CHAPTER SIX
When we drove into the car park, my father whistled. “This is rather opulent.”
“Do you want to see the cottage? There’s plenty to eat. Too much for me.” I missed my father, and I was dying for him to see my new home.
He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Why not? But I can’t stay too long. I’ve got to meet a potential publisher tomorrow, early.”
“You didn’t tell me about that.”
“I didn’t wish to give you false hope. The eternal pessimist—that’s me,” he said, chuckling.
“So that’s where I get it from,” I said, taking his hand.
“How marvelously old-world,” he said as we traipsed along the cobbled path. The grounds were lit up with charming Victorian lamps.
“Here we are,” I said, pointing to the cottage.
I turned on the outside light so that my father could admire my friendly willow. He tapped the fat trunk. “My, he’s a beauty.”
“Isn’t he? And there’s a cute dog named Rocket. He looks just like Huxley.”
“Is that right? I look forward to meeting him,” he crooned, eyes all wistful. He’d never gotten over the death of our beloved dog.
I placed roast beef, potato salad, coleslaw, and pasta salad on the outside table. The night was warm, so a cold supper, alfresco, was ideal.
“Do you want wine or beer?”
“You have beer?” My father’s bewilderment made me giggle.
“Amazing, isn’t it? They stocked the fridge and cupboards with everything and more, including liquor. Mind you, the beer is for you. I can’t stomach it, as you well know. I much prefer wine.”
“This is fabulous, Clarissa,” he said, following me back into the cottage and looking about. His eyes landed on an original landscape. “Is that a Constable?”
“No, but it’s damn good, isn’t it? You should see the art inside the house. They’ve got a Breughel. And I’m sure it’s an original.”
He raised his eyebrows looking impressed.
We stepped outside with drinks in hand.
“There’s a charming moon. After my stuffy apartment, the sea air is a real godsend,” said my father, peering up at the sky.
“You can come over whenever you like, Daddy. There’s even a spare room so you can stay over sometimes,” I said, filling his plate with food. “Is that enough?” I placed the plate in front of him.
“It’s a veritable banquet, sweetheart.”
My father and I were like two peas in a pod. We shared a penchant for history and classical aesthetics. As we sat at the latticed iron table, we took to the delicious food with the hunger of people who’d subsisted on a bland, frugal diet.
“This meat is mouth-wateringly tender. Absolutely delicious,” my father said, taking a sip of his beer. “Mm…” He studied the exotic label and smiled. “And this sure beats the cheap stuff I’ve got back in the fridge at home.”
Greta stepped out of the kitchen door and lit a cigarette. How odd—she was the last person I expected would smoke. Her hair was out. And dressed in a cotton floral shift and flat sandals, she looked very retro.
“Hi, Greta. It’s a delightful evening.”
“That it is.” Her eyes drifted over to my father.
“This is my father, Julian,” I said.
Greta’s eyes landed on my father’s face and lingered. There was a soft, feminine glow emanating from her blue eyes. Her long, light-brown hair, which she wore loose, was speckled in gray.
My father, likewise, brightened. I hadn’t witnessed that before. Wow, they are attracted to each other.
“Pleased to meet you. I am Greta Thornhill,” she said, offering her hand.
My father took it. “Pleased to meet you.”
Oh my God. They are really having a moment.
I felt like an intruder suddenly. “Dad and I share a car. He just dropped me back. There were so many leftovers. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Better it gets eaten than tossed out, which is what generally happens,” Greta said in a matter-of-fact tone. The cigarette remained between her fingers. I could tell she was sensitive about smoking around others.
“Why don’t you join us?” said my father. “There’s beer, wine or juice.”
Once again, their eyes met for longer than usual. “Sure,” said Greta. “I’ll put this out.”
She was about to get up when my father said, “No need, please. Keep smoking. You don’t happen to have one?” He smiled charmingly. In his mid-fifties, my father was still handsome. He was a Jeremy Irons look-alike with his graying dark hair, expressive brown eyes, and slender, tall frame.
“Dad, you promised me you’d kicked the habit,” I said.
He flashed a smile at Greta. “Oh my, how the tables have turned. In my late youth, it was my mother scolding me for smoking, and now it’s my beloved daughter.” He gave a husky, contagious chuckle.
“Can I offer you a glass of the wine or beer you so considerately placed in the fridge?” I asked.
Greta demonstrated a small amount with her fingers. “Just a tiny glass of wine, then.” She flashed a shy smile at my father again. “It’s such a pleasant night.”
“Isn’t it?” he chimed. “The moon is full.” He opened his arms out. “It’s delightfully continental here, and there’s this charming fellow.” He tapped the trunk of the tree. My father and I had a thing for old trees. “Tell me, how old is the house?”
“I’m told it was built around 1910.”
“Italianate classical. Very nice indeed,” he said, casting his eyes on the stuccoed walls.
When I returned with Greta’s wine, I found them sharing a laugh. It was the first time she’d looked so relaxed. And my dad was in his element.
“You are more than welcome to come anytime and visit the house,” said Greta, nodding as I handed her the glass.
“I’d like that. Clarissa informs me that there are impressive artworks,” he said.
“There’s also a library with an extensive collection of first editions. I believe you’re into English literature.”
“That I am indeed,” he said, casting me a side-glance.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“You spoke of your father in our recruitment test.” Greta finished off her wine, and she rose. “I’d best be getting back.” She looked at my father and smiled. “Lovely meeting you, Julian, please feel free to pop in and visit Clarissa whenever you like. This is her home now.” She glanced at our empty plates. “And our leftovers are always on offer.”
“It’s been an honor meeting my daughter’s employer. You are most generous,” my father said, standing and taking her hand.
“See you in the morning,” I said.
“Greta’s nice,” said my father when she was out of earshot.
“She certainly took a shine to you.” I placed my arm around him.
“Really?” He had a shy glint in his eyes.
I nodded. “Greta’s an attractive woman.”
“Yes, that she is,” he replied. “Say, those first editions sound like they’re worth investigating.”
“Probably American literature, that’s not your cup of tea, is it?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m rather fond of Mark Twain. Then there’s Steinbeck—he was a giant. Nathaniel Hawthorne, Poe, and let’s not overlook Henry James.”
“You’ve changed your tune, Daddy. I recall you turning your nose up at James.”
“I’ve softened in my old age, Princess.”