kitchen was dark, low-ceilinged and several steps down from the rest of the house. “Much older,” Sebastian said. “They built the new house onto an old farmhouse.”
Upstairs were four bedrooms and another room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Dixie figured that must be the collection Christopher had referred to. A sixth room held an immense claw-footed tub, a pedestal washbasin large enough to bathe a small Doberman, and twin toilets with a double mahogany seat.
Dixie stared. “Why double toilets?”
Sebastian coughed. “Old-fashioned. You’d never see it nowadays. Whoever buys the house will have to modernize.”
“But worth it. With some money spent on it, this would be a beautiful house.”
“We need to get back. I promised the key to Mike Jenkins before lunch.”
Dixie wasn’t about to be hustled out of her own house. “I’m staying. He can meet me here.”
Those dark eyes almost popped. “Staying? There’s no water or electricity.”
“I can manage for a couple of hours.”
He frowned. “Fine. Drop the key by the office later.”
The house settled back into quiet as the noise of his engine faded. An hour of signing papers in his office had settled her possession of her property. She wanted time to herself to enjoy owning this wonderful house before she did the practical thing and put it on the market. How much would a house like this fetch? More than enough to buy and furnish a nice, sensible house back in South Carolina. She’d ask Mike whatever-his-name when he arrived.
He never turned up. But James did.
Busy removing dustcovers in the breakfast room, Dixie heard the front door open and footsteps cross the hall and start up the stairs. “Hi, I’m back here,” she called, assuming it was the realtor. She opened the door into the hall and James stared at her from the third step.
“You’re here?” he asked, gaping. Why shouldn’t she be? Hadn’t he heard of knocking on doors? “Don’t let me disturb you if you’re busy.” He took another step up.
“I won’t.” A half-dozen strides took her to the foot of the stairs. “Going somewhere?” she asked, one hand on her hip.
He squeezed out a laugh. “Sorry, I thought Uncle told you. I’m looking at the furniture. A friend of mine is interested in making you an offer.”
“I’m not interested in selling.” At least not to any friend of his.
That slowed him down. “Well…surely…I mean…”
“My furniture isn’t for sale.”
He stepped down. “If you change your mind, let me know.” He stood far too close to be polite in any language.
“It’s not for sale, and not likely to be in the near future.” Dixie held open the front door.
Even James couldn’t miss the heavy hint.
He held out his hand. Dixie took it out of common courtesy and wished she hadn’t when he squeezed. “See you at the Barley Mow tonight?”
Dixie grunted as she shut the door. Why had James just walked in? He’d seemed right at home. Was he used to coming and going? She shrugged and went upstairs. The bedrooms could wait, but she did want to look at her books. If Christopher was to be believed, her aunts had an interesting collection.
The book room proved too much for one afternoon. She’d come back tomorrow with a flashlight if she couldn’t get the electricity turned on. She looked around at the packed shelves, the stacks of books on the center table and the scattered footprints in the dust. Someone had been in here. Who? The person she’d seen, or imagined last night?
She looked at her watch. Her two hours had become four and no sign of Mike the realtor. She’d go back to Emily Reade’s and get a much needed shower and find somewhere other than the Barley Mow for dinner.
She walked around the backyard before she left. Tool sheds, half-collapsed coal stores, and an old washhouse spanned one side of the kitchen garden. The gate she’d run through last night stood open but she couldn’t close it. The wood at the bottom jammed on something. She hadn’t imagined those lights last night. A heavy, black flashlight lay in the ankle-deep grass.
“I think that’s everything for now, Miss LePage.”
Dixie smiled at the bank manager and the chief cashier. Her breath didn’t come clear enough to speak. With a couple of signatures, she’d just received ten times as much money as she’d earned since grad school. And that was only a beginning. “This is rather a surprise.” Rather a surprise! She was getting British. They were lucky she wasn’t dancing around like the sweepstake winners on TV.
“You’ll need to make some investment decisions.”
Dixie nodded. “I know. It’s just this will take some getting used to.”
“Of course.” The manager smiled, delighted to have her as a customer, no doubt. “Contact us when you’re ready. You have several options. With your non-resident status, there are some very attractive offshore opportunities.”
“How about I get back with you next week? Same time next Friday?” Dixie shuffled through her bag for her appointment book but she couldn’t find it. She took the business card he offered and scribbled a note on the back before tucking it in her pocket. She needed to get out of here and think.
Two buildings down High Street stood the Copper Kettle. Dixie chose a wheelback chair by the window, searched in vain for the elusive appointment book, decided she’d left it at Emily’s, ordered a pot of tea, and contemplated her future.
She had a small fortune in the bank and more to come after the sale of securities and the maturity of some bonds. More money than she’d imagined saving after a lifetime of work, and still more if she decided to sell the house.
It didn’t make sense. Gran had struggled with Social Security and the little bit Grandpa had left, while her sisters had sat on a stash. True, they hadn’t lived high on the hog; the house showed years of neglect. A couple of old scrooges. What else was new? Gran had despised them. “A pair of old witches!” she’d once replied to a teenaged Dixie’s questions about her English relatives.
A smart person would sell the house to the highest bidder, grab the money and take the first plane home. But where was home? She’d as good as blown her job. The man she’d loved had thrown her over for a richer (okay, not richer now!) woman with social connections. Her worldly belongings filled her neighbor’s garage and still left room for his lawn mower and workbench. And she didn’t possess a living relative on either side of the Atlantic. She’d give herself a month’s holiday. She had the money and a roof over her head. Why not stay awhile?
Sebastian Caughleigh’s face appeared distorted through the old bottle glass of the bow window. He took Dixie’s answering wave as an invitation. As he sat down on the chair he’d pulled out, Dixie suppressed a wave of irritation. She didn’t want to talk house, or money, or furniture. She wanted to luxuriate in financial independence.
“Fixed up things at the bank?” He signaled for the white-haired waitress. “Good to get it settled before you leave.”
“Pretty much. I’m going to take my time. Thought I’d stay a few weeks. Maybe a month or so.”
“Oh?” He frowned. Then smiled that smile. Did he practice in front of a mirror? “That will be nice,” he said. “Since you’re staying, would you like to meet some people this weekend? A couple I know, Janet and Larry Whyte—he’s in insurance—are having people over tomorrow. How about I pick you up round seven? We can go over for drinks, you’d meet some of the locals and have dinner.”
Why not? If she was staying awhile, it would be smart to get to know someone other than Emily and Smarmy James. “Sounds nice.