Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone

to humiliate him, she couldn’t have made a better choice. Not that she hadn’t always been handy around the house—in fact, he’d been pleased when she’d tackled projects that would have required calling in a professional— but this was beyond the pale. And now—now he found she’d done worse.

“I shouldn’t have to be chasing after her like she was a wayward child,” he said sulkily to Piers. Caspar eyed his own chair, an executive leather model that had cost the earth, but felt too irritated to sit.

Instead, he crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and poured a good finger of Dalwhinnie single malt into two crystal tumblers.

These were not just any tumblers, of course, but Finnish crystal in a contemporary design. Waterford was passe, in Caspar’s opinion, and he made a point that everything in the fi rm’s offices should reflect the best and most up- to-date.

That included himself, although he was forced to admit that even in the finest wool trousers and a pale yellow cashmere jumper, he still looked like the accountant he was, no matter how glorifi ed his title. He was too tall, too thin, too dark, with fine- boned and serious features that had not been designed for the sort of nonchalant charm his partner radiated so effortlessly.

“Cheers,” said Piers now, as Caspar handed him a whisky. He sipped and took a moment to savor the taste before giving his ver-dict. “Very nice. You shouldn’t let Juliet raise your blood pressure, you know,” he added, peering at Caspar over his glass. “She’s probably just got hung up with family. Didn’t you say her brother was arriving? He could have been delayed by the weather.”

Caspar was not to be mollified. “I don’t see how that excuses her s

turning off her phone. It’s inconsiderate, under any circumstances.

And that’s not to mention her inviting them all for Christmas Eve dinner without consulting me.”

“It’s Christmas, Caspar. If I can achieve detente over dinner with my lovely ex, then you can certainly put up with the in- laws. You make it sound as if they have the plague.” Piers downed another third of his drink. He was a big man, with thick fair hair that sprang from his brow in a leonine wave, and if he had begun to put on a little weight as he entered his forties, he carried it well. Tonight he wore a long denim coat over a nubby green sweater, and looked every inch the country squire.

Stinging a bit from Piers’s criticism, Caspar changed the subject.

“Is Leo already at Helen’s, then?” he asked.

Leo was Piers’s fourteen-year-old son, Helen his ex-wife. Piers and Helen shared custody of the boy, but since Piers had bought the Victorian manor house a few miles from town and begun playing at country gentleman, Leo spent most of his time with his father.

Piers supported Helen very well, however, in a mock Tudor cottage on the west side of Nantwich, just the other side of the river, so perhaps Helen found it wise not to protest. Helen, unlike his own recalcitrant wife, knew on which side her bread was buttered.

“Oh, yes. Leo’s grandparents are there as well, and he’s on his best behavior. Hoping to increase the size of his Christmas check, I should imagine,” Piers added with an air of satisfaction. Leo Dutton had inherited his father’s good looks, and was already well versed in using them to his advantage.

Piers polished off the last third of his whisky, stretched, and stood. “I’d better be off. If I make Helen keep dinner waiting, I’ll have to endure injured looks the rest of the evening. We’ll see you at church later on, shall we?”

Caspar doubted that Piers felt any more religious impulse than he did, but several of their clients were churchwardens or members

of the congregation, so it behooved them to put in an appearance.

Nantwich was still a small enough town that the social lives of those with money to spend on investments were closely intertwined, and the firm’s business depended on their keeping and strengthening ties with those in prominent positions.

“If we make it,” responded Caspar, with another glance at his watch. “At this rate—”

Piers turned back from the door with a sigh of exasperation. “For heaven sake’s, man, ring your mother- in- law. If you’re worried—”

“I’m not worried,” Caspar said mulishly. He downed half his drink in a rebellious gulp and felt the fire burn all the way down to his gut.

“Caspar.” Piers eyed him speculatively. “You’ve had a row, haven’t you? A flaming row.” His heavy brows drew together as he frowned. “You didn’t tell Juliet about our little talk, did you? That was to be just between us. You agreed.”

Now Caspar was torn between guilt and a desire to vent. “It just came out,” he admitted. “I didn’t intend it. She had the gall to say she’d always tried to do her best by our marriage. Bitch.” He swallowed the rest of his drink, and this time he barely felt the burn.

“Goddamn it, Caspar.” Piers no longer looked amused, and Caspar suddenly felt crowded by the other man’s physical presence. “I’d no intention of making things worse between you and Juliet. I was just looking out for your interests, because you’re my friend as well as my partner. If you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.” He turned away, and a moment later, Caspar heard the outside door open and then slam firmly shut.

He stood, his empty glass dangling from his nerveless fingers.

Now he’d torn it. Piers was right, he should have kept his mouth shut. The last thing he’d wanted was to make Piers angry with him, or to betray his trust. He couldn’t remember Piers ever raising his voice towards him before.

But it was odd, he thought, swaying slightly as he made an effort s

to set the glass neatly on his desk. Piers had been angry, there was no mistaking that, but just as he’d turned away, Caspar could have sworn he’d seen a gleam of satisfaction in his partner’s eye.

Annie Lebow had no trouble getting a mooring at Nantwich Canal Center. On Christmas Eve, most sane boaters were happily land-locked with family or friends.

The canal center occupied the old Chester Basin, once the termi-nus of the Chester Canal. Finished in , the canal had been cut wide to accommodate the barges carrying heavy goods, including the famous Nantwich cheeses, across the Cheshire Plain from Nantwich to Chester. After years of decline, the basin had been resurrected in the nineties by an industrious couple, becoming an important center for boatbuilding and boat repair, as well as providing everyday services for boaters.

Annie needed some work done on the Horizon—the electrical system had developed a glitch—and Nantwich had seemed the obvious choice. Or so she had told herself, disregarding the fact that she was unlikely to find anyone to do the necessary repairs during Christmas week. The truth was that she found herself more and more often drawn back to the scenes of her working life, the very places she had once so desperately wanted to put behind her.

How odd that today she had seen the very family who had been primarily responsible for her leaving her job, and who had also inspired her to take up the boating life. She’d been tempted to tell Gabriel Wain that she owed him a debt of gratitude, but suspected he’d think her daft.

No matter how competent or how experienced she’d become, she’d never really belong to the world of the traditional boat people.

Not that there were many like the Wains left on the canals. She’d wondered, in the years since she’d handled their case, if she’d let her fascination with their way of life affect her judgment.

The sight of the children today, so obviously happy and healthy, had relieved any nagging doubts. The mother, however, had looked wan and

ill—and frightened. Annie had known better than to comment—she understood the reason for the Wains’ distrust all too well. She’d told herself it was none of her business, but it seemed that once a social worker, always a social worker, like it or not, and she found it hard to let go of her concern for Rowan Wain.

With the boat safely moored in the quiet marina, she’d used her torch to pick her way along the towpath and onto the aqueduct that carried the Shropshire Union over the Chester Road. The Shroppie, as the boaters affectionately called it, was actually a connected system of canals built at different times by different canal companies. It was here at Nantwich that the old Chester Canal met the narrow Liverpool to Birmingham Junction Canal, built by the Scottish engineer Thomas Telford in the late s. While the iron aqueduct was not as impressive as Telford’s stone aqueduct at Pontcysyllte, in Wales, Annie had always loved its soaring lines. This aqueduct and the