I know that people don’t always marry someone their same age, but Ivy looked twenty years old.
In the cheeriest tone, she said, “You’re having some sort of roast animal for supper.” As we followed her deeper into the house, I realized that it was much larger on the inside than would be guessed. “Don’t mind the dogs. They’re such scallywags.”
She led us into the living room, which was an eclectic hodgepodge of dark polished wood and furnishings from different eras. That approach to décor isn’t easy to pull off, but Lochlan and Ivy had managed to do it and have the result be more shabby chic than mess.
“Please sit,” she said as she breezed through without stopping. “Lochlan’s here and will be in right away.” Aiming the bright intensity of her gaze at me, she said, “Please know you’re welcome. I will love to learn more about you after you’ve settled in.”
It was a little confusing, but I gathered this meant she was leaving. “You’re not staying?”
“No.” She smiled. “Your inheritance is a private affair.”
That caused my head to swivel to Maggie, who read the question on my face.
With a chuckle, she said, “I’m included because ye might say I’m part of your inheritance.”
That may have caused a slight scowl to form on my forehead, meaning two vertical lines between my brows that frequently ask, “Will you or won’t you botox?”
When I turned back to offer perfunctory dinner guest gratitude and a genuinely regretful goodbye, Ivy was no longer there. I opened my mouth to voice the first question on my ever-growing list to Maggie, but was interrupted by a male voice so upbeat it rivaled Ivy’s for cheerfulness.
My first thought was that they, Ivy and Lochlan, belong together.
My second thought, upon turning to acknowledge his entrance, was that Lochlan was an octogenarian at the very least.
My expressive face has been a lifelong bane of my existence. You could rightfully call it a curse. People have every right to be selective about what they will and will not divulge. I can’t imagine how wonderful it must be to be unreadable. My kisser is a constant source of tell all. That means the only way I can make friends or win an argument is to try to be an authentically good person. Because whatever I’m thinking shows on my face like a Chyron running across my brow. And, ugh! It gets old.
Honestly. There are times when I would love to be able to plot murder while staring at my intended victim, who is completely clueless because I effortlessly maintain the friendliest, most believable, richly sociopathic smile. Bond. James Bond.
If I was offered three real wishes, not like in the fables where the poor recipient ends up worse off than before, I would definitely ask for non-revelatory facial expressions. Sigh.
All this is to say that I didn’t hide my surprise quickly enough or well enough when eighty-something Lochlan entered a few seconds after twenty-something Ivy left. His pale blue eyes lit with amusement.
“Ah. You’re wondering how a codger such as myself won the heart of someone so young.”
Maggie’d been right. It was easy to see that Lochlan had once been a babe. Even with age, he was tall with an upright posture and a body that gave the impression of being hard under his clothes. He moved easily, like a much younger person, and had a thick shock of white hair, longish around the ears, still dark at the sideburns.
How I wished I could lie with plausibility. But alas. The jig was up.
“Ivy is young and very beautiful, Solicitor. She made me feel welcome.” That was the best I could do and I hoped it was enough. I called him ‘Solicitor’ mostly because I didn’t know how to pronounce his last name and was afraid two goofs in sixty seconds might be record breaking even for me.
“Ah, well, a diplomat you are then. All the better.” Lochlan nodded slightly as he sat down in an oversized, overstuffed, rust-colored velvet chair.
“Ivy’s a bit of a flibbertigibbet,” Maggie said, “but she’s perfect for our Lochlan.”
“Maggie, my dear,” he said, “how are you on this fine English evening?”
“Safe, sound, and single,” she replied.
He regarded her with obvious affection. “I’ve been telling you for…” there was a slight pause as his glance flicked to me before jumping back to Maggie, “a long time that I have eligible cousins.”
“Aye. ‘Tis true. But you know I’m no’ a suitable companion. I’m… what do they call it? A workaholic.”