He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself as much as he had, though. He’d felt carefree for the first time in months and hoped Nicole would include him in her meeting with the vicar. Maybe he could even prove helpful, as he had last night. She wouldn’t have discovered anything useful on her own. She was too earnest and shy to engage the men at the pub on their own terms, something Kyle found imperative when doing research.
Thinking of Nicole made him smile for the first time that morning. She really was lovely. Her intelligence and kindness shone through the barrier of reserve she had erected around herself, likely the result of a painful breakup. He recognized the signs all too well, perhaps because they were still evident in him. It’d been a long time since he’d let someone in, and although he knew it was time to take a chance on a new relationship, he hung back, waiting for someone who was worth the risk.
Could a woman like Nicole Rayburn love someone like him? He wasn’t unattractive; he knew that, but the divorce had left him a bit sharp around the edges, his cynicism leaking like radiation from a faulty nuclear reactor. Life had not been kind to him this past year, but it was time to turn things around, to regain control. He didn’t want to be someone people described as bitter or disillusioned, and he would own that label if he continued to look back instead of focusing on the future.
Pulling on a pair of jeans and a cotton jersey, Kyle left his room and headed downstairs, hoping Len wouldn’t be at breakfast.
Chapter 16
Nicole
Anna was on her own when I came down for breakfast. She sat perfectly still, her gaze on the magnificent view beyond the window, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.
“Good morning, Anna. Are you all right?” I asked, noting her pallor and the faraway look in her eyes.
Anna replied with a watery smile. “I’m fine, thank you. Didn’t sleep very well, but that’s nothing new. I rarely sleep through the night without chemical intervention. One more coffee and I’ll be ready to get on with my day. What about you? What are your plans for the day?”
“I’m going to take a walk and then I plan to go to Bamford Green. Research,” I explained.
Anna nodded. “Will the charming mystery writer be coming along for the ride?” she asked, smiling coyly.
“He might,” I replied, suddenly uncomfortable. Could two adults not spend a few hours together without everyone instantly assuming they were at it?
“He’s handsome, but damaged,” Anna said, pushing away from the table. “Beware.” She sounded like a fortuneteller at a fete, her voice breathy as if she were gazing into the murky depths of a crystal ball and seeing something in the mist.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, annoyed by the unsolicited advice.
Anna didn’t bother to explain. She refilled her mug and smiled at me apologetically. “I should crack on. Enjoy your breakfast,” she said, leaving the room and taking her coffee with her. I looked after her, wondering why she’d felt the need to warn me. What did she know that I didn’t?
Writers are by nature observant people, much like psychics, who can deduce quite a bit just by looking at someone and reading their body language, but Kyle didn’t give off any obvious signs of instability. He was polite and reserved, both qualities I liked in a man. Just because he wasn’t talking utter bollocks like Len or constantly bringing up his work like Paul hardly made him worthy of suspicion. I’d seen a different side of him when we visited the Green Man last night and thought he was rather clever, as well as well versed in the vagaries of human nature. I didn’t think I would have learned much on my own, given my inability to find a way to engage with the locals.
I dismissed Anna’s warning and helped myself to some food, glad that no one else had appeared in the breakfast room. I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk. Having enjoyed my breakfast in blissful solitude, I headed to the mudroom to change into my borrowed wellies. It was a fine day, the sun skimming the tops of the flaming trees, the sky a pale blue. I followed the path I’d taken yesterday, my feet carrying me toward the reservoir. The water sparkled in the morning sun, the manmade lake stretching as far as the eye could see, reflecting the bright colors of autumn in its still waters.
The tower didn’t look as menacing today, the bell nothing more than a hunk of rusted metal. I was almost embarrassed by how spooked I had been last night when I’d thought I heard its mournful knell. To dispel any further imaginings on my part, I would try to locate a photo of St. Botolph’s before the flood, I decided. I was a visual learner, and being able to see something rather than hear or read about it always helped me put it in perspective.
Having dealt with my fears, I walked along the shore, enjoying the crisp, cool morning and the softness of fallen leaves beneath my feet. This was my favorite time of year, nature’s swan song before the cold, barren months of winter. A whiff of cigarette smoke distracted me from my thoughts, and I looked to the trees, spotting Brittany leaning against the trunk of a maple, her gaze fixed on the distant shore as she took a deep pull of her fag. She wore the same hooded jacket, but it was left open to reveal a cropped top that exposed her midriff as well as a whimsical tattoo of a butterfly on the left side of her belly, just above the waistband of her low jeans.
“Hello,” I said, hoping she
