bagging Gran’s clothes and personal belongings. It had been horrible and she’d been glad there’d been no one there to see her. But it was done. The only things left in that room were the jewelry and furniture and a diary that she’d slipped into her purse for safekeeping. There was nothing personal here now, just history. Boxes and trunks and cupboards of history.
She led him out the back. His gaze flickered over the garden that could do with some attention, pruning, weeding, and all the other little tasks that went into making a garden look great instead of scrubby and overgrown. Something rustled to the right and he tensed. His hand gave hers a slight squeeze.
“Are you okay?” She raised her eyebrows. He’d seemed a little jumpy when he’d arrived. Was he just as nervous as her? Maybe they shouldn’t even be thinking about it if it was making them both wired… or maybe they should just get it out of their systems. The all-in method as opposed to testing the water with one toe first.
“Yeah, it’s just been one of those days.”
“The kind where you wished you’d stayed in bed?” Everything out of her mouth was about beds.
“Exactly that kind of day.” He nodded as he spoke as if he was reliving the highlights. “But I’d rather be here than at home alone.”
“Me too.” It was nice to have someone to spend the evening with. Someone who didn’t care if she was in old jeans and a T-shirt and covered in dust. She yanked open the shed door, which squealed like it was dying. The sound set her teeth on edge. It hadn’t made that noise last time. She swung the door again, but it was silent.
“Old hinges; must have been a flake of rust caught in there.” He put his hand on the door and had a look just to be sure.
Lydia pulled a flashlight off the shelves and flicked it on. Something moved in the shadows, and glass smashed. Her heart bounced hard in her chest. “What the hell?”
Caspian muttered something, then spoke up. “Mice?”
“I haven’t seen any.” She cast the beam of light around the shed with a shaky hand, but this time nothing moved.
Very strange. And now she was alert to every rustle as if she was the one who’d drunk too many espressos. Whatever twitches Caspian had tonight were catchy.
“These two trunks.” She indicated two black trunks with metal corners, both padlocked closed. “Once they are out, I can start pulling out the smaller things.”
He stood next to her, close enough that their arms bushed. Deliberate or accidental? A shiver of heat ran under her skin. Then he touched the top trunk and gave it a test nudge. “It looks frequently used.”
“How can you tell?” She turned to face him.
His lips opened, and this close all she could think about was kissing him again. Was she really that desperate? She glanced at him and the way the torchlight caught his features. He looked otherworldly. Her heart gave a flip-flop that was somewhere between attraction and warning.
“Less rust on the lock. Do you have the keys?” His words were about work but his gaze was on her mouth; he looked up and met her gaze.
Those green eyes were more dangerous than all the glaciers in the Arctic. Whatever was going on behind them was hidden until it was too late. He wanted her and was trying to do the right thing; because of that she wanted him more. She wouldn’t be the only woman. His eyes combined with his dark curly hair made him the kind of man who’d leave a trail of women staring after him, and Lydia was willing to bet he never even noticed. But he was noticing her. Heat seemed to shimmer between them, but neither of them moved to take what they wanted.
“They were in Gran’s room,” she murmured, not wanting to break the moment. Her toes curled, hoping he’d close those few inches and place his lips on hers. Should she lean forward and taste his lips one more time?
The kiss was left untaken.
“Shall I walk backward?”
With that they picked up the handles and hefted the first trunk out of the stable and across the garden and into the kitchen. The second trunk followed. Once they were out the stable looked, well, still full of stuff. Boxes, tea chests, and what looked like a saddle and tack against one wall, along with tools and a rocking horse that looked straight out of one of those decorating magazines—except for the cobweb.
“There’s a lot in here.” He nodded to himself as if working out how long it was going to take to assess what was valuable and what was household junk.
Yeah, and she had no idea what she was going to do with it. How much of Gran could she throw out? She didn’t have room for everything in her apartment. And yet she couldn’t imagine living here. She’d rattle around like Gran had, living in only a few rooms while the rest of the house crumbled around her. But it did seem silly to keep her own place while this one was empty. Gran had suggested so many times that she come back home and save her money, and she’d always refused, wanting her independence and distance from the house. A lump formed in her throat and she had to blink in case tears formed and fell. She wished she’d taken Gran up on her offer. Then they would’ve had more time together.
“Do you ever look at the size of a job and wonder why you agreed to it?” Because if she was him, working after-hours to fit with her schedule, she’d be regretting ever taking the job, no matter how good the money.
“Not this time. The house is amazing; for its age there have been few renovations and those that have been done don’t look tacked on.” He looked at her. “It would be a shame to lose it.”
She looked away and studied the rear of the house, trying to see it as he must. As a historical treasure. But she could only regard it as her childhood home. She didn’t see the craftsmanship of the stonework or intricacy of the trellis that led up to her former bedroom. She saw the escape route she’d used to sneak out of the house when she was fifteen. Gran had caught her and explained that if Lydia wanted to go out all she had to do was ask and Gran would drop her off and pick her up and make sure she was safe. After that she’d always walked out the front door. Her poor Gran, yet she’d never complained about raising a teenager in her seventies and had never once said a bad word about her own daughter, Helen, even though it must have hurt.
Caspian was right. Selling to someone who wanted to profit on the past would be wrong, but she couldn’t sell, then stipulate to the buyer how to use the property. There had to be a way to save the house and not send her into debt for the rest of her life.
“I can’t make any decisions until everything gets valued and divvied up.” That was her excuse and she was sticking to it. Then she grabbed the door and indicated that stable time was over and it was time to work. They had to get something done tonight and she needed to know what was in the trunks. Especially the more frequently used one.
He followed her back into the house. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
She bit her tongue to keep from saying the obvious. “I’ll let you know if I find anything really special.”
Caspian nodded, then with a last glance picked up his laptop bag and went upstairs. For half a moment she was tempted to follow. In part because she liked to watch him work, so calm and careful, looking at each piece, logging it and making notes with a faint look of concentration on his face that pinched his eyebrows as if he’d forgotten she was even in the room. She’d love to know what he was thinking as he worked.
Later. She’d find a reason to go and watch him, talk to him. She was sure he wouldn’t mind. She pulled the keys out of her pocket. There were a dozen keys on an old fob, a man’s, embossed with the name T. Thomas Callaway. Her grandfather. He’d been killed in war, but she’d seen a photo of him in uniform before he left to fight. He’d been so young, only twenty, and a year older than Gran. The choices she made after his death must have been difficult, and yet she’d managed to keep Callaway House in the family. And here she was, seventy years later with more opportunities and options and she was still thinking of selling. No, she had to look at ways of keeping it and fixing it. If Gran could, she could.
Lydia fingered the keys, sure that some belonged to locks that no longer existed. There were three little keys that looked like they’d fit the trunk locks, which probably meant there was a third trunk hidden at the back of the stable. She studied the keys, as if she could guess which one would fit the more frequently used trunk, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t see a difference between a used key and an unused key.
In fact, to her eye the locks on the trunks looked the same. She shook her head. Caspian obviously saw
