head with the hoe and then put the kettle on for tea. “You’ve never fired a gun.”
“Nonsense. I was a dab hand with your uncle’s air rifle. Deer are large rodents, Tilly, and one should treat them as such. When I have rats, I pay the rat catcher to kill them. Why is shooting a deer any different?”
Tilly chewed her lip, determined not to swallow the bait. Her mother and Rowena had collaborated many times to accuse anti-beagling, anti-fox-hunting, anti-pheasant-shooting Tilly of being a namby-pamby country dweller.
“I’m sorry, Mum. My head’s spinning, and I’m barely awake.” Although her heart, galloping every which way, suggested otherwise. “How did we get from hedgehogs to deer?”
“A hedgehog. Singular.”
Tilly rolled her eyes and silently renewed her vow never to be a mother who grasped every teachable moment and strode forth with it.
“Well, since the gamekeeper wouldn’t help, I came up with my own solution. Very creative, too. When I took Monty out for his bedtime turn around the garden, I brought along that giant water blaster Rowena gave Isaac. Thought I’d soak the muntjac if I saw him. Works with next door’s Lab when he bursts through the hedge to attack poor Monty.”
Poor was hardly an adjective to describe her mother’s dog. Not since he’d mauled a baby rabbit to death and terrorized the window cleaner with the carcass.
“What a ridiculous gift that water gun was. If only Rowena would settle down with a nice man, start a family….”
“The deer, Mum?”
“The deer? Oh, right. The deer.”
Anxiety returned in waves. When she and Isaac were home at Christmas, Tilly had noticed her mother developing a new habit of becoming lost in her speech, as if she couldn’t retain her thoughts. Was this early-onset dementia, history about to repeat itself, or wet brain from decades of drinking gin?
“It’s quite simple really. Instead of a deer, Monty found a hedgehog. I tripped over the blessed thing in the dark, and then everything degenerated into a Dad’s Army sketch.”
Tilly laughed, remembering her’s father favorite television sitcom, but stopped when she heard only silence from her mother. “How long till the plaster comes off?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks! Who’s going to help you bathe, get dressed, walk Monty?”
“I’ll muddle through. The twins don’t leave for Australia for two weeks, which is an absolute stroke of luck. And Marigold’s rallied my support system. Bless her, she does have a tendency towards drama.” That was an understatement. Marigold, her mother’s bosom pal of forty years, could create drama out of a downed washing line. “Trust me, darling—” Mrs. Haddington lowered her voice and sounded so far away “—this is nothing like before.”
“You’ve had another panic attack,” Tilly said. “Haven’t you?”
Her mother hesitated for a second too long. “It was nothing.”
“Right, we’ll arrive after the twins leave and stay until the plaster comes off. Can you spring for the tickets? I’m strapped for cash since the electrics went on my truck.”
If the panic attacks had returned, what choice did Tilly have? She had safeguarded her mother’s secrets once. If need be, she would do so again.
“Darling, don’t be rash. What will happen to the nursery if you leave for six weeks during the peak season?”
“Sari’ll happen. She can take over.” Bummer, she couldn’t fire Sari after all.
The night before, Tilly had found the phone message explaining Sari’s impromptu beach getaway and how, in the excitement, she had misplaced James’s number and been unable to cancel his appointment. Right, that made sense. Clearly, Sari had forgotten blabbing about her terror of oceans—despite her love of sleeping with a sound machine set to play waves. Tilly had ignored the confession as an attempt at girl bonding. Besides, once you understood someone’s fears, you were trapped in her world.
Could she trust the daily grind of the nursery to a person who had lied so blatantly? An employee who couldn’t sit still for ten minutes let alone direct nothing but a hose for five hours a day? But Tilly felt oddly disconnected, aware only of Woodend lit up ahead, waiting for her.
“Besides, how can I miss seeing you recline the summer away like Lady Muck?”
Tilly loved her mother’s bawdy laugh, so unexpected for a petite woman who came down to cook breakfast every morning wearing red lipstick and Chanel No. 5 eau de parfum. But the laughter ended. “There’s another reason you might not want to come home.”
“The village cut off with foot and mouth again? More mad cow disease?”
“Rowena has a new tenant at Manor Farm.” Her mother took a deep breath. “Tilly, it’s Sebastian. He’s living in Bramwell Chase.”
Tilly dropped the phone.
Chapter 4
James slid from Warrior I to Warrior II and deepened the stretch. The warrior poses are about strength and endurance. The muscles in his calf tightened as a warm current of energy flowed through his body and into the ground, rooting him, making him strong. Defective, but strong. His thoughts became clouds floating away, and he concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing, trying to ignore the feeling that picked at the back of his mind. A feeling he must not acknowledge. A distraction he could not afford. Not if he was going to kick-start his plan.
He found his focal point—the edge of his yoga mat—and shifted his balance forward, raising his right leg and his arms behind him. If he held the pose for six breaths, he would relax into Downward-Facing Dog and then treat himself to a headstand. When he was upside down, everything was in sync. His mind and body aligned.
One, two, three, four—he began to quaver—five…no, there it was again, that swell of desire. Let it drift by, James. He tried hard, so hard, to push it away but couldn’t. And with a resigned sigh, he toppled.
Lying on his yoga mat, James stared up at the ceiling. Was that a stain in the corner? He sat up. A stain he hadn’t noticed before? Mold? He stood. Anthrax?
Don’t go psycho on me, James. A stain is often just a stain.
It was getting harder to find his own thoughts. The voice was gaining strength, feeding off his lack of sleep, feeding off the stress of the move, feeding off his attraction to Tilly.
Two days. It had been two days and she hadn’t returned his call. What if her answering machine was broken? What if she wouldn’t call unless he moved his coffee mug to the right of the phone? He always put his mug on the right. Always. And this morning he’d put it on the left, which proved he had messed with his routine, dallied on the wild side with those who put their coffee mugs wherever the hell they pleased. See what progress he was making?
Why hadn’t she returned his call?
He was running out of time and options. Tomorrow she and Isaac flew to England, which he only knew because Isaac had told him
