“Good thing.” Colin chipped in, and Anna shot him another uncertain look. What was Willoughby Close, exactly?
He easily hoisted her suitcase as she followed him out to the battered Land Rover parked in the narrow lane in front of Meadow Cottage. Colin tossed her bag in the back and then opened the passenger side door.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a tip. I’m not the neatest bloke.”
No, he was not. Anna eyed the sea of paper coffee cups, crumpled napkins and maps, and a browning banana peel on the floor of the Rover. She wasn’t all that squeamish, but she was wearing nice boots. Nudging the banana peel aside with the toe of her designer leather boot, she clambered inside.
“So what brought you across the pond for Christmas?” Colin asked as he started down the lane, his wing mirrors nearly clipping the dry stone walls on either side of the road, although he didn’t so much as blink.
“I just felt like getting away.” Which was his cue not to ask any more questions.
In case he didn’t get the message, Anna turned to look out the window at the ivy-covered cottages streaming by. The rain had stopped and the sky was awash in lavender; a Christmas tree had been set up in the middle of the green, strung with multi-colored lights.
Through the oncoming dusk, Anna saw a mother pushing a baby carriage, smiling down into its quilted depths. She looked away quickly, focusing instead on the pub across the street and its promise of mulled wine and mince pies every evening from now until New Year’s. She hoped Wychwood-on-Lea had a pub.
Fortunately Colin didn’t ask any more questions, at least not until he’d driven down several narrow, winding roads lined by dry stone walls with fields and meadows rolling to the horizon on either side, and then into a village whose sign announced it was Wychwood-on-Lea and runner-up of Britain in Bloom for 2007.
“So where exactly am I staying?” Anna asked as Colin drove down the village’s high street, a quaint, narrow lane with a few shuttered shops, a church, and at its end a village green that had a semi-dilapidated play park, an impressive war memorial, and another lit-up Christmas tree.
“Willoughby Close. Willoughby Manor is just outside the village. They converted the stables to a set of four cottages. I did the renovation work.”
Which was what Frances had told her, but Anna didn’t really feel like she had any more information about her actual accommodation. “But they’re empty now?”
“No one’s moving in until the new year.”
“How come? I mean, I would have thought there would be some interest in renting over Christmas.”
“Oh, they’re not holiday lets,” Colin said as he made a sharp left through some intricate, wrought iron gates. In the distance Anna saw the peaked gables of an Elizabethan manor house silhouetted against the darkening sky. “They’re long-term lets. The first tenant is moving in on January first.”
“Right…” She paused, her jet-lagged brain clicking gears a little slowly. “But they’re furnished?” Her voice wobbled as she spoke, unsure if she was stating the ridiculously obvious.
“Furnished?” Light brown eyebrows drew together over his piercingly blue eyes. “No, ah, not exactly.”
Anna tensed. “What does that mean?”
“Not at all, actually.” He had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I gather Frances didn’t tell you the details?”
Anna couldn’t keep the acid from her voice as she answered, “Frances told me I would be quite comfortable.”
“Ah.” He’d swung into a sweeping drive, bypassing the curving graveled lane that led to the manor house to jolt over a dirt track that was more potholes than not. “She was being a bit optimistic, I think.”
“Really.” Anna couldn’t keep herself from resorting to a little soft sarcasm. She was extremely tired, not to mention emotionally more than a little bit fragile. Together it was not a good combination.
He glanced at her, frowning. “Sorry, this isn’t exactly the holiday you envisioned, is it? I mean, obviously…”
Anna felt a lump form in her throat, ridiculously big. She turned to the window to hide how close to tears she’d suddenly become.
The last thing she needed was to fall apart in front of a stranger. “No.”
“I did bring some of my camping kit. A sleeping bag, some pots and pans. The cooking range works…”
Dear heaven. It was worse than she’d thought. “Why don’t you show me the place?” She managed to speak through a too-tight throat.
Colin stopped the Land Rover in a little cobbled courtyard, the former stables framing it on three sides. From the outside, the cottages looked pretty, low buildings of golden Cotswold stone with peaked roofs and mullioned windows, flower pots, empty in winter, by the doors. “Number one is the most finished,” he said and Anna turned to him with a start.
“What do you mean, the most finished?”
“The upstairs bath needs a final bit of tiling work. I was going to do it after Christmas.” He got out of the car and Anna did the same, dread seeping into her stomach. How was she going to spend two weeks in an entirely empty house? Well, she wouldn’t. She’d stay the night and then figure something else out in the morning. There had to a hotel room going spare even on December twenty-third, in one of the quaintest parts of England.
Colin unlocked the door, stepping aside so Anna could enter first. Taking a deep breath, she did. The house was entirely dark, so the smell hit her first—fresh paint and plaster, overlaid by that funny scent of new appliances or cars—it was, she realized as she stood there blinking in the dark, a lonely smell. An empty smell. Maybe if she’d been in a different frame of mind she could have considered this funny or even exciting, a new start, an adventure. As it was, she was starting to feel like she’d swallowed a bowling ball and now had to drag it around in her stomach.
“So.” Colin