“A bit nippy for this time of year,” Paul agreed. “You two run along in and get warmed up. I’ll see to the luggage.”
Paul unloaded the limo and Bill headed for the front door, scrounging through his pockets for the keys Willis, Sr., had given him. I started to follow Bill, then stopped on the path to confirm my initial impression that the cottage looked… as it was supposed to look.
It was just as my mother had described it in her story, a two-story stone house with a broad front lawn, sheltered from the road by a tall hedgerow. The yard light glinted from diamond panes of leaded glass and hinted at the golden glow the walls would have in sunlight. The slate roof, the flagstone path leading from the drive to the weathered front door, all was as I had envisioned it, down to the bushes that were already heavy-laden with white lilacs.
“Lilacs in April,” I murmured. “They must bloom earlier here than they do at home.”
Paul came to stand beside me. “Lovely old place this is, miss.”
“Too good to be true,” I said, searching the facade for some flaw that would jar it, and me, back into the real world. I didn’t like the sense of belonging that was seeping into my bones. It made it too easy to forget that I was only a visitor.
But the yard light revealed no imperfection. With a shrug, I joined Bill on the doorstep. He seemed to be having difficulty with the lock.
“Let me try,” I offered. I turned the key, and the door swung open to reveal a brightly lit hallway.
“Look at the place,” said Bill. “It’s lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“The Harrises probably came by today to get things ready for us,” I said. “They must have forgotten to turn off the lights.”
“I’d talk to them about that if I were you, miss,” said Paul, Old Servant’s School disapproval in his voice. “The electric doesn’t come cheap these days.”
“Cheap or not, I’m glad they turned on the heat,” said Bill. “Let’s get inside before we all catch colds.”
Paul set the bags in the hall and returned to the car for the last of them. As I stepped across the threshold, the cottage seemed to pull me into its warm embrace, and when the door swung shut behind me, I thought: I may be only a visitor, but I sure do feel like a welcome one.
There was a gentle knock at the door. The Old Servant’s School again, I thought, rolling my eyes.
“For heaven’s sake, Paul, you don’t have to knock,” I called out. “Come on in, it’s open.”
His muffled voice came through from the outside. “Sorry, miss, I can’t budge it.”
“What do you mean, you can’t—” The door opened at my touch. Paul stood on the doorstep, a bag in each hand and a perplexed expression on his face.
“These old places do have their quirks, miss.” He set the bags beside the others while Bill fiddled with the door handle.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it,” Bill said, “but I’m not a locksmith. I think I’ll ask the Harrises to have this checked out.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now, how about a cup of tea before you go back to London, Paul? Or would you like to stay here for the night? You’re more than welcome.”
“Thanks very much all the same, miss, but I’d best be getting back, if it’s all right with you. Up early tomorrow, you know, can’t keep the ambassador waiting.” He offered to carry our bags upstairs, but we assured him that he had done more than his fair share of work for the day and walked him to the limousine. After he’d driven off, I turned in the still night air for another long look at the cottage.
The feeling of familiarity was uncanny. There was the shadowy oak grove and, there, the trellis ablaze with roses. Each item was in its proper place and the whole made a picture I remembered as clearly as the apartment house in which I had grown up. I probably would have stood there all night, lost in the déjà vu, but the crunch of Bill’s shoes in the gravel reminded me that I was not alone. He held out his jacket and I pulled it around my shoulders, grateful for the warmth.
“You seem to be a million miles away,” he said softly.
“More like a million years,” I said. “One of my mother’s stories has a cottage in it, exactly like this one. I feel as though I’ve been here before.”
“It’s a strange feeling,” said Bill, “to see a legend from your childhood come to life.”
“Mmm.” I nodded absently. “I was a little worried, after the zoo. She told a story about that, too, and she made it sound like… like Disney World. And it wasn’t like that at all—not during the war, at any rate. But the cottage is just as it should be.”
“As she promised it would be,” Bill murmured.
It was an odd comment, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was already walking toward the door, curious to see if the inside of the cottage would be as true to the story as the outside was. Bill followed me into the hall, then stopped. He pointed to the ladder-back chair beside the hat rack. “I’ll wait here. You go on ahead, get acquainted with the place.”
“You don’t mind?”