favorites, actually.”
“Then why'd she choose the Villages, I wonder?”
“Maybe because the Beaujolais-Villages is simpler, a bit safer?”
“I don't think of Nicola as the simple, safe type,” Andrew commented. “Do you?”
The woman behind the counter had a giggle the sound of a silver bell. She blushed. “I'm sure I couldn't say,” she said.
Andrew didn't believe her for a minute, and he was pretty sure Sandy didn't expect him to. He paid for the wine, thanked her, stepped out the door, then turned and reentered.
“Um, this is sort of embarrassing, but I've just realized I have no idea where she lives.”
The silver bell again, then: “Over the bridge, right into the lane down the south bank of the river, carry on to the bottom, where the quay begins. Hers is ‘the Loft.’ Can't miss it. Enjoy the wine!”
Andrew thanked her again and backed out the door. He felt like an idiot. He stopped in at the Cornish Stores, a little convenience shop, and rescued the last remaining bunch of carnations, which were languishing, like huddled orphans, in a nearly dry bucket outside the door.
“How am I supposed to impress a woman with this?” he complained good-naturedly to André LeSeur, the French shopkeeper who met his wife, Trisha, years earlier on a hiking holiday in Cornwall and stayed on. André, whom Andrew knew well since he did much of his shopping here, gave him the classic Gallic shrug and said simply, “Delivery's tomorrow.”
Andrew slid the money across the counter: “You should be paying me to take these sad things away so as not to sully your reputation!”
André gave him another shrug, then a smile.
“What the hell have I got myself into, Randi?”
The dog barked, then resumed panting happily.
Nicola was shredding romaine with a vengeance, as if she was tearing her hair out—which, it now occurred to her, was maybe what she should have been doing. An egg was boiling in a small pot on the hob, along with four small new potatoes. She had some limp green beans refreshing in a bowl of ice water.
She had no idea why she'd invited this man to dinner. She'd never had a man in her cottage, much less one she'd known for only a couple of days—no, that was a lie: a couple of hours over a couple of days, over a couple of drinks. What was he really doing in Boscastle? Nobody comes to Cornwall from America to build stone hedges—nobody sane, anyway. Maybe he was on the run from someplace or something or someone. At a minimum, she should have done a Google search on him first—Andrew Stratton + architect + Philadelphia. Jesus, the man's sole character reference was a nine-year-old girl! Oh, and a sheep!
Okay, he was pretty good-looking, and neither too young nor too old. Tall enough, too; in heels, she could probably look him straight in the eye. Cute, curly, dark-brown hair salted with gray. And his eyes—good Lord, she didn't even know what color they were; they'd spent all their time together in the dimness of the Cobweb.
Plus, in a week he'd be gone.
This last thought nagged at her—not that she might never see him again, but because that was part of the attraction: He was safe. Not much chance of getting “involved.” Not much chance to screw up, either. But mostly, not much chance of risking her heart. She'd done that once, with Jeremy, and he'd brutalized it. In the few years she'd lived in Boscastle, she'd seen two or three men socially. But these dates had never got much beyond dinner at the pub, and the truth was, that had suited her just fine. Single men her age were scarce in the village, and those there often turned out to be single for a good reason: They were irresponsible, or irregularly employed, or drunks, or abusers, or all four. The best men—men like Anne's Roger—were all taken. Flora told her she should broaden her “catchment area.” She had laughed, because she'd thought Flora had said “catch men area.” Same thing, really. Besides, no one she met seemed able or willing to keep up with her. She used her sharp wit as a sort of entrance exam, and most men failed. They either went all quiet or got nasty, as if they didn't know how to play well with others.
But this Stratton chap gave as good as he got. That took courage. She liked that.
* * *
There was a small slate sign with the name of the cottage attached