only one I’ve ever owned, possibly the only one I ever will. Along with the adopted cat, it’s forward motion. Another milestone to be ticked off the long-neglected List.
It’s not just a home, either, but a summer home abroad. It makes me feel as if I’ve drawn a special card in the board game of life, fast-forwarding me to where I could have been if Michael lived. I might not have the husband or kids or suburban home, but I have a summer house in England, as an overachieving middle-aged professional should.
Thorne Manor is a start. A huge one for me, terrifying in its way. Like watching that passing train, realizing it’s not going to stop for me, and taking a running leap onto it. I am taking that leap, starting with renovating the house. First, though, I’m having a guest over for afternoon tea.
6
Del brings Freya by at exactly four. Ronnie’s younger brother, Archie, drove them. He waves as I step outside but stays in the car while Del helps his wife to her walker. The moment I see Freya, I recognize her. She’s smaller than I remember her, my mind’s eye being that of a child. She’s a good six inches shorter than me, plump and pretty, with the kind of smile that makes you smile in return.
I hurry to help them, but Del only hands me a basket with “More scones, apparently. And pastries. And sourdough bread. And choccy biscuits. At least you won’t starve.”
Freya embraces me in a cloud of sweet sage and browned butter as the car backs out with a friendly honk. “He’s just grumbling because I’m baking more for you than I do for him.” She turns to Del. “You, my dear, are supposed to be retired. You have plenty of time to bake for yourself. Miss Bronwyn is a university professor on sabbatical, which means she has a paper to write.” She glances at me. “Yes?”
“Allegedly, though my real work this summer is fixing up the house and relaxing.”
“Not doing much of the latter, I’ll bet.” She pats my arm. “You will, once you’re settled, and I’ll keep sending you scones and biscuits and bringing them up when I have the excuse.”
“That’s her real goal,” Del says. “Forget this nonsense about giving you time to do your paper. She’s angling for visits to her favorite house. Seeing if the ghosts will finally spark her gran’s second sight.”
I give a start at that, but they don’t notice.
Freya chuckles. “I don’t want the Sight, but I’ll take the visits. I do love this marvelous house. Now, get on with you, old man. You have work to do on that car. Give the lass back her mobility.”
Del stays until she’s in the house, and then tromps out to do whatever first aid Ronnie prescribed for my car.
Freya and I chat as I bring out tea, and I relax, partly because I realize I won’t need my rusty dialect deciphering skills. I suppose that has something to do with Freya being a former teacher—if she uses the dialect at home, she code-switches with me.
When we’re settled, Freya glances toward the door and then says, her voice lower, “Thank you, dear. For being understanding with him.”
“Of course. Like I told Del, I’m a university prof. For a lot of young people, college is the one place they feel comfortable being themselves.” I start to pour tea. “I suppose it’s not easy being here. I know kids from rural areas have a much tougher time of it.”
“Actually, we’re blessed that way, and it’s one reason Del decided to retire in High Thornesbury. He says it was because he met me”—her gray eyes twinkle—“but really, he found a place where he’s comfortable. Our village has always had a soft spot for outsiders. They have the Thornes to thank for that. Hard for a town to be judgmental when its most esteemed family had its share of eccentrics. Let’s just say it isn’t the first time this house has seen someone like Del.”
I smile. “I have heard the Thornes were an unusual lot.”
“They were, indeed. Whatever their eccentricities, though, they were kind, and they were generous, and it had an impact on those around them. I’m no monarchist—and I despise the lingering class system—but the Thornes led by example, and the village is the better for it. Plus, they left a lot of stories. Strange and wonderful stories.”
She watches me, expectant. Yet what flies to the tip of my tongue