my God, did I pick up a parrot?” she demanded. Okay, play the game. She shook her head and sighed. “The bathroom.”
“An indoor washroom?” he asked, seriously trying to understand.
She crooked a finger at him. He followed her.
Leave it to her mom. It wasn’t all traditional New England decorating that she’d used—it was more New England meets Goth. Her folks loved pirates. The upstairs bathroom was done in early Blackbeard; the shower curtain boasted pirate flags, the decoration had ships—and the standing toilet paper holder was a silver-colored spyglass replica.
She pointed to the toilet. “Indoor…necessary, I believe. Sink. Water comes on and off when you twist the faucets. The shower works just the same. Be careful—they have a mega water heater and when you turn on the hot, it gets hot.”
He still stared.
She pulled a towel from the rack.
“Shower. You turn on the water to your temperature liking. Stand beneath the spray. Use soap. Rinse off. Dry with towel—put on clothing. Okay?”
“Amazing,” he said.
“Oh, God! It’s a hot shower. Get in and get out. And come downstairs when you’re done. No gaping. We have a stove and a television and—”
“Television?”
“Television. You see moving images on it. Fiction, and nonfiction. The news, the weather.” She made a face. “Reality shows for entertainment.”
“Reality as entertainment?” he inquired.
“Precisely.”
“But a television…”
She let out an oath of absolute impatience and hurried on out, closing the door.
In the family room, she found her father. He had been seated in one of the wing-back chairs by the fire, but he stood when he saw her, a tall lean man with a cap of snow-white hair. Cleo had been happily curled just behind his neck and she mewed a protest at his movement. Her father absently patted the cat, then came to Melody. He folded her into his arms. “Melody! I was getting worried about you coming today, the news about all the accidents on the roads has been terrible.”
She gave him a fierce hug in return, and they parted. “So, what’s up, Dad? How’s it all going?”
“Beautifully,” he assured her. “I like being retired.”
Her mother breezed into the room, carrying a tray laden with cups of cocoa and fresh-baked cookies. “He nearly blew up his study last week,” Mona said.
Her father shrugged, a tolerant smile for his wife on his face. “I did nothing of the kind. I had a little spark and a tiny fire going, and that was it. I keep a fire extinguisher on hand at all times, and I was never in any danger of losing the study.”
“Humph,” Mona said, rolling her eyes. She sat. “So, my dear, I don’t remember you mentioning this Jake fellow. Is he related to Mark? He resembles him quite a bit.”
“No, no, they’re not related at all.”
“You’re kidding,” Mona said. “I thought he’d be a cousin or something…even a brother. Wait till you see him, George,” she marveled to her husband.
“And when is the man of the hour coming up?” her father asked, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’m referring to Mark, of course.”
“Mom, Dad, Mark isn’t the man of the hour,” she said seriously.
“But…you were dating him, and you seemed to like him so much!” Mona protested. “He’s such a gentleman, always opening doors for you, trying to get you to sit and relax…he’s a lovely man, really. What happened?”
“He’s still a lovely man, Mom,” she said. “Nothing happened.”
“Oh, my Lord, he hasn’t been mean or rude to you, has he?” Mona asked indignantly. “I’ve asked him here for the holidays!”
“He hasn’t been mean or rude, and I hope he enjoys the holidays, and I hope we can remain friends,” Melody said.
“Mark is such a nice young man,” her mother said sorrowfully.
“Mom—”
“I see. You’re not as fond of the fellow as he is of you,” her father said, nodding as he sat back more deeply into his chair.
“Melody,” her mother said sternly, “you haven’t brought your other friend—this Jake—to…I don’t know, to upset Mark, have you?”
“Mom, I brought him because…he really had nothing else to do,” she said.
“Is there a romance there?” her father asked, laughter in his eyes again.
“Good God, no,” Melody said. “Please, no matchmaking with Mark, Mom, Dad. And none with Jake. Got it?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” her mother said. “You’ve got to live your own life.”
“Never,” her father promised.
“So, I’m confused. Aren’t you and Mark working together?” Mona asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re not going to stop doing the book, are you?” her father asked.
“I hope not.”
Jake came into the room then. Keith’s clothes fit him well, and Melody had to blink, he suddenly looked so right. With his hazel eyes, sandy-brown hair and good bone structure.
“Well, there now, you look more relaxed and comfy,” Mona said. “Jake Mallory, my husband, George. George, this is Melody’s friend from college, Jake Mallory.”
“Pleased to meet you, and welcome. So, you’re staying the week?” he asked politely.
Jake glanced at Melody. “If you’ll have me, sir.”
“With pleasure, with pleasure,” George Tarleton said, indicating the sofa and returning to his rocking chair.
“Cocoa, dear,” Mona said, handing him a cup.
“Thank you most kindly,” Jake said.
Melody looked downward, wincing.
“You sound almost as if you’re from ye old mother country,” George said lightly, taking a sip of his own cocoa.
“No, sir. I was born and bred right here, in these parts.”
“It’s a charming accent,” Mona said.
“Thank you,” Jake said. “My folks were born on British soil.”
“There you go,” George said, knowingly looking at his wife. He wagged a finger in the air. “I am good at discerning the little things in accents, huh, dear?”
“Yes, dear, if you say so,” Mona agreed.
“How strange, though. I’m sure I don’t know your folks,” George said. “We don’t have any English friends—do we?”
“My parents have been gone many years,” Jake said.
“I’m so sorry!” Mona said.
“Thank you,” Jake told her.
“But where is your home now?” George asked, concerned.
“He’s living in Boston, Dad!” Melody said, jumping in quickly with the information. She grabbed a cookie and munched it quickly. “Mom, these are delicious. Jake, have a cookie. My mom’s a wonderful baker.”
“Thank you,” he said politely. “Wonderful,” he agreed.
“Where in