in the midst of meetings, endlessly ringing cell phones, business breakfasts and working lunches.
He hoped Charlotte would be joining them for dinner. He’d spent yesterday evening and the evening before chatting with her in her cozy kitchen. He grinned, only just now thinking of a witty riposte to one of her outrageous comments, and wished she were there to hear it. Lately he’d developed a habit of popping by her gallery most afternoons too. Somehow they always ended up sharing a pint or a dram at the Celtic Café, where he and Rory discussed politics, soccer and other burning issues. They were usually joined by Hamish, an old fisherman and pal of his grandfather’s, who was only too ready to tell him long-forgotten tales, some of which were no doubt embellished but made good stories anyway.
His mind turned again to Charlotte. She’d seemed calmer the past few days, less nervous. He’d enjoyed watching her from a distance as she sat poring over her work, both her enthusiasm and talent apparent. She was obviously enthralled by the collection she and Armand were putting together. He frowned. There was nothing wrong with Armand, he supposed, but still, he couldn’t stomach the guy.
He stood a while longer, peering thoughtfully across the lawn. A dreary day. One that suited his pensive mood and made Harcourts, the factories in Limoges and Taiwan, and the new stores being opened in fifteen states seem impossibly remote. How had Jamie MacTavish’s sheep managed to assume the pole position on his list of priorities, he wondered. If he told Syl that, she’d definitely send him to a shrink. She’d insist he return immediately to New York, to its familiar pace, the buzz of traffic, and a healthy dose of carbon monoxide.
But, in truth, he didn’t want to be there. He’d slipped into this new, peaceful existence like a hand into a smooth kid glove, and he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. In fact, he realized, he could easily get used to setting his own pace without Marcia’s efficient voice reminding him of his next appointment.
Not that he didn’t appreciate his high-powered, highly competent secretary. Quite the contrary. It was precisely those sharp, organizational skills that had allowed him to be here without going crazy.
The only hiccup to date had occurred at three in the morning two days ago, when he’d been woken up by Mr. Chang, his director in Taiwan. He’d spent the better part of the night on the phone. Once they’d fixed the problem, he’d turned over in Aunt Penn’s lavender-scented linen and gone straight back to sleep in the huge four-poster that had cradled the worries and pleasures of his ancestors for several generations.
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