Hemingway’s tail shifts into propeller mode letting God and everyone know that Emma’s arrival hasn’t gone unnoticed by him.
Emma rolls her wheelchair over to give Hemingway a scratch under his bearded chin. “Hello, handsome,” she says. He stretches his neck further over the lower half of the Dutch door. “May I give him a biscuit?” she asks Niall, eyeing the clear container set out of Hemingway’s reach.
“Yes, you may give the lummox one cookie,” Niall answers from in front of the stove where he’s stirring something that smells delicious. “Did you hear that, Hemingway? I said one. O-N-E.” Niall spells it out for emphasis.
When Emma joins the others, she takes the opportunity to study the siblings, Libby and Mick.
Libby’s shoulder-length hair, a captivating shade of sable with a few strands of silver, is tucked behind ears adorned with hammered-silver hoops. A silver necklace studded with moonstones lay on the neckline of her turquoise top, and a matching bracelet circles her wrist.
Emma turns her head to observe Mick, who’s speaking with Fran and Cynthia. She takes in his striking green eyes and a cheeky little quirk in the corner of his close-lipped smile. A few silver threads at his temples looks distinctive in his otherwise jet-black hair. Emma’s heart accelerates in appreciation for the way his body enhances his pristine white shirt and smart dark gray trousers.
Mick’s gaze changes direction, catching Emma’s. In her eyes, he sees undeniable appreciation.
Emma smiles, noting that the resemblance between brother and sister is strong, but there are striking differences. Unlike Libby’s straight, delicate nose and flawless facial features, Mick’s nose is crooked, making him look rakish. A thin scar creases his forehead at an angle, from his hairline down through his left eyebrow. Both imperfections compliment his square jaw and chiseled features.
Glass in hand, Jason stands near the others with studied casualness, appreciating two of his favorite things, alcohol and listening for information he can use to his advantage.
Behind the lower portion of the Dutch door, Hemingway watches with unveiled interest.
“Dinner’s ready,” Niall announces, adding two more covered dishes to the already-laden table. “Belly up to the bar, or table as the case may be.”
Libby, adept at breaking the ice, primes the pump for conversation while Niall serves the meal. An author herself, she knows that part of a writer’s job is reading. Turning to Cynthia, she asks, “What book are you reading?” Then she sits back in satisfaction as each person, in turn, shares their current book.
Niall takes great pleasure in pairing a vivid and citrusy chardonnay with dinner. After a toast to “Inspiration and the flow of creativity,” they begin their meal. Between the ooh’s and aah’s of enthusiastic appreciation for the grilled salmon with mustard and crisp potato crust, steamed asparagus drizzled with lemon butter, garden-fresh organic salad, and aromatic garlic bread—homemade this morning—Libby orchestrates the conversation with ease. “If you were stranded on a desert island,” she asks, “and can only have one book, which book would it be?” She smiles at the resulting avalanche of animated conversation.
Fran can’t remember the last time she enjoyed a meal this much. “Niall, did you make the dressing, too? It’s delicious!”
Niall smiles at Fran, who, to his way of thinking, is too pale and too thin. “Yes. It’s barrel-aged balsamic vinegar blended with pomegranate-infused olive oil. I’m glad you enjoy it.”
Fran continues, turning to Libby, “And I wanted to thank you for the beautiful scent you put in Dickens cottage. I love it. Did you blend it yourself?”
Before Libby can answer, Emma and Cynthia chime in, thanking her for the fragrance in their cottages, too.
“I’m glad you enjoy them,” Libby says, smiling at the women. “I found the infusers at a local shop that carries a variety of handblown glass. And yes, I dabble a bit with essential oils. I couldn’t resist.”
Curiosity piqued, Fran asks, “Do we all have the same scent or are they different?”
“I try to create a unique blend for each writer in residence based on our email or phone conversations,” Libby answers.
“You’re right on target with mine,” Emma says. “It’s blended for creativity.”
“Mine’s blended for clarity.” Cynthia smiles.
“And mine for comfort,” Fran adds, a hint of pink touching her cheeks.
If it seems strange that Jason doesn’t say a word about the scent in his cottage, no one mentions it.
Around the table, with strains of James Taylor singing “Carolina in My Mind” in the background, the formalities begin to slip away. The conversation expands and contracts, voices rise and fall, and faces flush with the exhilaration of the discussion and the wine.
Niall, the epitome of efficiency, interjects, “Okay, everyone, it’s time to adjourn to The Ink Well. I’ll join you soon.”
“Thank you for the exquisite meal. I’m stuffed,” Emma says, patting her stomach for emphasis.
“Yes, thank you,” Cynthia and Fran say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.
Jason still doesn’t chime in.
Does the man have no couth? Cynthia wonders. And though no one else seems to find it odd, she’s on high alert for his glaring omissions. Something is amiss.
Jason watches Niall scrape some leftover scraps into Hemingway’s bowl, observing how the dog devours what’s put in front of it. “That dog’s got a hearty appetite,” he says to Niall.
“This fella will eat anything.” Niall laughs. “And lots of it.”
Before they adjourn to The Ink Well, Jason decides, I’m going to poison that beast, then wipes his mouth with a napkin to cover his smile.
CHAPTER 6
“All readers come to fiction as willing accomplices to your lies. Such is the basic goodwill contract made the moment we pick up a work of fiction.”
—STEVE ALMOND
The living room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side of the massive fieldstone fireplace, serves as the after-dinner gathering place for guests to continue visiting over dessert while enjoying drinks from the MacCullough’s small, but well-stocked bar.
With her appetite satisfied, Emma surveys the large cozy room,
