It occurred to her that it might be better if they got out of there before he could see the witchcraft stuff in the dining room that might, to the casual observer, make her seem totally wacked.
“Ready?” she asked, opening the door. She picked up her big bag, slung it over her shoulder. Not exactly a look, but in a previous era of eschewing anything that wasn’t made from natural plant fibers, she had given away all her really cool purses.
“I am,” Flynn said, dragging his gaze from the room to her, and caught the door, held it open for her. He waited for her to lock the door, then took her hand and escorted her to his car.
On the drive to the restaurant, Flynn asked her about Mrs. Gregory’s funeral.
“Not particularly remarkable as far as those things go,” she said. “No one came except some of the weaving class—Sandy, Chantal, Tiffinnae, and Jason and me.”
“I’m sure the old chap was quite touched,” Flynn said.
“Actually, no,” Rachel said with a snort. “He seemed more annoyed than thankful, particularly when the pastor began to speak of the afterlife, and Chantal and Tiffinnae answered every point with a hallelujah, or a praise Jesus, or a more generic, mmm-hmm.”
“I can picture it all quite clearly,” Flynn said with a grin.
“And then, after the service, the church ladies set up a buffet, and Chantal and Tiffinnae decided we must all stay so that Mr. Gregory wouldn’t have to eat alone. We all agreed it was pretty good,” she said, but looked at Flynn from the corner of her eye. “Everyone except Sandy, of course. Acid reflux, you know. But I had some Tums in my bag just in case, so she managed to choke down two plate-loads.”
He laughed heartily at that, and Rachel continued to regale him with the very long list of maladies that had afflicted Sandy, until they reached the restaurant.
The restaurant was in one of the old historic homes that had been turned into an establishment for cozy couples dining with fancy tablecloths and real candles. Rachel had been in lots of places like this, usually as the third wheel in her parents’ night out. This was the first time, however, she had been invited to such a restaurant by a man who was not related to her, and it gave her a whole new sort of thrill.
They were seated at a small bay window, and Flynn ordered a bottle of wine (a very expensive bottle of wine, ooh-la-la), and when the steward had poured the wine and left, Flynn lifted his glass. “A toast. To an intriguingly beautiful woman with brains and compassion for cats and old men and witches.”
Rachel beamed, touched her glass to his.
“It was really quite nice of you to do that for Mr. Gregory,” Flynn said. “He didn’t strike me as the endearing sort.”
“Oh, he’s not the least bit endearing.” Actually, as the afternoon had worn on, Rachel had been rather irritated with the old coot. “I didn’t intend to have a whole caravan attend her funeral . . . but when he called and left a message, there had been something in his voice . . .” There had been something in his voice—the pitch of loneliness. “And he wasn’t very glad to see me when I went to his house. He wasn’t going to let me in. He said I was just an instructor, not a friend or neighbor.”
“Sodding bastard,” Flynn said cheerfully.
Rachel laughed. “He finally let me in, and once he did, I think he was glad I had come.” Rachel paused again, looked at the candle flame. “I can’t imagine just how deep that ache must reach, you know? It must feel as if an organ has been wrenched right out of you,” she said, and damn it all to hell if she didn’t feel herself tearing up for the thousandth time that day as an image of her father flashed across her mind. Talk about sodding bastards . . . and now he was really going to piss her off by dying.
Before she could hide the sorrow, Flynn reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Yes, I would think it must,” he said softly, and squeezed her hand. “But I can’t imagine this distress is just for Mr. Gregory, is it?”
“No . . .” she said, shaking her head with a self-conscious smile. She drew a deep breath, gained her composure as Flynn laced her fingers through his. “My dad has colon cancer, and it keeps coming back. We never know from one month to the next what the prognosis is because it seems to change all the time. And when Mr. Gregory’s wife died . . . I just can’t seem to stop thinking about how it all might end for my parents, or how devastating it would be to lose someone who has been part of your entire life, from start to finish.” She bit her lower lip to keep tears in the back of her eyes, told herself to get a grip.