Nothing.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head to clear it. His knees almost buckle in relief. All that talk about ghosts has me spooked.
Jason wants a drink. No, he needs a drink.
A quick forage through the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator reveal the absence of alcohol. He’ll remedy that on his first trip into town. For now, he heads up to the main house to gather information about Mick and to enjoy a before-dinner drink, or apéritif, as his mother liked to call their evening ritual. Poor dead Mom, he thinks, a self-satisfied smirk claiming his features. There are so many ways to hurt women.
CHAPTER 5
“The most important thing is to read as much as you can, like I did. It will give you an understanding of what makes good writing and it will enlarge your vocabulary.”
—J.K. ROWLING
Instead of heading straight to the main house, Jason takes a circuitous route to investigate the other cottages. Each one is surrounded by a copse of trees. His own cottage, Thoreau, is encompassed by Western Red Cedar trees. Brontë, Cynthia’s cottage, is circled by Douglas Fir. Austen, Emma’s cottage, is enclosed by Blue Elderberry trees. And Dickens, Fran’s cottage, is surrounded by Bigleaf Maples.
Other than on the pathways, the forest floor is covered with lush maidenhair ferns. And while the wooded area provides the writers in residence with privacy, it also gives Jason camouflage. After noting the location of windows, doors, and each cottage’s unique surroundings, he brushes bits of fern from his shirt sleeves and pant legs. At five minutes ‘til six, Jason arrives at the main house.
Niall meets him at the front door and extends his hand. “Please come in, dinner will be ready soon. I’m headed back to the kitchen,” he says over his shoulder. “Follow me, what can I get you?”
“It’s been a long day. I’d like something on the strong side. Scotch and water.”
“Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a moment,” Niall says, turning toward The Ink Well, their living room and in-home bar.
Hemingway, observing their exchange from behind the Dutch door in the kitchen, lets loose a deep-throated growl.
Surprised by Hemingway’s unusual behavior, Niall says, “Knock that off, big fella. You know we don’t allow that kind of talk around here.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jason interjects, throwing an icy-gray glare at Hemingway before following Niall. “By the way, I’m expecting two UPS packages tomorrow. I shipped my manuscript because I didn’t want to lug it with me on the flight. I hope that’s not a problem.”
That’s odd, Niall thinks. It’s been years since a writer brought a physical copy of their manuscript with them. The authors who stay at Pines & Quill bring their work on laptops.
Seeming to read his mind, Jason continues, “I know it’s a bit old school, but that’s the method that works best for me; give me paper and a red pen for editing any day,” he finishes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No problem at all,” Niall says, pouring two fingers of scotch into a whiskey glass and adding a cube of ice instead of pouring water in. “Let the ice melt. It provides the ideal amount of time to unlock the aromas and flavors.”
Niall’s advice goes ignored as Jason tosses back the drink. Then comes the obligatory grimace and purse of the lips. His eyes seem to melt a little, and his jaw relaxes as he extends his glass for another.
Fran and Cynthia arrive at the main house together. They climb the broad stone steps to the rustic, paneled oak door. Both women have changed from their travel clothes—Cynthia, into a sweeping marine-blue dress, its skirt creating beautiful movement with each step, Fran into a circumspect gray blazer and matching slacks made less rigid by her soft-combed hair and a touch of pink lipstick.
“I like what you’ve done to your hair,” Cynthia says.
“Thank you.” Fran beams at the compliment while Cynthia uses the heavy brass knocker that’s polished to a subtle glow. Within moments, the big door is opened by Libby.
“Welcome to our home,” she greets them with a warm smile. Libby steps back into the gracious foyer, inviting them into the casual elegance of the main house. “Niall says dinner’s almost ready. Let’s head back to the kitchen.”
The aroma of grilled salmon mingled with mysterious spices teases their nostrils as they walk along gleaming hardwood floors, passing rooms on either side that feature wide windows boasting beautiful views. On the way to the kitchen, a dusk-filled, west-facing terrace leads to a garden of native plants where subtle uplighting exposes a handful of colorful birdhouses crafted by local artisans. The women stop and watch the sun bid its final farewell, casting deep purple shadows amidst vivid wildflowers sprinkled throughout.
When they arrive at the massive eat-in kitchen, both Fran and Cynthia appreciate the cathedral ceiling and large picture window with a southern exposure.
“Welcome to my domain,” an apron-clad Niall greets them, bowing at the waist.
“This is where all of the culinary magic takes place,” Libby adds. Pointing to the picture window that Fran and Cynthia are admiring, she continues, “When it’s daylight, you’ll be able to see Niall’s garden. Much of the food he prepares comes from right here. The rest he sources locally.”
In spite of his limp, Mick strides along the pathway toward the main house. Up ahead, he spots Emma’s auburn hair caping her shoulders in silken sheaths. “Hey, wait up,” he calls, pretending to be out of breath. “You’re hard to catch, may I join you?”
“I’d like that,” Emma says. “And your company ensures I won’t get lost. That wouldn’t be good, because I’m ravenous.” She laughs up into Mick’s deep green eyes.
Mick leads Emma to the country kitchen where polished cutlery flanks sangria-red plates. Her artistic eye notices the hand-painted serving pieces. Swirls of sage and
