“You mean”—Anna clarified—“you have somewhere for me to stay?”
“Well, yes, if you don’t mind being in a different village. Wychwood-on-Lea is lovely, though, right on the river. And the cottages are beautiful, lots of period details. Colin showed me…” Frances trailed off, as she seemed to have a habit of doing, and took a sip of tea.
“That sounds wonderful.” At this point she didn’t have the energy to be picky, as long as there was a bed and a roof. And preferably heating. “How do I get there?”
Frances pursed her lips. “I’ll ask Colin to come here and pick you up.”
“I don’t want to put him out of his way…” And she didn’t want to make laborious chitchat with a complete stranger, not when she was jet-lagged and exhausted. Not when she’d come to England so she could curl up by herself, lick her wounds, and hopefully heal.
“It’s no trouble.” Frances assured her. “Colin’s always happy to help. I’ll ring him now and he should be here in twenty minutes.” Frances bustled off before Anna could say another thank-you.
She sat back and sipped her tea, closing her eyes as she fought another wave of fatigue. Bed. She really just wanted her bed, or any bed. A pillow, a mattress, and a duvet, a good twelve hours of sleep. That didn’t seem like too much to ask.
“Yes, Colin is coming right now,” Frances said in a tone of almost maternal satisfaction as she came back into the kitchen. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable at Willoughby Close.”
“Thank you,” Anna said “You’re very kind.”
“I’m sorry this happened at all,” Frances clucked. “And at Christmas, too.” She cocked her head, her bright, inquisitive eyes reminding Anna of a sparrow. “You’ve come a long way, then?”
“From New York City.”
“Ah, lovely. I always wanted to visit. See that Times Square everyone goes on about. Is it as exciting as they say?” Anna opened her mouth to answer but Frances rattled on before she managed a syllable. “But you’ve come on your own, dear? For Christmas?”
Anna steeled herself against the note of pity in the older woman’s voice. Christmas by oneself generally sounded a bit pathetic, but it was what she wanted. Needed, even. She couldn’t face the family Christmas, her parents bustling around anxiously. Not this year, and staying cooped up in her apartment in New York while everyone else went home for the holiday or made bright party plans was too depressing for words. She wanted to get away, at least for a little while. Too bad she couldn’t get away from herself.
“Yes, I’ve been working a lot recently and wanted the break,” she said, injecting a note of finality into her voice. Please don’t ask any more questions.
“Oh, of course. A change is as good as a rest, they say.” Frances nodded, not looking convinced by her own statement.
Anna took another sip of tea, relief pulsing through her when the she heard a man’s voice coming from the front hallway. Her lift, she hoped, was here.
“Frances…”
“Oh, it’s Colin.” Frances brightened. “In the kitchen, Colin!”
Seconds later a man appeared in the doorway, seeming to take up all the space and making Anna blink. He wasn’t what she’d been expecting, which was the male version of Frances—well into his sixties, with an affable, chatty manner, a shock of white hair, and lots of wrinkles. Colin Heath didn’t have any of those things.
He was built like a rugby player, big and muscular, his shoulders nearly spanning the doorframe, his movements easy yet powerful. He wore an old flannel shirt and faded jeans stuck into battered work boots, and his eyes were a light, startling blue in a face tanned by working outdoors, Anna suspected, rather than sitting in the sun. Short, light brown hair stuck up as if he’d thoughtlessly raked his fingers through it. He couldn’t be much more than Anna’s own thirty-five.
His blue eyes fastened on hers and his mouth turned up in a friendly, easy smile; two dimples appeared in his craggy cheeks. “You must be Anna.”
It disconcerted her that he knew who she was, which was silly since Frances had probably explained everything on the telephone. “Yes.” For some reason Anna felt herself going all stiff and overly polite. She gave him a quick little smile and then covered her unease by sipping more tea.
“Sorry to hear about the flooding.” Anna couldn’t tell whether he was addressing her or Frances. “Not the best way to spend Christmas, eh?”
She murmured a bland agreement. She didn’t really want to talk about Christmas. Perhaps she should have booked a hotel in London, somewhere sleek and anonymous, where no one would attempt to get to know her. But she’d wanted to escape city life, hole up somewhere cozy and quaint, go for long, snowy walks through the hills—or wolds, considering this was the Cotswolds, a gentle land of rolling hills and movie-set-worthy villages between Oxford and Bath. And there was no snow to be seen.
“Well, at least you’ll have a roof over your head,” Colin said cheerfully. “Although not much more than that.”
Wait—what? Anna stared at him uncertainly.
“Don’t worry.” He assured her. “I’ve got some kit.”
Kit? What was that? This was sounding more and more alarming. And yet somehow the words out of her mouth were, “I’m sure it will be fine.” When had she become such a pushover? When she’d become too tired to fight, which had been about three months ago.
“Shall we get going, if you’ve finished your cuppa? It’s getting dark.”
“Of course.” Anna rose from her seat as Frances fluttered about her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she wrung her hands. “I’ll give you a full refund, of course…”
You certainly will. Anna thought sourly. She was starting to feel seriously grumpy. Still she managed
