Cottage by the Sea (17 page)

   "Richard? He'll be here today?" Blythe exclaimed. Her incredulous tone disclosed her amazement that Luke hadn't mentioned his son's expected return before this. "How wonderful for you," she added. She gazed through the windshield at the sparkling blue-green sea as thundering waves rolled toward shore in frothy white sequence. "What a heavenly place for a child to spend his summers. What plans have you two made?"

   "Oh, there are lots of things a ten-year-old can find to amuse himself with around the Hall," Luke said with a shrug.

   Blythe looked at her companion quizzically. "But what kinds of things do you two enjoy doing together? Sailing? Hikes?"

   Her host, who had been amazingly sensitive to her fragile emotional state when she'd first arrived at Barton Hall, pursed his lips in a line that obviously indicated annoyance with her probing.

   "We'll decide those things as we go along, I expect," he said evenly.

   
None of your business,
was the way Blythe heard his response.

   His unexpectedly curt reaction elicited an unwelcome memory of Christopher Stowe, who had a similar habit of distancing himself from anyone who asked him to confront something unpleasant.

   "I expect you will," Blythe replied quietly. She turned her head away from Luke to stare out the car window.

   Clearly she was treading on dangerous ground. She'd asked a perfectly normal question and had felt a proverbial steel door close. Maybe there was some problem with the boy. Lindsay's death had to have been traumatic for both of them. Perhaps…

   
Englishmen!

   She was filled with sudden exasperation. Hadn't she learned yet that they were genetically incapable of declaring what they felt? In the old days Blythe's full-time occupation had become making the attempt to figure out what was bothering Christopher at any particular moment.

   As she and Luke rode along in lengthening silence, she continued to stare through the windshield and silently vowed that she wasn't
ever going to take on the role of Min
d Reader again.

   "What's wrong, darling?" she used to query Chris when his lips would flatten into a straight line as Luke's were doing now. "Tell me what's going on."

   "What do you mean?" Chris would reply.

   
Let me guess!

   That was what it boiled down to: a guessing game wherein she always turned out to be the one with The Problem. As Blythe looked back on eleven years with Christopher Stowe, it dawned on her that she'd always been the one to do the emotional heavy lifting.

   Well, not anymore.

   "No point in ridin' the same ornery horse," a voice rang in her head. The expression had been one of Grandma Barton's favorites. But why in heaven was Blythe repeatedly attracted by the sophistication and urbanity of British men, while repelled by the closed-off way they dealt with what went on in their heads and hearts?

   "Richard's birthday is in three weeks' time," Luke said at length, breaking the long silence that had followed their tense exchange. "We're having a few of the local children over and will celebrate by taking them to the village fête in Gorran Haven. Any chance you could be there to lend Mrs. Q and me some moral support? I've not had much practice with the preadolescent set."

   "Neither have I," Blythe replied coolly.

   Silence.

"Blythe… I'm sorry… it's just…"

"What?"

   She turned to gaze at his profile. Luke stared ahead at the road. He appeared to be struggling to say something that would explain his odd behavior.

   "I just thought… you might enjoy seeing the village fête… a bit of local color and all that."

   He had struggled—and failed—to account for his irritability just now. Well at least the man was trying to make amends for his testiness, she thought grudgingly. Offering a helping hand with his son's birthday party was the least she could do after his kindnesses to her the previous month. She reached across the armrest between them and placed her palm lightly on his sleeve.

   "Look, Luke… I'd be glad to do what I can to give you a hand," she said quietly. "But I hope you won't expect a Hollywood production."

   As soon as they completed their errands in Mevagissey, they returned to Barton Hall and, at a quarter to twelve, retired to the small sitting room, glasses in hand, to wait for Richard's arrival.

   Every few minutes Luke glanced at his watch nervously as he sipped his sherry.

   "Ten more minutes to go before you can declare him late for lunch." Blythe smiled teasingly. "How far away is his boarding school from here?"

   "A couple of hours' drive… Shelby Hall is on the east side of Dartmoor, in the county of Devon."

   Blythe wondered silently why Luke hadn't made the trip to fetch his son.

   "As we're waiting," he said, taking another sip from a glass shaped like a large crystal thimble, "perhaps you can give me your thoughts about my idea of converting Barton Hall into a country hotel."

   "I
have
been thinking about it, actually…"

   She hesitated. She could simply give him her professional view of the enormous task involved in turning this breathtakingly beautiful but decrepit castle into a working hostelry for discriminating guests. Or she could advance an idea she'd had that would be much more likely to succeed commercially, require far less capital to launch, and might plunge the two of them up to their necks in a project that both excited and petrified her.

   "And?" Luke pressed.

   "Well…" Blythe started slowly. "Remember how you told me the reason Barton Hall was a hall instead of a castle, even though in this incarnation it is a castle—if you follow me so far?"

   "Sort of," he laughed.

   "You explained that, centuries ago, 'Barton' meant 'farm.' 'Menabilly Barton,' as you pointed out, means 'the farm at Menabilly,' next to the manor house. And this Barton, near Dodman Point, was just a farm during the days of William the Conqueror, correct?"

   "Ten sixty-six and all that. Yes, go on."

   "Well," Blythe said, inhaling deeply and feeling as if she were about to pitch a film idea to the Paramount suits, "Barton Hall could be a farm again… a very profitable farm… a flower farm."

   "You mean raise tulips and hollyhocks and such?" Luke asked skeptically.

   "No… not that!" Blythe corrected him excitedly. "You've got your stock already in place. You can sell plants, seedlings, and seeds for some of the most beautiful rhododendrons, azaleas, and camellias I've ever seen. An Internet-based mail-order business! You know, ordering goods online or by post!"

   She could see she'd gotten Luke's attention.

   "Drawing customers from all over Britain?" Luke said with a thoughtful expression.

   "Eventually, your business could go global, or at least, with the proper paperwork, you could sell to the European Union."

   A look of hope dawning spread across Luke's face. "You mean you think we could make a go of selling what we
already
grow in the garden here?"

   "That's part of my plan, yes," Blythe replied. "With quite a bit of expansion, of course. And the beauty of it is, you won't have to have hordes of tourists invading your private household. You and Mrs. Q won't have to run yourselves ragged every day trying to please forty finicky hotel guests at a crack."

   She took another deep breath.

   "One of my ideas would be to convert the pony stable into a school for avid gardeners. Perhaps these very few special visitors could come to Barton Hall for a fortnight, take classes from really knowledgeable gardening experts and landscape designers, while paying to stay in Painter's Cottage or in a few rooms in the castle's guest wing, done up à la Laura Ashley, as you suggested. I think you could charge a
fortune
!" she added with a grin.

   Luke cocked his head and nodded thoughtfully.

   "You mean that Mrs. Q would manage a small B-and-Btype arrangement?"

   "An elegant bed and a scrumptious breakfast for a select—and wealthy—few." She smiled at him mischievously. "That way, you could play the genial host the way you do so well."

   "And do you think we could really make it pay?" Luke wondered, doubt beginning to invade his eyes.

   "Yes!" she assured him enthusiastically, as if the L.A. Lakers had just won a big one. "And I have another idea for this scheme," she ventured.

   "Good heavens," Luke laughed. "Our Cornish air has really charged your brain cells."

   "You could make this a joint venture—"

   Just then a horn sounded outside their window. Luke's housekeeper stuck her head through the movable bookcase.

   "They're here!" Mrs. Quiller said excitedly.

   "Let's talk about this later," Luke said, rising from his chair. "It all sounds quite intriguing."

   Such a response, spoken by an Englishman, could mean either "It's a brilliant idea" or "It will never work, you silly woman." Blythe had had too much experience with True Brits of the male persuasion not to wonder which sentiment the owner of Barton Hall had really been expressing.

   Meanwhile, he exited the sitting room, strode to the heavy front door, and opened it. From inside the hallway, Blythe watched with surprise as a striking young woman with flawless skin and golden hair twisted into a chic chignon at the nape of her swanlike neck stepped out of a Jaguar she'd parked in the gravel driveway. The car was of the very same midnight blue as Blythe's model, now stored on blocks in the garage of her new condo in Brentwood, California.

   From the visitor's choice in automobiles to her camelcolored cashmere sweater and matching skirt, the lady had taste. In fact the stunning-looking creature appeared to possess the perfect features and impeccable grooming of a Princess Diana, coupled with the self-conscious voluptuousness of a
Penthouse
pet.

   Blythe also noted that the blond beauty had ignored Luke's recommendation that visitors dress casually in Cornwall. Blythe's jeans suddenly seemed woefully inappropriate for a luncheon celebrating Richard's homecoming.

   "Chloe… welcome… and thank you so much for fetching Richard for me," Luke said heartily.

   "A godmother's work is never done," the woman replied with a warm smile for the father of her young charge. From Blythe's vantage point the visitor seemed somehow to be standing closer to Luke than he was to her.

   Luke turned to face the youngster who stood stiffly beside the car. The lad looked small and pinched in his blue blazer and school tie. His light-brown hair was carefully combed, and his pale face, unlike Luke's tanned countenance, undoubtedly made him his mother's child.

   "Hello, son," his father said, extending his hand formally.

   "Hello, Father," Richard Teague mumbled shyly, shaking his hand.

   They both then fell silent as Richard gazed down at his shining shoe tops. Blythe thought she detected in Luke's expression a look of fatherly concern tempered by British restraint. It appeared to her as if he'd like to give his child a hug, so why didn't he? Instead he assumed his role of perfect host.

   "Mrs. Quiller has lunch waiting," he said smoothly, "and I want you both to meet our guest who's staying at Painter's Cottage."

   "The summer let?" Chloe wondered aloud. She cast a languid glance in Blythe's direction. A small frown suddenly creased her forehead. "You've invited her to lunch?"

   
Would you like me to eat in the kitchen?
Blythe wondered silently.

   As Chloe walked toward the large front door where Blythe was standing, the new arrival surveyed her from head to toe. "How delightful that you could join us," the woman added, smiling faintly.

   "Blythe, may I introduce Richard's godmother and a family friend of long standing, Chloe Acton-Scott, who lives in London. Chloe, this is Blythe Stowe."

   "Ah… from America," Chloe replied before Blythe could respond. "You're in the motion-picture industry, aren't you?" she asked. Her cool green eyes continued to gaze at Blythe appraisingly. "I expect you've been appreciating Cornwall's isolation. Such a lovely place to get away from it all."

   Does everyone in the UK watch CNN? Blythe wondered. Perhaps she could plead a "mee-grain," as Chloe would undoubtedly pronounce it, and head back to her cottage before lunch. However, at that moment Luke's housekeeper appeared in the open front door.

   "Hello, Mrs. Acton-Scott," Mrs. Q said politely. "Welcome home, young man!" she added, and then threw her arms around the lad. "Come, in with you now, and let's be washin' your hands." To Luke she advised, "Luncheon is on the sideboard, sir, so just help yourselves. Young Richard and I'll just be checkin' on the summer puddin', won't we, Dicken, my boy?"

   "Dicken?" Blythe repeated. "Is that your nickname?"

   "It's what Mrs. Q likes to call me," Richard replied, smiling bashfully.

   Blythe smiled back. "I like it, too."

   Mrs. Quiller and her employer's son walked arm in arm ahead of the trio, who were left standing at the entrance to Barton Hall chatting aimlessly about the fine weather Cornwall was thus far enjoying in June.

   "Well… ah… shall we go in to lunch?" Luke asked abruptly.

   "I'll just get my cases," Chloe said with a smile reserved exclusively for her host.