“How’s life in cat land?” I asked Bill after they’d gone.
“Littered with complications,” he replied dryly. “Did I mention the educational scholarships Mrs. Shuttleworth endowed?”
“Is Miss Muffi n going to college?” I asked, laughing.
“Thankfully, no,” said Bill. “The Shuttleworth scholarships will be awarded to humans, but only if they promise to dedicate their lives to curing cats. Not dogs. Not hamsters. Not parrots. Just cats.”
“A laudable aim,” I said. “Stanley approves.”
“Wait until I tell him about the cat spa,” Bill said. “What’s up with you?”
I reminded myself of my own laudable aim—to protect my husband from unnecessary distractions—and said, “Nothing much. I’m pretty beat from all the walking Kit and I did today, so I’ll probably turn in early.”
98 Nancy Atherton
“Me, too.” Bill sighed wistfully. “It’s barely seven o’clock, and we’re already talking about going to bed. We must be getting old.”
“I don’t mind,” I said, “as long as we get old together.”
“That’s the plan,” said Bill, sounding more cheerful.
“There is one thing you should know, though.” I turned away from the kitchen door and lowered my voice. “We have to buy Annelise a new car.”
There was a long pause before Bill asked resignedly, “What happened to Annelise’s car, Lori? You didn’t drive it into a ditch by any chance, did you?”
“No, I did not drive it into a ditch,” I responded indignantly. I’d driven my car into a ditch once, and even though I’d been the innocent victim of an ice-covered road and a sharp bend, my husband had always chosen to believe that my bad driving had caused the accident. “I don’t make a habit of driving cars into ditches, Bill.”
“What happened to Annelise’s car, Lori?” he asked again.
“Potholes,” I replied. “I hit some really nasty potholes while I was driving it this afternoon. It could have happened to anyone.”
“They must have been nasty if we have to replace the car,” Bill observed. “Where were you driving?”
“Near Mr. Malvern’s farm,” I said, as truthfully as I could. “I went down a lane I’d never explored before, and suddenly I was surrounded by potholes. The car made some really strange noises when I finally got it out of there. It’ll probably cost less to replace than to repair.” I heaved a remorseful sigh. “I’m sorry, Bill. If I’d known how bad the lane would be, I wouldn’t have driven up it.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Annelise’s car has reached its sell-by date anyway. I was planning to replace it, as a wedding present. I’m sure she won’t mind getting it a few months early.”
“You are the nicest man on earth,” I said fondly.
“I am, aren’t I?” Bill marveled. He paused, as if he were contemplating the awe-inspiring magnitude of his niceness, then chuckled softly and asked, “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”
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“Kit and I are going to see a historic house,” I said, hoping that Bill wouldn’t ask which one. “It’ll give him another excuse to get away from the stables and me another whack at convincing him to marry Nell.”
“Good luck,” said Bill.
“Luck,” I observed loftily, “will have nothing to do with it.
Matchmaking is a fi nely honed skill. ”
We chatted for a few more minutes, and by the time we rang off, the last vestiges of atavistic terror had left me. The dishwasher was humming, my sons were making dinosaur noises in the living room, and my husband was casting aspersions on my driving. Everything was back to normal. What had seemed eerily believable in the flickering firelight at Hilltop Farm seemed utterly ludicrous in my well-lit and well-lived-in cottage.
“If I’m going to worry about something,” I murmured, “I’ll worry about something real—like finding a car that doesn’t sound as if I’ve dropped a box of wrenches under the hood.”
Bill’s offer to buy Annelise a new car was nothing short of princely, but it didn’t solve my immediate transportation problem.
Annelise needed the Range Rover to ferry the twins hither and yon, and however tempting it was to use Nell’s rich young suitors as my personal chauffeurs, I didn’t want to be dependent on their goodwill. I needed a set of wheels of my own.
I picked up the telephone and called Mr. Barlow. The local handyman enjoyed tinkering with cars and usually had a few fixer-uppers parked behind his cottage. As soon as I explained my situation to him, he offered to loan me a Morris Mini he’d just fi nished repairing. I knew that Bill would rib me endlessly when he found out what I was driving, because the car I’d put into a ditch had also been a Morris Mini, but it seemed a small price to pay for mobility.
“That’d be great, Mr. Barlow,” I said. “Do you think you could drop it off at Anscombe Manor tomorrow? I can get a lift there
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