Keys to the Castle (25 page)

He removed a covered basket from which a suspicious mewling sound emitted. He knelt on the ground close to Alyssa, and when he unlatched the top of the basket a tiny, fuzzy, gray-striped head poked out. Alyssa's eyes flew wide, her hands clasped her cheeks in amazement, and her gasp of delight could have won an Academy Award for its drama. Sara, barely able to suppress her own pleased laughter, was about to prompt Alyssa for the English word when she burst out, with her hands still clapped to her face, “Le cat!”

“Close enough.” Sara sank down to the grass beside Ash and scooped the tiny ball of fluff from the basket. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Him,” corrected Ash, and when Sara glanced at him he explained, “I felt the place could use a bit more of a male influence.”

Sara lost her battle with a grin as she carefully transferred the kitten into Alyssa's wondering, expectant hands. The next half hour passed swiftly as they settled the kitten—and Alyssa, who would not be parted from it—in a corner of the kitchen with a saucer of milk, a box of shredded newspaper, and a ball of string. Ash helped himself to a glass of chilled white wine and poured another for Sara, gesturing her to the table on the other side of the room. They arranged their chairs so that they could watch Alyssa, and Sara sank into hers with a barely suppressed sigh of relief. It was the first time she had sat down all day.

“I'd say your gift is a hit,” she said. “But if that's your solution to pest control, I'm telling you now, the rat I saw would not only laugh in that kitten's face, it would probably have him for dinner.”

Watching those upward-curving lines appear at the corners of his eyes was like the first taste of chocolate after a diet. Her stomach actually did a little flip-flop, just from the pleasure of seeing them again.

“There's an excellent fellow who comes out spring and fall,” Ash informed her, sipping his wine. “He'll be here in the morning.”

She nodded, and shifted her gaze to Alyssa, who was twirling around and around while the kitten chased the string she held, and whose giggles were growing ever more shrill. Sara opened her mouth to call a caution, and Ash's hand touched hers lightly where it rested on the tabletop.

“Leave her be,” he advised easily. “She's fine.”

“She's going to fall.”

“Then we'll find the first aid kit and tend her scraped knee, and the earth will continue to spin on its axis.”

“She could step on the kitten.”

“That,” he admitted, “would be a slightly more complex problem. Relax, Sara. I'm watching her.”

Sara had to take a quick sip of her wine because her eyes actually prickled, just for a moment, when he said that. The mere idea of turning over the enormous burden of responsibility that she had shouldered to someone else—if even for a moment—made her feel foolishly weepy with relief. But why did it have to be Ash? And why did it have to feel so good to have another English-speaking adult to talk to that it didn't even matter that he was the person who had, in an oblique and not-entirely-fair sort of way, caused all of her problems to begin with?

His hand, which still covered hers, turned over her fingers and she closed her fist self-consciously, withdrawing her hand, because her hands were paint-stained and her fingernails were broken and grimy. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was tied up in a bandanna and every inch of her felt gritty with dust. She belatedly recalled that she hadn't even bothered to put on a bra that morning, and remembering that caused her nipples to prickle with embarrassment, which she was certain he noticed. She twisted the neck of the T-shirt briefly between her fingers, abandoned the effort, and met his eyes boldly. This was what he got when he dropped in without notice and expected the world to stop because he was here. She dropped her hand to her lap.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

He returned her gaze with effortless equanimity. “A couple of reasons. Primarily, of course, this would seem to be the only way I can accurately ascertain the well-being of my ward, since you persist on demonstrating how pissed you are at me by refusing to take my calls. And, oh by the way, might we call that game a draw? I'm growing exceedingly bored with it and besides, you are in violation of the law.” And even as she drew a furious breath for protest he continued mildly, “Until proven otherwise, I am Alyssa's only legal guardian. She is with you by my good graces alone and you can damn well grow up and abide by our original agreement or I will take her back to London with me tonight. Additionally,” he continued, raising his glass to her sputtering attempt to defend herself, “you have never called my office for help before. I think you wanted me to come.”

Sara drew in several short, heaving breaths through her nostrils. “I wanted,” she said tightly, “an exterminator.”

“The list of support personnel is taped to the cupboard in the pantry,” he reminded her.

Sara jerked her head away, her lips compressed tightly. She tried to focus on Alyssa, who was so happy with her new pet. She took a sip of wine, and could barely swallow it. She said, “I'm too old for this.”

Ash said, watching her carefully, “If you're referring to your recent display of childish behavior, I quite agree. If you're talking about anything else, you're going to have to explain that to me because I frankly can't think what it can be.”

Sara could feel the pressure build behind her eyes and she tried to forestall it by pressing her forefinger hard beneath her nose, which was beginning to drip. “I'm too old to play these games, I'm too old to be this angry. I can't do this anymore, Ash, this is not the way I want to live my life. But if you think for one minute that I'm going to let you cheat Alyssa out of her inheritance . . .”

He said softly, “Shut up.”

That made her look at him, even though her eyes were hot with tears, and big with surprise.

He repeated, “Shut up. Because you know as well as I do that my intention is to protect Alyssa, not to cheat her.”

“I don't know that at all,” she began, but her voice was mucousy and the tears were like acid in her eyes.

“And,” continued Ash mildly, “if you continue in this vein, you're going to start crying and if you start crying, I shall have to kiss you and that will inevitably lead to activities not suitable for the eyes of a five-year-old. So just . . . shut up.”

She stared at him, momentarily startled out of her self-pity. And then she felt a sudden, rather hysterical urge to laugh, and she had to press her lips together tightly to stop it. But the threat of tears was gone and in a moment she could take a sip of her wine. “That's not why,” she said, not looking at him.

“I'm sorry?”

“The reason I didn't answer the phone . . . it's not because I was mad at you. Well,” she admitted, “it was at first. But mostly it's because . . .” She took a breath and met his eyes. “Everything is different now. And I guess I didn't want to be reminded of that.”

He nodded, saying nothing. But his gaze was steady and easy and, even though it was filled with understanding, she could not hold it for long. “So,” she said purposefully, “you'll want to know how Alyssa's been doing.”

He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I can see for myself that she's been doing just fine. I'd rather know about you.”

Nonetheless Sara told him about shopping trips and English lessons and feeding the swans and playdates with her new friend and learning to cook with Marie in the kitchen.

“A veritable paradise of a summer for a little girl,” Ash said approvingly. “Which of course inspired you to begin dismantling the château, piece by piece.”

She said defensively, “We need a home, not a display case. There isn't one cozy room in this entire castle. It's completely unlivable the way it is now.”

“Which I might have pointed out on more than one occasion.”

She frowned. “All it needs is some paint and carpets.”

“It needs more than that. But I suppose that's a start. What have you done?”

She told him about her progress with paint and carpets and draperies, which of course segued into the tale of toilets, which made him laugh.

“Let me guess,” he said. “They're all red.”

She returned defiantly, “They all work.”

He raised his glass. “Then I salute you.”

His gaze wandered to Alyssa, who had temporarily collapsed on the floor with the kitten cuddled to her chest. He said, “You've done an excellent job with her English. You can be proud of yourself.”

She shrugged it off, pleased and embarrassed, and admitted, “She's picking up English a lot faster than I'm picking up French, although”—and she smiled, slanting a glance at him—“I'm no longer paying five dollars for an orange.”

He laughed. “I always had faith in you. I do wonder, however . . .” His gaze was steady and carefully neutral. “Whether you've given any more thought to my suggestion about a nanny.”

Only about a thousand times
, Sara thought, but her reply was a sharp frown. “For heaven's sake, Ash, what kind of person can't manage a five-year-old for a summer? My sister manages two of them every day!” And even as she spoke Alyssa had regained her feet, her giggles turning into shrieks as she raced back and forth across the stone floor, the gamboling kitten fast at her heels.

Sara drew in a breath to call to her, but Ash interjected, “Alyssa,
ma petite
! Come and give me a kiss!”

Alyssa immediately veered off and launched herself into his lap, smacking his face with a loud kiss. Ash settled her on his knee. “I think
petit
Puss is becoming tired, my dear, and may soon be ready for a bedtime story. So let me tell you the story of a very famous cat, and I will say it in English, so that you can tell the story to your Puss,
eh bien
? Now listen very carefully.”

Alyssa leaned into the crook of his arm, her eyes rapt and intent on his face, as he related the story of Puss in Boots. Sara sank back into her chair and sipped her wine, a smile forming from the inside out, and began to relax for the first time in weeks. Perhaps months.

By the time he finished the story, which was imparted in two languages, the kitten was fast asleep on a folded towel near his empty milk dish, and Alyssa's eyelids were drooping. Ash carried her upstairs, Sara undressed her and put her to bed, and they stood for a moment beside the bed, watching her.

Sara said with a soft shake of her head, “I don't understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How you can be so good with her and so hard-assed to everyone else.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Not to everyone,” he pointed out. “Just to those who persist in engaging in pointless and wrong-headed behavior.”

Sara stiffened and drew a sharp breath for rebuttal, but he forestalled her with a light touch on her arm. In the deep twilight of the sleeping child's room, his gaze was gentle, his eyes like lightly burnished gems. “Just because one occasionally does beastly things,” he said softly, “doesn't necessarily make him a beast.” Then, easily, “Is there anything to eat? I'm starved.”

She replied, “We have dinner at five o'clock.”

He stared at her in genuine horror. “Good God.”

That made Sara smile. “There's some quiche and fruit in the fridge. Come downstairs.”

They returned to the kitchen in early twilight, and Sara rummaged around in the refrigerator while Ash poured more wine. The kitten had awakened and was weaving in between Sara's feet; Ash scooped it up and kept it contented in the crook of his arm by scratching its chin. He had not commented on the chaos he had discovered on the upper level: the toys in the corridor, the furniture piled against the walls, the smell of paint everywhere, and the fact that Alyssa, lacking any other place to sleep, had been tucked into Sara's bed—which Sara privately thought demonstrated a certain amount of class on his part.

She wondered if he was staying the night.

She said, “Alyssa has her own bed, you know. With rails, so she doesn't accidentally fall out. I just haven't put it together yet. And the rooms in this place are so big, and so far apart, and she's not really used to sleeping by herself, that I thought it was best to keep her with me for the time being.”

“I absolutely concur.” He was leaning against the counter, sipping his wine, stroking the kitten, absently glancing through the mail that had accumulated there. “Sara, is this today's post?”

She looked up from trying to adjust the temperature on the gas oven. “I guess so. Marie brings it up with her when she comes in the morning. It's probably just bills.”

He said, in an odd tone, “I think you'd best look at it.”

She came over to him. “Is there something from the States?”

He soberly handed her a peach-colored envelope with her address—Madame Sara Graves Orsay, Château Rondelais, Rondelais, France—beautifully calligraphied on the front, and on the back the return address: Mrs. Katherine A. Lindeman, 12 Surrey Lane, Northampton, England.

For a moment all she could do was stare at him. “Good God, Ash, how many ex-wives do you have?”

“It's not from my wife.” He carefully returned the kitten to the floor, his expression pained. “It's from my mother.”

She ripped open the envelope, extracted a single sheet of heavy peach-colored paper, and read the flowing script there with simple incredulity at first, slow, growing horror on the second reading, and finally, abject denial.

She was shaking her head before she could even find the words. “No,” she said. “Impossible. This says she's coming to visit . . . no, it says a visit of
some duration
. . . what does that mean, anyway? And that she's arriving on the eighteenth of July—that's two days from now! Are you kidding me? Did you put her up to this?” Sara demanded, her color high and eyes blazing. “Is this your idea of a joke? Because it's not happening, I'm telling you—”