“She sure can be thick at times, eh, Van? In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she had the brains of a lungfish.” She leaned toward me, her elbows on her knees. “Now, think, Shepherd. In all those Aunt Dimity stories, didn’t maybe just one include a pretty little cottage? C’mon, now, think.”
I didn’t have to think. Meg was right. Aunt Dimity’s Cottage. If I closed my eyes I could almost see the lilacs and the slate roof (which my child self had pictured as a blackboard tent) and the foul-tempered cat who had driven Aunt Dimity to distraction. Suddenly I knew exactly what the cottage looked like, right down to the cushions in the window seat.
“Lilacs,” I murmured. “There were white lilacs at the funeral, just like the ones at the cottage.”
“I thought so,” said Meg, with a satisfied nod. “No surprise, really. Dimity Westwood wrote her life into the stories. It’s been known to happen.” Meg leaned back against her cushions and looked out over the ocean. The jagged bolts of lightning were almost constant now, and thunder competed with the booming surf. A freshening breeze ruffled the spiky hair on the top of Meg’s head as she reached down beside her chair.
“It’s cooling off—better cover up.” She tossed one of her blankets to me.
Meg’s “blankets” were her own personal works of art, hand-knitted afghans so soft and beautiful that I flinched whenever I saw them piled in haphazard heaps around the house. “I make them to be used,” Meg growled at anyone who dared to comment. I just shook mine out and draped it over my legs and the drowsy lapcat.
Meg snugged her own blanket in place, then frowned. “What I don’t get is why you’re so ticked off at Bill. He’ll do whatever you want him to do. He’s well educated, polite, filthy rich, and not at all bad-looking.” Meg curled her legs under her and rested her chin on her hand. “Gee, that’s enough to ruin anyone’s day. My heart goes out to you. I think you need your head examined, Shepherd.”
“Thanks, Meg. I knew I could count on you.”
“Sorry, Shepherd, but he just doesn’t strike me as the Svengali type. I watched him back there in the kitchen. He never took his eyes off of you. Okay, so maybe he made a bad joke about the forbidden subject of marriage, but I’m sure that’s all it was—a joke.”
“I’m tired of being the butt of his jokes, Meg,” I said heatedly. “I’m tired of having my leg pulled, and I am sick and tired of him playacting and goofing around and smirking behind my back and… What are you looking at?”
“You. I haven’t seen you this riled up in a long time.”
“So?”
Meg continued to stare at me intently. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and shook her head. “Nope. Not this time, Shepherd. This time you figure it out for yourself.”
Before I could respond, the porch door opened and Doug came out, accompanied by the delicious aroma of garlicky tomato sauce. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I can’t find the cheese grater.”
“Have you checked the garage?” asked Meg. “Never mind—let me see if I can find it. I’ll be right back, Shepherd.”
Van Gogh decided the storm was too close for comfort and scooted in after them, leaving me alone on the porch. As soon as the door had closed, a few fat drops hit the roof overhead; then the rain came rushing down, enclosing the porch in flickering, translucent walls. I got up from my chair and stood with my hands on the railing, spellbound. I didn’t hear the porch door open once more.
“I’m sorry,” said Bill, and I came out of my reverie, startled to find him standing beside me.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “What I said before—it was out of line. I embarrassed you in front of your friends and I should never have done that. I apologize.”
For a moment—one short moment—it was as though I could see Bill, really see him, for the first time. He wasn’t such a Handsome Prince, after all. He wasn’t young and dashing. He had no jutting jaw, no aristocratic nose, no piercing blue eyes, and not even a hint of flaxen hair. His nose was far from aquiline, in fact, and although his beard disguised it, his chin seemed to be a bit on the receding side. His neatly trimmed hair was more gray than anything else and behind his glasses, his eyes were a warm brown. He wasn’t handsome in a classic way; but then, I’d never trusted classic faces. In that brief moment, it struck me that his was a face I could trust. A Handsome Prince is in the eye of the beholder, I mused silently, and I’m having no difficulty picturing Bill in full armor. I gulped and chased the image from my mind at sword-point.
“That’s okay,” I said stiffly, tightening my grip on the railing.
His shoulders slumped. He gave a soft sigh and looked out over the rain-swept sea.
“Really, Bill. It’s no big deal.” I glanced up at him and gently bumped his arm with my elbow. “I know how hard it can be to pass up a good opening.”