’t know if he was serious. She got to her feet. “Well, I like knowing you’re in my corner as I prepare for this class. You know I’ve never taught a class, right? I don’t even like to speak in public. Ava and Ruby O’Dunn were very persuasive in getting me to say yes. They appealed to my ego and my desire to help and encourage young designers. I fell for every bit of it.”
“You’ll be great,” Julius said.
Daphne kept her green eyes on Russ. Finally, she sighed. “Well? Aren’t you going to agree?”
“Agree with what?” Russ asked, mystified.
“That I’ll be great.”
He wasn’t as good at client care and reading the cues as Julius was. “Sure,” he said. “You’ll be great.”
“You’re both awful men and total liars,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I could stink up the room on Saturday, and you’d tell me I had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”
“I never lie to you,” Julius said. “Sometimes you choose not to hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lied.”
“Well, I give you permission to lie on Saturday, because it won’t matter. Whether I stink or I’m terrific makes no difference. Either way, I am never, ever, ever doing this again.”
“That’s nerves talking. See how you feel after you get through this thing.” Julius rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’ve been meaning to tell you... I can’t be in Knights Bridge on Saturday, Daphne. I’m sorry.”
“Your wife again. La Jolla. This move. Next, you’ll be telling me you’re volunteering at the San Diego Zoo.” Before Julius could respond, Daphne swung around to Russ. “I suggest packing bug spray. It might be black-fly season in Massachusetts.”
With that, she bid them goodbye and trotted down the stairs, back to the peppy little car she drove. She lived in Hollywood Hills herself, but she operated in a different social circle from Julius—a different world altogether from Russ.
The slider into the kitchen opened, and Loretta Wrentham, Julius’s bride of one month, stuck her head out. “Is the coast clear?”
Julius grinned. “You want me to go downstairs and make sure?”
“It’s all right. I have nerves of steel.” Loretta came out on to the deck. She was in her fifties, slim and fit, with short, graying dark hair. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white shirt and sandals with three-inch