Penmort Castle (12 page)

“Abigail
Butler’s phone, Edith Truman speaking,” she announced grandly.

Abby halted and
hoped to all that was holy that there was a salesman or someone
else she didn’t care about on the other end.

“Yes, Abigail’s
here and I’m glad you called,” she said tartly, sounding as if she
was
not
glad and furthermore the last time she was glad was
1943. “Abigail and I were just talking about you and we’ve decided
you’re both coming to dinner at my house tomorrow. Seven
o’clock.”

Abby’s heart
sank as she realised Mrs. Truman was speaking to Cash.

What was next?
Would the sky fall? The oceans boil? Tidal waves on the Bristol
Channel?

The lady sat
and listened and then snapped, “Well, change them! I’m an old
woman. I don’t know how many dinner parties I have left in me.”

Abby watched as
Mrs. Truman paused and listened some more then went on. “The
stories say you’re a clever boy, they even made a movie about you,
you’ll think of something. Now bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And
some flowers. I like roses. And some chocolates. None of that stuff
from the grocery stores, decent chocolates,” then she finished,
“Abigail’s right here.”

With that she
held out the phone to Abby.

Abby stifled
the urge to strangle her to death and took the phone, mumbling,
“Excuse me,” and with all due haste she left the room, walked down
the hall and shut herself in the living room.

Then she put
the phone to her ear and with no further ado said, “I told you she
could be worse.”

She heard
Cash’s rich laughter through the phone and at the sound her belly
dipped.

When he’d
stopped, she asked, “How much do the English authorities frown on
homicide of blue-haired ladies?”

Cash didn’t
answer, instead he told her, “I’m considering hiring her. She’d
strike fear in the hearts of half the bastards I have to deal with
every day. How old is she? My pension people will want to
know.”

“Nine hundred
and ninety-two,” Abby answered and heard his lush laughter again
and knew she’d tried to make him laugh on purpose,
again
.

When his
laughter died, she asked, “Why are you calling? Is something
up?”

There was still
amusement in his voice when he responded, “I’m calling because
that’s what women expect men to do. You expect us to call at least
once a day, proving we’re capable of thinking of nothing but you
when we’re not. We’re thinking of work.”

Abby smiled to
herself, walking to the window where she saw Jenny parking her new
Mini outside. “So you’re calling me to tell me you’re not thinking
about me?”

His voice
changed when he replied. It got that deeper, throatier, sexier that
she was beginning to like way too much.

“You? No. Your
ass, your smile, your hair and that fucking kiss this morning?
Yes.”

She was
inordinately thrilled he was thinking about the kiss. When she
wasn’t thinking about her screwed up life, her troubles, her house
and crazy Mrs. Truman, that was all she could think about.

“Mostly,” he
went on, “I wanted to make sure you got my note.”

She’d got it.
It was sitting on the kitchen counter by his espresso maker with a
set of keys beside it. The black ink was a manly scrawl on the
sheet telling her to take the keys, leave a grocery list for his
housekeeper and that he’d be home at seven.

She’d made a
grocery list but she’d also met Aileen, his housekeeper, by bumping
into her while going out the front door.

To Abby’s
surprise, Aileen acted like she didn’t run into a woman every time
she came to see to Cash’s house.

They’d chatted
for a bit and Abby decided she liked her. Then again, there were
few people Abby didn’t like, she could count only one and at that
very moment that particular person was sitting in Abby’s
kitchen.

“I got your
note,” she told Cash as she walked toward the door.

Jenny was about
to come in and Jenny was Abby’s best friend in the whole world. She
didn’t want her to meet Mrs. Truman without warning. No true friend
would let that happen.

“Good, what are
you making me for dinner?” Cash asked in her ear as Abby opened the
door to find Mrs. Truman outside it eating a Bourbon biscuit and
unabashedly listening.

“Mrs. Truman!”
she cried instead of answering Cash.

“You need to
speak up when I’m eavesdropping,” Mrs. Truman told her. “I’m not as
young as I once was and that includes my ears.”

At that moment,
Jenny walked in stomping her feet and slamming the door, shouting,
“It’s fucking cold out there!”

“Language!”
Mrs. Truman snapped and Jenny swung around, her face getting
pale.

Jennifer Kane
was the kind of woman who didn’t let anything faze her. Kieran had
a great job that paid really well but he also had to move from
country to country. Without a peep, Jenny went with him. She said
good-bye to friends. She bought and sold homes and cars and shipped
belongings. She found new friends and renewed acquaintances. She
travelled to far lands with her husband on business and
pleasure.

She could even
change her own oil.

What she
couldn’t do was live without fear of nosy, maddening Mrs.
Truman.

Jennifer Kane
was a strong woman but she wasn’t Superwoman.

“Cash,” Abby
whispered, “I think I have to –” she was going to say “go” but Mrs.
Truman was speaking.

“You and your
Australian husband are coming with her,” she pointed a bony finger
at Abby, “and her new man, to my place for dinner. Tomorrow night.
Seven.”

Jenny’s pale
face swung to Abby and she asked, “I am?”

“You are,” Mrs.
Truman declared, moving forward, toward her coat, “Bring a bottle.
White. Chilled. And some dog treats. They’re having company too.”
Then she let out a piercing whistle, Abby winced at the shrill
sound nearly dropping the phone and she could hear little spaniel
feet thundering through the house. Mrs. Truman turned her attention
to Abby. “Tell your man I won’t take any last minute excuses. I
don’t care if he’s got fancy schmancy friends. If Marlon Brando
himself asks him to dinner, he’s going to say no. Understood?”

“I think Marlon
Brando is dead, Mrs. Truman,” Jenny, now standing (or, more
accurately, huddling, protection in numbers as it were) beside
Abby, informed the old woman.

“Is not,” Mrs.
Truman shot back.

“I think he
is,” Jenny, unwisely, pressed.

“He is
not!
” Mrs. Truman snapped loudly and Abby could hear Cash
chuckling in her ear so she knew he could hear every word. “I would
have heard,” Mrs. Truman went on.

“Maybe I’m
wrong,” Jenny mumbled toward Abby (and Abby’s phone), and Cash’s
chuckle became laughter.

The dogs had
arrived and Mrs. Truman was clipping their leads on them.
“Tomorrow, seven. Don’t be late,” she said and then she was out the
door.

Abby rushed
forward to close (and lock) it behind her.

“I’m sorry,
Cash, that was –”

“Stop saying
sorry, darling,” his burr sounded softly in her ear, her body
experienced a top-to-toe shiver and he finished, “see you
tonight.”

Then he
disconnected.

Abby slid her
phone shut and saw Jenny was staring at her.

“What just
happened?” she asked and Abby had a fleeting feeling of fear that
Jenny knew about the top-to-toe shiver.

“What?” Abby
asked, trying to look innocent.

“Are Kieran and
I really having dinner with you, Cash Fraser and
Mrs.
Truman?
” Jenny queried as if she wanted above all else in the
world for Abby to say “no”.

Abby was forced
to disappoint her friend. “I’m afraid so.”

“My God,” Abby
breathed, “we’re going to have to pretend he’s your new boyfriend.
He doesn’t know about us.”

This was
true.

“Oh my God,”
Abby whispered, a new feeling of fear gripping her.

“Don’t worry,”
Jenny rallied first, “I’ll talk to Kieran. Everything will be fine.
Right?”

Abby nodded, as
ever sucking courage from her friend in a time of need.

Abby and Jenny
walked to the kitchen together.

“Was it okay?”
Jenny asked, “Last night?”

Abby nodded,
went to the kettle and took it to the sink to refill it.

She was going
to lie.

If there was
ever a time to lie, this was it.

Jenny already
felt responsible enough. She didn’t need to know what happened this
morning.

“He was really
late,” Abby explained to her friend. “We just talked and then went
to bed. He didn’t try anything.”

“How weird,”
Jenny mumbled to herself then her eyes focused on Abby. “What’d you
talk about?”

“Music,” that
wasn’t a lie, really, “food,” that also wasn’t a lie, as such. “Not
much, he was really late,” that was a total lie (well, not the last
part).

Jenny looked at
Abby closely and Abby figured her friend knew she was telling tall
tales, or short, uninformative ones, but Jenny’s face cleared and
her eyes got soft.

“He’s being
okay with you?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Abby
replied, setting the kettle on its charge and flipping it on. She
turned back to her friend and rested her hips against the counter.
“He’s a…” she hesitated and then went on, sharing just a little
bit, “Jenny, I think he’s a good guy. He thinks I’m funny and…” she
stopped.

“And what?”
Jenny prompted.

“And that’s it.
It’s weird sometimes because he’s so hot and, well, he’s rich and
paid for me to be with him but when I forget that, it’s okay,” Abby
told her.

“You’re sure?”
Jenny asked and when Abby nodded, she watched her friend’s body
relax and realised just how much Jenny was shouldering this
burden.

She’d been
right.

Definitely
right.

Abby wasn’t
going to share any of the things that were
not
okay with
Cash.

Further, Abby
wasn’t going to share any of the feelings about Cash she felt
relatively certain Jenny would
not
think were okay.

Jenny walked to
a cupboard and pulled down a mug asking, “So, what does Hot Guy,
International Man of Mystery, Spy Master General wear to bed?”

At that, Abby
knew, for now, everything was okay.

Late

Abigail Butler
was stupid.

Stupid, stupid,
stupid
.

She thought she
was being smart. She had it all planned. Then, as usual, it all
went awry.

She’d decided,
since tonight was the night the use of hands, mouths, touching,
tasting, etc. was going to “begin”, she’d delay it by spending part
of the time together with Cash cooking.

What she wanted
to make for dinner would take a half an hour, more if you counted
cooking time.

So she decided
to arrive at a quarter to seven and still be cooking when Cash got
home. He’d have to wait to do… whatever-it-was-he-was-going-to-do…
until after she was done cooking, the food was done grilling and
steaming and they were done eating.

She lived in
Clevedon, he lived in Bath. It was a forty-five minute drive.

What Abby
didn’t know since she usually took the train or travelled during
non-rush-hour-times, was that it was a forty-five minute drive on a
good
day.

On a
bad
day (which Abby seemed to be having a lot of lately or, perhaps,
for the last six years) and traffic was heavy and an accident meant
the cars were crawling on the motorway, it took a whole lot
longer.

Furthermore, it
was against the law to talk on your mobile in your car in England
so when Cash called at seven twenty-five, she couldn’t answer.

Even though she
turned up her music very loudly so she couldn’t hear the phone
beeping to tell her she had a voicemail message, it rested on her
passenger seat in a threatening way like a coiled snake waiting to
strike, freaking her out throughout her journey.

Last, but not
least, it was a veritable
impossibility
to park in Bath.
She’d discovered that the day before but somehow forgot it in the
twenty-four hours since driving there last.

She was a half
hour late to be there for Cash’s arrival. It became forty-five
minutes late by the time she parked and
fifty-five
minutes
late by the time she hoofed it in her high-heeled boots to his
house from her parking place which she was sure was closer to Sri
Lanka than his townhouse.

She listened to
his two word voicemail message on her walk to his house.

“Call me,” and
he sounded not happy, to say the least.

At his door she
fumbled clumsily in her purse for the key (which she should have
extracted on the walk there, but she hadn’t thought of that), found
it, unlocked the door and rushed through into the hall.

There were
welcoming lights on and she had to stop when she saw them, the pain
in her stomach was so acute.

If it was dark
and she got home before Ben, she lit the house (just here and
there, not anything blazing and environmentally unconscious) so he
wouldn’t have to grope around in the dark to find the lights.

She’d never
told him to do it but he must have realised her intent and, awhile
after they were married, Ben started to do it for her too.

She thought of
them as “welcoming lights” because they said someone was home,
someone who cared about you, someone who didn’t want you to walk
into a cold, dark house after a rough day and grope around to find
a light.

It never
occurred to her that Cash Fraser was the kind of man who wouldn’t
want her to grope around to find a light.

She recovered
herself with a deep breath and walked on leaded feet down the hall,
around the corner and down the stairs toward the sound of jazz (not
new-age, gross jazz but old-age, fantastic bluesy-jazz).