“You’ll need the car keys, as well as keys to both the gatehouse and main house.”
While he retrieved the appropriate keys from the neatly labeled pegs, Tommy darted to the other door. It opened onto a covered walkway paved with flat flagstones.
“This goes to the gatehouse,” he explained unnecessarily, since the two-story bungalow sat all of twenty yards away.
It was made of the same mellow brick as the main house and had been converted into a comfortable retreat for Mrs. Wells. Once inside, they confirmed the cleaning service had indeed prepared the gatehouse’s second bedroom and restocked its kitchen.
“This is perfect,” Dawn exclaimed.
Delighted, she peered through the kitchen’s bay windows at the brick-walled backyard. Its lush lawn was bordered by early fall flowers lifting their showy faces to the sky, and the white-painted gazebo was perfect for sipping morning coffee while the sun burned the dew off the grass.
“I can take my laptop outside to work,” Dawn told Tommy. “Although I doubt I’ll get much done with all those dahlias to distract me. And that green, green grass just begs for a cartwheel or two.”
Tommy looked thrilled at the prospect of lawn gymnastics. Brian, on the other hand, had to forcibly slam a mental door on a vision of this woman with her fiery hair flying and her legs whirling through the air.
“And speaking of distractions,” Dawn commented, turning to prop a hip against the red tiled counter. “You start school next week, right?”
Tommy looked to his dad for confirmation, then mirrored his nod. “Right.”
“That gives us the rest of this week to have fun. I haven’t seen the pandas at the zoo. We need to do that, and check out the new exhibits at the Smithsonian, and...”
“And get in some shopping,” Brian interjected.
“Now you’re speaking my language! I’m not bragging when I say I’m intimately acquainted with every mall and shopping center within a fifty-mile radius.” She turned an inquiring look Tommy. “What about you? Do you like to cruise the malls?”
“No!”
She hid a smile at his undisguised horror and turned to Brian. “So why suggest shopping?”
“The school sent a checklist of supplies and uniform items we need to get.”
“He has to wear a uniform?”
“I don’t mind,” Tommy volunteered. “Dad explained that all the kids wear the same thing so no one makes fun of anyone else’s stuff.”
“Well, that’s sensible.”
Sensible, but kind of sad when Dawn remembered all the items of clothing she and Callie and Kate had shared over the years. So many, in so many different colors and styles, that they usually forgot who’d originally owned what. ’Course that was the difference between growing up in a small Massachusetts town versus a major metropolitan area with a socially and economically diverse population.
“Okay, we’ll add a shopping expedition to our agenda. You’ll need to get me a copy of that checklist, Brian.”
“I’ll print it out and give it to you at breakfast tomorrow. If you care to join us,” he added after a slight pause. “Mrs. Wells usually did.”
“She ate dinner with us, too,” Tommy added, “’cept when she was tired ’n wanted to put her feet up. She had to do that a lot. But you don’t put your feet up, do you?”
Dawn hated to burst his bubble. Especially after he’d proudly informed EAS’s chief pilot that she was, like, a hundred years younger than Mrs. Wells.
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
His brow furrowed, and while he struggled to reconcile Fun Dawn with Old Lady Dawn, his father stepped in. “Tommy and I will certainly understand if you’d prefer to take your meals here.”
“I may do that when work piles up. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to join you guys.”
“Okay. Well...” He palmed his chin, scraping the bristles that had sprouted during the long flight. “Since we ate on board, I figured we’d just do sandwiches tonight.”
“Sounds good.”
“About an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
Dawn used the time to empty her roll-on suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack: black slacks and a cream-colored tunic that could be dressed up or down with various tops and scarves; a gauzy sundress; her most comfortable jeans; three stretchy, scoop neck T-shirts; a loose-knit, lightweight sweater; underwear; sandals; flip-flops; a bathing suit; and a zipper bag of costume jewelry. That should be enough to get through another week in DC. If not, or if she stayed longer than anticipated, she’d have to make another excursion to the mall.
With Kate and Callie, if she could catch Callie before she flew home to Boston. Buoyed by the prospect, Dawn stripped off the filmy blouse, zebra-striped belt and wide-legged palazzo pants she’d purchased at a Rome boutique for the surprise ceremony at the Trevi Fountain. The pants had made the flight home without a wrinkle, but the blouse needed some serious steaming.
Dawn hung it on the outside of the walk-in shower stall before adjusting the spray on a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. The hard, pulsing streams revived her jet-lagged muscles and did a lively tap dance on her skin. She felt refreshed and squeaky clean and, once dressed in her favorite jeans and a scoop neck tee, ready to face the world again.
The world maybe, but not her mother.
When she remembered to turn her phone back on, she skimmed the text messages. Two were from members of her team at work, one from the director of a charity she was doing some free design work for and three from her mother.
Dawn had emailed both parents copies of her itinerary in Italy, with the addresses and phone number of the hotels in case of an emergency. She’d also zinged off a quick text when the itinerary had changed to include an unplanned stay in Tuscany, with a side excursion to Venice.
Her mother had texted her twice during that time. Once to ask the reason for the change, and once to insist she contact her father and pound some sense into his head about arrangements for Thanksgiving. These new texts, however, were short and urgent.
I need to speak to you. Call me.
Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you’d checked out. Call me.
Dawn! Call me!
Swamped by the sudden fear someone in the family was sick or hurt, she pressed the FaceTime button for her mom. When her mother’s face filled the screen, she could see herself in the clear green eyes and dark auburn brows. Maureen McGill’s once-bright hair had faded, though, and unhappiness had carved deep lines in her face.
“Finally!” she exclaimed peevishly. “I’ve texted a half dozen times. Why didn’t you answer?”
“We were in the air and only landed a little while ago. I just now turned my phone back on.
