over someone who believes in nothing any day.”
“But witchcraft?”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio …,’” she said, quoting Shakespeare.
And Andrew thought, This is not your average priest.
He did not go to see Colin Grant next; it was late, and he needed to think that suggestion through. He was making a dinner salad in the tiny kitchen at Shepherd's Cottage when he saw Nicola walking across the meadow from Roger and Anne's house. He met her at the door.
“Some hot date you are,” she said, flashing a grin. “You're so exciting you put me right to sleep!”
Andrew was so startled by the absurdity of this greeting, he just stared.
Then he regained his composure. “Would you like to come in?”
“No, I just walked all the way up here to give you a hard time.”
Andrew stood aside and Nicola danced in and plopped herself down in the overstuffed easy chair by the stone hearth.
So,” she said, “I have two questions.”
“One?”
“Do you have a decent wine in this house?”
“Yes, a chilled Pinot Grigio from the Alto Adige in Italy, by way of the Rock Shop. Will that be adequate, madam?”
“We'll see.”
“And the second question?”
Nicola tilted her head to one side and smirked. “Was it good for you?”
Andrew blinked.
“Because I certainly don't remember,” she added, rolling her eyes.
“I'll just get that wine, shall I?” Andrew answered, shaking his head as he disappeared into the kitchen. He was glad to have the excuse to leave the room, because he hadn't the first inkling what he should say next, if anything.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he called from the kitchen. “I was just making a sort of Italian dinner salad—mixed baby greens, tomato, prosciutto, mozzarella, fennel, onion, and black olives.”
“Wait!” Nicola called back. “You mean you have no fresh basil?”
Andrew walked to the door of the kitchen and leaned against the jamb. It was impossible to stay focused on the strangeness of the night before. Nicola was sitting sideways in the big chair, her back against one arm, her tanned legs over the other. She was wearing a simple, sleeveless printed cotton sundress with a deeply scooped neckline. She looked delicious. “Of course I have fresh basil,” he said. “I just thought it would be wasted on you.”
“Ooh, that was below the belt.”
It was Andrew's turn to smirk. “I only wish …” He went back to the kitchen, opened the Pinot Grigio, and returned with it and two simple tumblers. “Pardon the absence of stemware; we're going peasant this evening.”
He poured, and they clinked glasses. “To the ever-unpredictable Ms. Nicola Rhys-Jones, née DeLucca.”
“To the phantom date,” she countered. “There one moment, gone … well, at some point.”
He smiled, but sadly. “You don't remember, do you?”
Nicola closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, the bemused look was gone, replaced with what Andrew could only describe as self-disgust. “I'm sorry, Andrew; truly. I don't usually drink that much—well, actually, I do—but I don't usually pass out. I'm utterly embarrassed. I have no memory of last night, apart from your kissing me and my loving it.”
Andrew's voice was gentle. “It's okay, Nicola; you have nothing to apologize for.”
“Oh, but I do. Because I have a confession to make.”
“You don't have to tell me …”
“Yes, I do, and here it is: I've never invited a man to my cottage since I moved here from St. Ives. In fact, I haven't been involved with another man since Jeremy.”
“It sounds to me like Jeremy would put any woman off men for a very long time.”
“Thank you. Yes. That's it, you see; I'm terrified of men.”
“I understand.”
“With one possible exception: you.”
“I'm not sure that's a compliment. I think I'd like to be thought of as having an exciting, possibly dangerous edge.”
She smiled, as if indulging a child. “Want to know why?” she asked.
Andrew nodded uncertainly.
“Because you do understand. You're not like other men.”
“You can't know that,” Andrew said.
“Actually, I can. Want to know how?”
“Sure.”
“First, I'm a witch; I know these things.”
“How come you didn't know about Jeremy?”
“I wasn't a witch then, and don't interrupt.”
“Right.”
“Second, Lee adores you.”
“Is she a witch, too?”
“You're interrupting again, but no, she's not … although, I don't know, maybe she is and doesn't know it yet because, Lord knows, she's different.”
Nicola waited here to see if Andrew would comment again. Instead, he smiled. He knew the game.
“And third …” Nicola paused and looked at him with affection. “A chap who risks his neck for a sheep is not abusive.”
“Oh, thank