A Place in the Country (11 page)

“I thought it would be the truck,” she said, looking at the expensive leather upholstery. “What is this anyway?”

“A Maserati. Just a small one.”

“Hah! Then I must be paying you too much. Or else you've borrowed it to impress me.” She nudged him jokingly with her elbow as they drove, smooth as silk, across the bridge and into the black country night.

“The car's all mine.” He turned down the lane that led in the direction of her barn. “And paid for by my own hard work.”

“All those rich wives with their enormous country piles paying you and Georgki a fortune to redo them.” She sighed, suddenly remembering. “I have a date with Georgki. He's taking me to The Swan in Pangbourne.”

“You'll like it. The swans are beautiful, if a little aggressive, the river is wide there, and there are proper falls.”

“Not like my tiny little river and baby little weir and my humble mallards, you mean,” she said, trying to sound affronted and succeeding in making him laugh.

Looking at him, quite suddenly, she really wanted to kiss him. Could she possibly ask him to stop right there and then and just do that? God, of course not! He'd probably think she was some frustrated divorcée who couldn't wait to get her hands on him. In fact that was the truth.

“Caroline, you are a flirt,” he was saying.

“Was that flirting?” She smiled. She knew how to do this, after all.

He turned into the side lane that led to her barn and she said, surprised, “You're not taking me for dinner at my place, are you?”

“I am not.”

He turned again, this time between the stone gateposts with the rampant lions. At the end of the driveway Caroline saw the lights of a Jacobean manor. “I'm taking you to mine,” he said. “My family's, anyway.”

She fell back against the soft smooth expensive leather. What was he doing, taking her to meet his family? What was he
thinking
? She was a married woman, divorced anyway, and with a fifteen-year-old daughter.
And
she was eleven years older than him. She worked in a pub for God's sakes, and he lived in a manor house dating back centuries. All her insecurities flooded her. She should leave immediately, get back to the safety of her anonymous role as the pub cook; hide from people like his family, who would probably patronize her thinking she was Jim's little-bit-of-older-sex-on-the-side. Until he married some girl exactly like them that is.

“You're not happy,” he said.

“What makes you think that.” Her tone was arctic.

“This is not what you think.”

“And what
do
I think?” She shoved her red glasses further up her nose and turned to look at him. The diamanté arrow slid off and her hair tumbled down.

He said, “You think I've one-upped you. You thought I was just the local carpenter, which, in a way I am.”

“In what way are you?”

“I
am
a carpenter, only I don't just fix things, I make them too. I make furniture, and I wanted to bring you here tonight because I've made something for you.”

Softening, she turned her gaze full on him. She said, “I kind of miss the sawdust.”

“I told you I cleaned up for you.”

There was a small silence. “And just look at us now,” he said softly. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on her mouth which fell half-open with shock, so he kissed her all over again.

“I've wanted to do that ever since I first saw you in that yellow sweater that's fabulously too tight,” he whispered.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Caroline whispered back, but she didn't tell him it was because this was the first time she had kissed any man since James, and she didn't, right now, want to remember how long ago that was. And this man's lips were really quite—
lovely
—was the only word she could think of. It made her knees go weak. Tremble.

She moved away, nervously fishing a lipstick from the little black evening purse, skimming it over her just-kissed lips.

He got out, came round her side, took her hand and unfolded her from the Maserati's innards.

“Wait a minute,” she said, remembering. “I have to call my daughter, see how she's getting on at her party in London.”

There was no answer. Slightly worried, she left a message saying,
“Call your mom immediately Issy Evans, and tell me where you are and that you are okay.”
Then she walked up the wide, shallow front steps into a Jacobean mansion with her date, the really quite good-looking and really,
really
too
young,
Jim Thompson.

 

chapter 24

The doors
of Thompson Manor opened onto a large hall whose dark wood floors were polished to a labor-intensive gleam, and whose fourteen-foot ceilings were embellished with plaster cornices of cherubs and flowery wreaths and heraldic shields that, Caroline had no doubt, told the family's history. And that “family” was standing about in the hall, drinking what looked to be Pimm's from silver cups with little sprigs of mint sticking out the top, wearing long evening gowns and looking like a picture straight out of
Town & Country
magazine.

She gave Jim a quizzical look out of the corner of her eye. “Thanks for warning me not to wear the yellow sweater.”

“You look wonderful,” he said, taking her hand and leading her in toward a woman with piled-up auburn hair, and a long, red dress.

“Caroline, I'd like you to meet my sister-in-law, Jenny.”

“How lovely to meet you.” Jenny gave her a welcoming smile. “Though when I heard what a wonderful cook you are I was afraid my little dinner wouldn't live up to your expectations.”

A man who looked a lot like Jim, though a bit older and maybe a bit better looking, with sandy hair and a trim mustache, and who was obviously Jim's brother, hurried over. He gave Jim a hearty slap on the shoulder and said to Caroline, “Better watch out for him. He's only the local carpenter, y'know.”

She laughed and said, “So I discovered.”

“It's so nice to welcome you to our small community,” Jim's sister said. “Now, tell me all about your daughter. I hear she's at Upperthorpe. Where is she planning next?”

Before she knew it Caroline was absorbed into the small crowd. They all seemed to have heard about her restaurant and wanted to know all about it.

The dinner table was beautiful, all white roses and polished silver and candlelight. “Of course we'll all come to your opening,” an American sitting on her left, whose name was Bradley, told her. “I've already sampled your pies at the Star and Plough.”

“And how about those tacos,” said the man on her right, who turned out to be a TV producer and who was way too handsome, Caroline told him, in a definite flirt, saying he should be
on
screen and not off.

“We need a good restaurant round here,” Bradley added, spooning up his dessert which was called Eton mess, a “mess” of crushed meringue and strawberries mashed with enough cream to add five pounds onto any girl's hips practically overnight.

“You should ask Jim to show you his studio.” Bradley poured a chilled Sauternes into her glass to go with the dessert. “He's an artist you know. In wood.”

She glanced at Jim, sitting opposite. Their eyes met and he smiled.

“I need to see your studio,” she said.

“Then you shall.” He saluted her with his glass.

Soon after, Jenny rose to her feet, summoning the women with a glance and they left the men with a decanter of port making the rounds and went to Jenny's bedroom to freshen up. It was enormous and slightly chilly though very pretty, with two sofas and a huge four-poster, covered in what Caroline thought must be the original blue-silk-damask because she could see it was worn through in parts. The women powdered and lipsticked and gossiped about children and help and gardens, then they went down to the drawing room, where they joined the men, and soon it was time to leave.

*   *   *

It was freezing cold
out and Caroline wrapped her shawl closer as they drove round the corner of the house and to what used to be the stables and was now Jim's studio.

His walls were covered with pegboards on which were pinned hundreds of drawings, some technical, complete with measurements and notations, others just beautiful sketches of entire sets for stage, or TV.

At the far end of the workspace was a half-built spiral staircase. The steps were already in place and Jim was obviously working on the banisters that curved sinuously in what seemed to Caroline to be a miracle of craftsmanship. She had no idea how you got a solid piece of wood to actually curve. “It's beautiful,” she said.

“I was the best kid at woodwork in my class,” he said, making her laugh. “Not that I'm too grand to make a door or fix a broken cabinet.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I have to work for a living. A job is a job and I rarely turn one down.”

“But you have all
this.
Your wonderful house that's been in your family for generations, and … oh, I don't know, I suppose the history.”

“Don't believe everything you see.” He loosened his tie, took off his jacket and undid the top button of his shirt. “God, that's better,” he said. “My brother inherited it, and let me tell you, this house eats our family up, what with a new roof and plumbing and heating and general upkeep. Believe it or not, in my grandfather's day we had fourteen indoor servants and ten gardeners. Now we have two gardeners. Jenny is a miracle worker. Two women come in from the village every morning to clean and vacuum and keep the dust at bay. When she gives a little dinner, like this, they come in to help. That's the way it is with families like ours these days.” He came over and stood beside her. “I'm not moaning,” he said, “I'm a very lucky man. I live in a beautiful place. I love what I do.”

“Then you'd never think about selling?” Caroline knew the estate must be worth a small fortune, especially with all the new money around. “The Russian oligarchs and their spectacular wives would really go for this.”

“We're not at that place, yet,” Jim said. “And I hope we never will be. There's a couple more paintings we can sell, and my brother's doing well in hedge funds.”

Hedge funds!
That brought her quickly back to reality. “My husband's in hedge funds,” she said. Then, “I mean my
ex-husband
.”

“Glad you remembered.” He took her hand and led her to the living area where a fire flickered in the grate. The scent of wood smoke mingled with the fainter stable smells of horse and of hay and wood shavings. Aromatic. Masculine.

She sat on a sofa and he put a parcel, clumsily wrapped in brown paper, on the low table in front of her. “A small thing, but mine own,” he misquoted from somewhere.

She clutched a hand to her breast and gazed up at him over the tops of her red glasses. “
Really
? For
me
?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “For heaven's sake, open it. Tell me you hate it if you must, but at least get on with it.”

Laughing she untied the string. It was a small wooden box, perhaps nine inches long and less than an inch thick, curved into the shape of a leaf. She turned it over gently, marveling at the intricacy of the woodwork, at the thin layers of different colored woods.

The top had an inlaid marquetry design, very simple, and the narrow sides showed the three layers of different woods. When she opened the box, the inside was as beautifully fashioned. It smelled of new woods, and faintly of wax polish.

“It's lovely. A treasure. A true work of art.” Her eyes linked with Jim's. “And you made it for
me
? But you hardly know me.”

“I didn't have to know you. I know who you are.”

He went and stood in front of the fire, kicked the log into action, then leaned an elbow on the pine mantel, looking at her. “Sometimes it happens like that,” he said simply.

“It must have been the yellow sweater,” she said after a moment, and then they both laughed nervously, and he came and sat next to her and began kissing her.

Time passed. It was wonderful, exciting, and sexy. Caroline knew she had to leave. This was a first date and the romantic gift and kisses aside, she had to get herself together before it was too late.

She put her glasses back on so he would know she meant business, but Jim merely laughed. “I guess I've got to take you home now,” he said.

“Next week, we'll be neighbors,” she said. “I could almost walk home then.”

“I'll walk you.
Then.
”

He helped her with her shawl and put a hand on her waist as he walked her out. She was super-aware of him, sitting next to her as they drove. He parked outside the pub this time, because it was late and there were no other cars. She had forgotten about the time; and also had forgotten about Issy and her London party.

“It's after one o'clock,” she said, leaning over to give him a goodnight kiss, on the cheek this time. “They'll be wondering where I got to.”

He took her chin in his hand, held her for a second in a deep intense look. Then he let her go, got out of the car and came and opened her door.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said.

“Don't forget your present.” He handed her the box. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

She could still feel his eyes on her as she walked to the pub, felt the heat run up her spine again. She wanted Jim Thompson, but she realized she shouldn't. He was too young. Her life was different. Better to walk away from it now, before she got hurt again. She turned to look. He was still standing by the car, watching her. One final wave, and it was over.

 

chapter 25

Lysander's party
was still going strong. They were in a private room at a club. Because Issy was underage, it was the first real club she had ever been to, though she would never have admitted that now. Anyhow she'd bet some of the other girls were under club-age too, even though they looked older and had fake IDs.