“Yes.” She was standing dead still, reminding herself that she had a gun, and she knew how to use it. And she would be an idiot to miss a chance to see the property.
She extended a hand. “I’m Monica Shipping,” she said, using the first name that came into her mind. “And thanks, I’d love a glass of water.”
As they walked, he pointed out his tomatoes and strawberries. “Up by the house, there are all kinds of vegetables. They grow great here. Our neighbors have citrus trees. Not a great place for them, but they seem determined.” As they neared the house, she noted the numerous buildings that stretched out behind it, toward the rear of the property. “See here?” he said, stopping by the garden. “Cabbage, carrots, you name it. We’re completely self-sufficient. We’re all vegetarians, so that makes it easy, really.”
“All?” Ashley inquired with a smile. “How many of you live here?”
“Right now? There are eight of us.”
“Are you married? That’s a big family.”
“More like a group of friends.”
“A…religious group?”
He laughed. “No. More like a commune. Just a group of people who enjoy farming, being together—and out of the mainstream bustle and trauma of life.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Are you interested?”
She smiled carefully. “I don’t know…. I have to admit, I’ve never thought about anything like this.”
“Well, come in. See the place.”
He brought her to a step that led up to a little porch. There was a screen door, which was closed, but the wooden door behind it was wide open. There was no air-conditioning, she noticed. The day was bright, but they weren’t in the dead heat of summer, so inside, the temperature was pleasant enough.
She felt as if she had walked into a New England farmhouse. There was a knit rug before a hearth, and comfortable-looking, if slightly worn, overstuffed sofas with homey throws tossed over them. There were two rocking chairs, a basket of someone’s knitting and a pile of magazines. The titles she could see included something about cabinetry and home gardening.
“Come in the kitchen,” he invited.
She did so. Vegetables littered the counter. Someone was getting ready to prepare a large meal. A large vegetarian meal, she realized.
They might be self-sufficient, and they might have eschewed air-conditioning, but they did have electricity. He opened the refrigerator. “Water, and lots of juice.”
She was thinking that at the moment, she could use a double espresso, which she was sure was entirely out of the question here. “Water would be fine, thanks.”
He poured her a glass of cold water, then indicated a seat at the kitchen table. She sat and looked around. The place really was charming. Copper pots and accessories hung from ceiling hooks. Mason jars filled with various preserves lined the windowsills. The chairs were covered with handmade cushions in a cheerful blue.
“Thank you,” she told him.
“My pleasure.” He smiled. “I get to see tomatoes in that field all day. You’re the first beautiful woman who’s ever appeared. It’s a bit unreal.”
“Thanks again,” she said.
“So what do you do?”
“I’m an artist. I do sketches.”
“For tourists?”
She didn’t correct him.
“But you’re looking for property in this area?”
She laughed. “Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not as idealistic as you seem to be. I thought I’d just like a lot of land, some space.”
He nodded. “A lot of people feel that way. You must be good, though, if you can afford a plot of land this big.”
“Well…you know tourists. It’s all in the perception. You get one person saying they must have a sketch by a certain artist, and whether you’re any good or not, your work is the hot item to bring home.”
“If you ever need a bunch of tomatoes to sketch, let me know.”
“I will.” She set her glass down. “I really have to get back.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“No, no. I’ve taken way too much of your time.”
“It’s been a pleasure. Please, I hope you come back. Hey, on Saturday nights, Maggie—our resident folk guitarist—plays some great stuff. Please come back by and see us, if you’re free.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
He walked back out with her, but when she insisted she could find her car, he headed back to his tomatoes, while she kept walking toward the road. She knew she was being watched and fought the temptation to look back. It struck her as strange that eight people supposedly lived there, but she hadn’t seen anyone else.
She kept her eyes on the road, then walked along it to the barbed wire fence to reach her car. She didn’t see hide nor hair of David, and she was cursing him when she slid into the driver’s seat. She revved the engine and started driving slowly down the road.