Francisco to Vancouver and rented the Jeep, and the RV that was to be his home for the few days it would take him to straighten out the mess with the back taxes and generally check out the property that was the cause of so much distress and anxiety.
A day’s drive later, he’d seen for himself that years of neglect had reduced the place to a travesty of what it must once have been. It was glaringly obvious even to the most inexperienced eye. Everywhere he turned the evidence confronted him-—mildew, rot, decay—and with each new discovery his dismay increased, fueled by the information that the garage attendant had been so willing and eager to impart.
‘Them Heritage Society folks wield a big stick in these parts,’ the man had confided over his third beer. ‘Right powerful, they are. You need permission from them to paint your own front door once they decide that what you got is so damned old and ugly you can’t wait to set a match to it.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Nick had replied, deciding on the spot that, Heritage Society or no Heritage Society, he wasn’t about to be told what he could and couldn’t do with property that had been in his family for decades. ‘Well, if I decide to take a bulldozer to the place, it’ll be a fait accompli before anyone from the society has time to stop me.’
‘There’s some folks around town that might agree with you,’ the old coot had cackled, ‘but hell, sonny, the president of yon society ain’t one of ‘em, and she’s your next-door neighbor. The minute as she hears that bull-dozer engine start up, she’ll chain herself to the front wheel sooner than let you touch a single brick on the place.’
‘She’ll be escorted off the property with a flea in her ear if she tries.’
‘Not this here president, she won’t. Miz Slater’s plagued with the idea that if something’s old, it’s valuable. She’s been after the society for months now to turn the Tyler place into some sort of historical shrine. You check at the Town Hall if you don’t believe me. They got it in writing down there.’ He’d chewed on his tattered moustache for a while, before dunking it in his beer again, then added gloomily, “They got every sin a man ever committed written down at the Town Hall, and I oughta know. Darn near shut me down last year, they did, all because that old biddy Roberta Parrish complained I didn’t keep a clean enough washroom. As if that’s where I make my money! Might as well face it, sonny. In this town, you can’t fight the Town Hall, and it’s darn certain that you can’t fight yon Heritage Society—leastways, not while Miz Slater’s president you can’t.’
Disquieting news that, unfortunately, had proven all too accurate. When Nick had gone to pay the back taxes he’d checked, and found that designation of the lodge as a historic site was indeed pending. Any structural changes would require a specific permit approved by the Heritage Society. He would have to appear at their monthly meeting and make his application in person before he would be allowed to remove so much as a broken pane of glass. And his biggest obstacle, the busty blonde behind the desk at the Town Hall had informed him, would be convincing the president of the society.
He’d realized then that, unless he came up with drastic action, he could be delayed here indefinitely while his rights were argued back and forth. Stymied, Nick had thanked the blonde then marched out, determined to overcome every obstacle thrown in his path by whatever means presented itself. Which brought him to where he was now: slapping aftershave on his jaw and preparing to play Romeo to an unsuspecting Juliet.
Snorting with disgust, he left the steamy bathroom and resigned himself to carrying on with what he’d started the day he’d met his lovely next-door neighbor. It was a question of priorities—and the fact that his hormones were out of sync with his brain couldn’t be allowed to influence that. He wasn’t about to be sidelined in this godforsaken provincial backwater, reduced to learning second-hand what major developments were taking place overseas. That wasn’t what being an ace foreign correspondent was all about.
Checking the time, he folded a plaid blanket on top of the picnic hamper, weighted it down with a portable radio, and made sure the ice in the cooler hadn’t melted too fast. Earlier he’d selected a picnic site and prepared a fire pit All he needed now was for the moon to rise and the lady to show.
She arrived just as dusk faded into dark, slender and graceful and more than a little flushed, as if she’d raced to get there on time.
‘You look ready for a little R and R,’ he said, jumping right into Phase Three of Operation Tyler. ‘Tough week?’
‘A normal work week,’ she said, pushing her fingers through that long, dark hair and retying the scarf that bound it loosely at her nape. ‘The pace didn’t let up once and I’m glad it’s finally over.’
‘So am I,’ he said, dismissing the twinge of guilt that persisted in plaguing him. ‘And if you’re anything like me, the last thing you want to do on a night like this is talk about your job.’ He took her hand, lightly and briefly. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again ever since last Sunday.’
He thought her flush deepened at that, though it was hard to be sure in the faint light spilling out of the camper.
‘Have you?’ she returned, and added with disarming diffidence, ‘So have I.’
‘Then let’s forget about work and concentrate on recreation. I’ve got everything ready down on the beach, except for this stuff here. If you can carry the blanket and radio, I can manage the rest.’
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble,’ she said, staring around her when they arrived at his pre-selected hollow in the dunes. ‘I hadn’t expected anything quite so…elegant.’
‘Why not?’ He spread the blanket for her to sit on, placed a couple of cushions in the small of her back, then put a match to the kindling. ‘You’re an elegant lady and deserve nothing less.’
She smiled at him and said, ‘And you’re very gallant.’
He smiled back, and hoped that the deceit didn’t show in his eyes.
‘A SIMPLE dinner,’ he’d said when he’d issued the invitation. ‘Remember, I’m living out of a camper.’
But it was a camper that ran to mohair blankets and quilted cushions, and his idea of simplicity included champagne cooling in an ice-bucket. Madeleine was glad she’d worn her apricot cashmere sweater and silk-lined woollen trousers instead of the fleecy jacket and jeans she’d originally considered. Glad, too, that vanity had compelled her to sprite her throat with a little Alfred Sung cologne and to add a touch of mascara to her already dark lashes.
‘I got steaks,’ he said, poking at the flames and arranging the bed of coals so that he could prop a metal grill over it. ‘And potatoes and mushrooms. How does that sound?’
‘Perfect.’
All the time he spoke he was busy unloading from the picnic hamper. Little foil-wrapped packages emerged that she assumed were the potatoes and mushrooms, followed by plates made of rather good china, and fluted glasses that, though plain, were definitely crystal.
‘Thought we’d start with champagne,’ he said, tackling the corked bottle with casual familiarity. ‘And smoked salmon. It’s going to take a while before the potatoes are ready.’
The champagne foamed
