They walked back up the road to Carriage Hill. The dog pulled hard on the leash and Noah noticed a squirrel chattering at them from a pine branch. He could hear birds, but otherwise it was a cool, quiet summer evening, the daylight graying with the approach of dusk.
By the time he and Buster arrived in Olivia’s kitchen, Noah was hungry. First, he’d feed Buster, then he’d heat up soup she’d frozen. He could always add some of Phoebe’s pesto, or go pick a few herbs in the garden. He’d already learned that Knights Bridge had only one restaurant, so he better save that option. By the standards of the people who lived there, the town wasn’t isolated—they were used to driving to stores and restaurants in nearby towns.
By Noah’s standards, it was the middle of nowhere.
He found a rag in the mudroom and wiped the dog’s muddy paws. “Well, Buster, my friend, there may not be a good Mexican restaurant within thirty miles, but we can consider ourselves lucky they take in strays around here.”
While his soup heated, he called Dylan but didn’t reach him and hung up without leaving a voice mail.
Two minutes later, Dylan called back. “You’re bored,” he said.
Noah stirred his simmering soup with a wooden spoon. “How could I be bored? There’s always something to do here. If I’m not walking the dog, I’m giving him food and water, and if I’m not doing that, I’m dodging bees in the catmint.”
“Catmint, Noah?”
“It’s the purple stuff by the terrace.”
“I know what it is. Olivia told me. Who told you?”
“Maybe I already knew.”
“You didn’t already know,” Dylan said, confident.
Noah wished he hadn’t brought up catmint. “How does Olivia like San Diego?”
“Loves it. Who doesn’t? We’re out on my porch now looking at the ocean.” Dylan paused. “Anything new on Julius Hartley?”
“Not on my end. I haven’t talked to Loretta yet today. Why don’t you forget about Hartley and enjoy the ocean breeze with Olivia?”
“She got a good dose of what Loretta’s like last night. We had martinis and talked about your stalker private investigator while we admired the sunset over the Pacific.”
Noah sighed. “I miss the Pacific.”
Dylan ignored him. “Any sign of Hartley in Knights Bridge?”
“No. I’m sorry you found out about him. Two years ago, we wouldn’t have paid any attention. We’d have been too busy. Now you’re busy and I’m…” Noah frowned, noticing that Buster had wandered into the living room and jumped up on the couch. “Does Olivia let Buster on the couch?”
“No. Noah?”
“I have to go. Buster and I need to straighten out who’s boss.”
“Good luck with that,” Dylan muttered.
Noah hung up and shooed Buster back onto his spot in front of the fireplace. The soup was bubbling on the kitchen stove. He found a pottery bowl and dumped in a healthy serving. The soup was orange and had a faint, pungent smell he couldn’t identify. He checked the handwritten label on the freezer container.
Carrot soup.
Not much help. He knew carrots, but that wasn’t what he smelled. He debated calling Dylan back to ask him. Or he could call Phoebe, eldest of the O’Dunn sisters. She’d probably know.
Instead he brought his soup into the living room and sat with Buster in front of the cold fireplace. “I’m a lonely man, Buster,” he said with a laugh. “A lonely, lonely man.”
And completely insane. All he had to do was dial his assistant, and he could have a car at The Farm at Carriage Hill in an hour and be on a flight somewhere—anywhere—before the sidewalks folded up in Knights Bridge.
He wondered if Brandon Sloan was managing to have a decent dinner up in his tent, but Brandon was a Knights Bridge native as well as a grown man. He could figure out what to eat for dinner.
And Phoebe? What was she up to this quiet summer evening?
Was she regretting that he hadn’t kissed her when he’d had the chance during the storm, then again after the storm? Noah pictured her luminous turquoise eyes against the gray rain, and he could see her lick her lips. He squirmed as he felt pressure in his groin. Everyone in Knights Bridge could regard her as untouchable, but he didn’t.
All he wanted to do was to touch her.
To make love to her.
He could see her wet skirt as she’d walked away from her car.
He took a long, slow, deep breath, held it, let it out again and tried his soup.
Ginger.
That was what he’d smelled. It was carrot-ginger soup, and it wasn’t bad on a cool summer night on a dead-end road, with only a big, ugly dog for company.
Twelve
After a quiet, uneventful day at the library, Phoebe walked across the common to the Swift River Country Store and made her way back to the wine section. She was debating between two different brands of merlot when she heard a man talking up by the register. His voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. Abandoning the wine, she edged to the end of the aisle and peered past a display of homemade baked goods.