of her silk blouse hung over the waistband of her skirt.
“I was so bored yesterday, I attempted to knit a tea cozy for the church bazaar.” Her mother tucked in her blouse, then puffed up her thick, white bob. “Which is utterly ridiculous, given this.” She waved her bandaged hand. “How was it, seeing Sebastian again?”
“Mum.” Tilly issued a warning.
Her mother nipped a leaf from the Lady Hillingdon rose that snaked around the back door. “Black spot.” She tutted. “You’ll have to spray. Marigold says it’s a nasty separation. Between Sebastian and Fanny.”
“Fiona.” Tilly watched a pair of sparrows frolic in the stone birdbath. “And Marigold knows this how?”
“She heard it from Sylvia, who heard it from Beryl, who has the same woman-that-does as Sebastian—Mabel Dillington. There’s more.”
Tilly had always wanted eyes like her mother’s. Eyes you couldn’t ignore. Eyes that were the bright blue of a Carolina sky. Tilly’s eyes were pale and translucent, the color of porcelain brushed with a robin’s-egg wash. They made her look ethereal, when she yearned to be an Amazon.
“There’s evidence of a relationship.” Her mother had yet to blink.
Tilly scuffed her Doc Martens boot through round, evenly sized pebbles in coordinating sand tones. Unlike Tilly’s gravel, which was made up of lumps of quartz and splinters of gray rock, her mother’s driveway was perfect. “I’d forgotten how rumors fly in this place. Shame on you for listening.”
“Hardly rumor. And there’s no need to be sanctimonious. Mabel saw the Discovery parked outside Manor Farm yesterday at 6:00 a.m. Now. Where did Isaac and Monty disappear to?” Her mother hobbled up the stone step and through the back door.
Tilly raised her face into the damp, morning air. The sun had vanished, replaced by a fine Scotch mist. So they’re having sex. Big whoop. I just need to figure out how to avoid them for six weeks.
An empty truck rattled along the High Street. Empty trucks—when did she stop calling them lorries?—sounded different from heavily loaded ones. It had to do with the way they hit the dip on the corner. She gazed through the gateway, the place where she had met David. And then she stared back at the house, the place she had longed to run to after he died. After he died because of her. She’d grown used to the guilt, but it was always lurking. And when she was tired, as she was now, it thudded inside her skull like a migraine.
“Tilly! Phone!” her mother called from the kitchen. “A James Nealy?”
* * *
“Good flight?” James grabbed the rail on the treadmill, let go and repeated. Six times. Would she shriek? Accuse him of being a two-bit stalker? But despite what the voice had told him yesterday—over and over—he wasn’t a stalker. Although he had memorized the state harassment laws just to make sure.
“Are you an insomniac?” Tilly said. “It can’t be much later than 5:00 a.m. your time.”
He had prepared for incredulity or hostility, nothing else. And yet she’d asked about his sleep habits. What did that mean?
The treadmill whirred beneath him. “I exercise every morning from four-thirty to six-thirty.” That was probably more information than she needed.
“You get up at four-thirty? Are you crackers?”
What the hell did crackers mean? Who knew, but it didn’t sound good. So yes, clearly he had given her too much information. She was probably freaking out at this very moment, dialing 911 on her cell phone to report him for infringing the state harassment law that included: To telephone another repeatedly, whether or not conversation ensues, for the purpose of abusing, annoying, threatening, terrifying, harassing or embarrassing any person at the called number. Was he annoying her?
“Have you made a decision?” He spoke quickly, a preemptive strike in case she was considering hanging up.
“James.” Her voice dragged with exhaustion. He should’ve waited another hour at least, given her a chance to unpack. But it had taken all his restraint to not call her at 4:30 a.m. “I promised you an answer in September.”
“Can’t wait that long.”
“You’re worse than a child. Isaac was never this demanding, even at three.”
His pulse slowed as her accent, soft and warm, soothed him. He actually thought about crawling into bed and going back to sleep. After he’d showered, of course. “Do you talk to all your clients this way, or just me?”
“I have wholesale customers, not clients, for this very reason. And no, I haven’t given your project one iota of a thought. I just walked in the door after twelve hours of traveling, and all I care about is where I packed my toothbrush and whether there’s a pair of clean knickers nearby.”
“Is that so?” An image assaulted him, of Tilly wearing nothing but a scarlet thong and gardening gloves. He shook back his hair and upped the speed on the treadmill.
“How did you track me down?” Tilly asked.
Sari ratted you out. Once he discovered her sons were fans, he had all the leverage he needed.
“You can find anything,” he said, “if you’re determined.” That wasn’t a lie, even though the voice told him it was.
“I’m trying to be patient. Really. But I’m dangerously close to telling you to jump off a pier. Only with a few choice expletives thrown in.” She paused. “How’re the silent hiccups?”
“You really want to know?” His voice was almost a whisper.
“Sadly, yes. I do.”
“Worse.” The treadmill creaked an indignant rhythm as he upped the speed a second time. He’d never taken it this high.
“So you’re going to keep calling me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Time for a deal, Mr. Nealy. You get an answer in one week—if, and only if, you agree to abide by my decision. And no calling in the interim.”
Was that a yes? Or a no? Or a nothing? He hated nothings. But it could turn into a yes, right? “Agreed.”
“And—”
“Addendums?” He panted. “Already?”
“I’d like the adult explanation of your hiccups.”
“Will it…affect your…decision?” He was running hard now. Racing against the voice, which was stuck doing a circuit of: If you tell her, she’ll think you’re a fucking weirdo. James tried to drown out the thought with the lyrics of “Psycho Killer,” but he couldn’t get past the line that basically said, leave me the hell alone because I’m a live wire.
“Labels are merely a way of lumping people together like plants on a stall,” Tilly said. “I don’t much care what yours is.” She was smiling. He could hear it in the pitch of her voice. “Okay, gloves-off honesty. I’m curious.”
“What’s…your…label?”
