Muttering, Loretta disconnected.
Noah got up from the table and stepped past a slumbering Buster onto the terrace, the early-evening air still and warm, fragrant with flowers and herbs. He looked out at the stone walls, fields and hills silhouetted against the darkening summer sky. He’d never been to this part of Massachusetts during his college days. On breaks, he’d gravitated to the beaches or gone home to Los Angeles. Not ever—not once—had he considered that Dylan might end up in a small New England town. He’d discovered that he had roots in the Swift River Valley—a grandmother he’d never known, a woman now in her nineties who’d given up his father at birth.
Hence Duncan McCaffrey’s purchase of the house up the road and Dylan’s presence in Knights Bridge.
As much as Dylan appreciated the answers he’d discovered last spring, Noah knew they weren’t why his friend was still here. Dylan was in Knights Bridge because of Olivia Frost. If she fell in love with San Diego and wanted to live there part-time, he would do that. He had the freedom to make whatever came next for him work for her, too.
The Farm at Carriage Hill was charming and sophisticated, and Olivia had every reason to be proud of what she’d accomplished in such a short time. It wasn’t a traditional bed-and-breakfast that took in the odd overnight guest, and there were no events scheduled during his stay. Maggie O’Dunn would stop by during the day but for the most part Noah would have the place to himself.
Well, he and Buster would.
Olivia had lined up several painting projects in case he got bored.
She had a sense of humor. Noah did a lot of things but he didn’t paint.
He headed upstairs to choose a bedroom for his New England sojourn. Only one, a small bedroom overlooking the side yard, didn’t involve antique lace.
That was the one he chose.
Eight
Phoebe took the call from Maggie in her back garden. They’d planned to head over to Carriage Hill and deal with Olivia’s basil—make a nice Sunday afternoon of it—but Maggie couldn’t. “Ava and Ruby got their wires crossed and neither one will be around today,” Maggie said. “Mom needs help with the goats, although, of course, she insists she doesn’t. The boys and I will go over there and do what we can.”
“Nineteen goats are too many for her,” Phoebe said.
“One goat is too many,” Maggie added in exasperation, then sighed. “I know she loves the goats. She’s never asked for any of us to help take care of them, but you know she’d never manage without us.”
Phoebe didn’t disagree. “Getting into goat’s milk soaps could make a difference.”
“She says she’s looking into selling a few of the goats. She knows she has to. We don’t need nineteen, even if the soaps do well.”
“Let me know if I can do anything to help,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, we’ll manage. The boys are still young enough to think mucking out the stalls is fun. Enjoy your quiet afternoon. We’ll make the pesto later this week.”
“I have all the ingredients. I can head over to Olivia’s and see how much I can get done on my own this afternoon.”
Her younger sister took in a sharp breath. “Phoebe…”
“It’ll be okay, Maggie. I can follow a recipe. If I screw up the pesto, there’ll be more basil.”
“What about Buster?”
“He and I get along just fine.”
Maggie started to say something else, but Phoebe assured her she’d manage the basil on her own and got off the phone, eager to be on her way on what was turning into a hot, humid afternoon. Perfect for making pesto, she thought as she went back inside.
Not that she’d ever made pesto.
Given the heat, she pinned up her hair and changed into shorts, a sleeveless linen top and flip-flops.
Fifteen minutes later, she parked at Carriage Hill, grabbed her canvas bag of pesto-making ingredients and headed up the stone walk to the kitchen ell. Maggie would have been by early to see to Buster, and Phoebe expected to have to use the extra key Olivia kept hidden behind a gutter. Instead she found the main door to the kitchen open and Buster nosing the screen door.
“Hey, Buster, did Maggie forget to lock up?” Phoebe pulled open the door and stepped past the big, rambunctious dog into the country kitchen. Buster went from nosing the screen to nosing her as she set the bag on the counter. “Easy. You remember me. I’m Phoebe. Olivia’s friend.”
“I do remember you.”
Phoebe jumped, startled at the sound of a man’s voice, coming from the adjoining living room.
Noah Kendrick appeared in the doorway. “Phoebe O’Dunn, the slug-hunter,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Hello, Phoebe.”
She subtly breathed out in relief. “Noah—hi. I didn’t realize anyone was here. I thought Dylan and Olivia were on their way to San Diego.”
“They are. I stayed behind.”
“But you’ll be joining them?”