“You should know about it, since it might affect you,” said Marva.
“Oh, I'm not afraid of ghosts,” I joked.
She put a hand on my arm with the tenderness of a grandmother. “No, my dear. They aren't real. It's all fake.”
Deciding to play along, I let disappointment play across my slumped shoulders. “It is?”
“You see, we are all going to decorate and pretend that the house is haunted and then we are going to charge money for people to come through the house before Halloween. We're decorating Main Street too. We're renaming the street Autumn Lane. We are trying to bring in people from all over this side of the state.”
“Get on with it, Marva! The reason we want you to know is that we are using the empty grocery store next door to the bookstore as the haunted house,” interrupted Flo, the owner of the bug hat.
Marva explained to a confused Kit, “The Furry Friends Rescue Shelter used to host a haunted house. But they received a big donation this year and said we could host it instead. We just hosted the Timberfest last summer so we are feeling pretty good about our ability to organize things. The old grocery store has been vacant since the Family Fare was built. That's where I work. Not the old store, of course. The Family Fareâoh, you know that. Anyway, it's bank-owned now. The old grocery store is. But we get permission from the bank to hold the Halloween house there as long as we pay for the extra insurance and all the cleanup afterwards. If all goes well we are going to make it a Santa's workshop at Christmas.”
I was starting to feel bewildered now. But I kept my smile plastered to my face. “So I'm going to be living next door to a haunted house?”
“Exactly. But remember, my dear. It isn't real. And we are going to call it the house of horrors.” I envied the Triple C's and their project. Ghosts were a lot more interesting than books.
When Marva left, Kit picked up a spoon and began to doctor his tea. I played “spin the salt shaker” while he added heaping spoons of sugar. After several moments, I felt the strange sensation of being under glass. I looked up. Every woman leaned toward us as if the room was tilted in our direction.
I slumped in my seat and stared at them. But they ignored me. Their focus was entirely on Kit.
“Seriously?” I asked under my breath.
He lifted his head. “Something wrong?”
“Nope.” I sent him a squinty smile and leaned forward, propping my elbows on the table in front of me. It would have been bad for his ego to point out the obvious.
Someone in the booth behind us said, “His smile is so dreamy.”
I tapped the table with my fingertip. My mouth was beginning to go dry from lack of water. I eyed the water pitcher at the end of the counter and thought about getting it myself.
I rested my chin in my hand and tapped my fingers to my cheek.
Kit had finally finished doctoring the tea. He took a sip of the tea and pushed it away.
“Aren't you going to drink that?”
“Hmm?” Kit lifted the paper, as if high school football was the most fascinating thing in the world. He eyed the tea sideways without moving his head, but said nothing.
“Your tea is going to get cold,” I said loudly. “You'd better drink it, Dr. Darling-ton.”
He picked up the cup and lifted it to his lips again. But I wasn't fooled. His action was just like the sip that actors pretended to take on stage. His Adam's apple didn't even move.
I leaned forward and whispered, “You don't like tea, do youâ”
“Shhh. You don't have to be so loud.”
It was wonderful to discover something that wasn't so perfect about him. “Admit it. You wanted coffee! You don't like tea.”
He scanned the room. Fortunately, somewhere between my stare-down and his first sip of tea, most of the ladies had lost their fixation with our booth. “It's not my favorite.”
“Not your favorite? You look like you hate it.”
“I don't hate anything. I just don't care for it. I grew up with the bloody stuff jammed down my throat at every meal.”
“Tell them you hate the stuff.”
“It's not my favorite, but I can drink itâ”
I moved the paper away from his face and dislodged the teacup by accident. The tea sloshed across the table and into Kit's lap.
He raised himself out of his seat and looked down at his pants.
I put a hand over my mouth. “Oh, no. Right on your crotch.”
Several of the women around us cried out as if I had shot Kit. Three women grabbed their napkins and ran over to help. Kit stood up.
I tried not to laugh. “Want me to blot it for you?”
“Trudyâ” he warned me. He tried to keep the ladies' hands away from the stain that had developed around his fly and I let a giggle loose, which earned me angry stares.
“I'll just go to the restroom,” he said as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
I sent him a charming smile. “Stupendous, old chap. I'll hold down the fort.”
Kit sent me a wary glance and slipped out of the booth. I must admit that I appreciated the stiff upper lip. He put on his glasses and strolled to the men's room as if he had all the time in the world. His path was tracked by his adoring followers.
Corinne arrived with a towel to clean the mess. I pushed the soggy napkins to the edge of the table. While she wiped up the spill, I heard two ladies talking at the counter. “She's just like she used to be. Remember how difficult she made Gertrude's life?”
“I don't know what his lordship is doing with her. Maybe he feels sorry for her.”
The whispered comments brought back emotions I hadn't felt in a long time.
Corinne finished cleaning up the spilled tea and left before I could ask for water. A moment later she placed Kit's Dinty Moore on the table with a fresh napkin. “Does he need anything else?”
“Oh, I think
he
should be all set.” I looked at my steaming plate of soup and fries growing cold on the counter behind her and wondered if she would bring it to me any time this century.
Tiffany moved around Corinne and placed another cup of tea on the table next to the sandwich. I smiled brightly. “Just keep the tea coming, he loves it.”
The ladies waited breathlessly for the men's bathroom door to open. I hoped he came out dragging toilet paper on his shoe while zipping his fly.
I picked up the Tabasco sauce from the basket on the table. I knew it was wrong, but the angry teenage version of myself was rearing her ugly head. I was tired from being surrounded by words. I was irritated with the way the women fawned over Dr. Darling and pitied me. And I was hungry. Even Mac seemed to have forgotten about me. Before I could stop myself, I unscrewed the cap on the hot sauce and lifted the top of Kit's Dinty Moore.
* * *
I stood with Kit behind the diner, patting his back and trying to keep from laughing as he gasped and wheezed. Handing him the water I had procured in a to-go cup, I waited while he downed half of its contents.
“Did you do that?”
“It must have been the Dinty Moore.” I patted my full stomach. “My soup wasn't spicy at all.”
“I've only known you forty-eight hours and already you're playing practical jokes?”
“It was just a drop or four of hot sauce. You didn't have to eat it.”
“I didn't want to hurt Corinne's feelings.”
“That's stupid.”
“No. That's called being polite.”
“Why didn't you just tell everyone the truth? You could have said you don't like tea and you could have complained about the hot sauce.”
“I didn't want to cause a stir.”
“Pardon me for telling you this, but you have a little problem with honesty.”
That seemed to bother him. He squinted at the ground and took a raging sip of water. It sloshed out of his mouth and over his chin. He wiped his chin with his sleeve. His lordship didn't look so fancy now.
When he finally calmed the heat on his tongue, he grabbed me by the hand and marched me down the street.
I let him lead me without complaint, secretly relishing it. When was the last time someone held my hand?
At the back door of Books from Hell, I leaned against the wall. He stepped in front of me and I could swear the hot sauce was steaming between us. He put his hand against the doorframe beside my head and I felt trapped. In a good way.
“Trudy, there is something . . .” His voice trailed off.
My nose barely reached his chin and I tilted my head up. “What are you going to do to me?” My voice was husky and the invitation was there. His nostrils flared and he tilted his head until our lips almost met. I waited.
A high-pitched bark interrupted us. Kit stepped back. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head as if he were trying to clear his thoughts.
I slumped sideways and swallowed my sexual angst. “Don't look like that,” I said. “You can always blame your faltering judgment on the Tabasco sauce.”
Then I opened the back door. Moby bounded out and greeted us. “Great job, boy. You saved me from a drooling lunatic.”
Kit didn't say anything. It was obvious he regretted what almost happened. I would too if I were smart. But smart was one thing I had never been considered. And as much as I wanted to abide by my new rule of no men in my life, I was willing to make an exception. Because it felt really good to stand so close to him. I loved the distraction of him. And I wanted more. I wanted to run my hands through his hair and see if it was as silky as it looked. I wanted to know the power of the muscles I felt beneath his clean-cut clothes.
I wanted to know if the feel of his mouth was as beautiful as the words that came out of it.
A wet tongue licked the Dinty Moore juice on my fingers and I returned from the cloud layer. Maybe I should clear my head.
I turned toward the lake. “He wants a walk.”
A few moments later Kit fell into step beside me. We passed a large field of maple and popple trees that were starting to lose their leaves. Bright red, orange and yellow mixed with dark pine needles in a quilt of vibrant hues. Autumn in the northeastern quadrant of the United States was a singular experience. I had forgotten about it while living in California. I breathed in through my nose, loving the smells of the nearby forest in the cool breeze.
Moby ran up ahead. “So, I still don't understand why the ladies call you
his lordship
. I mean, I know you're British and there's the whole obsession American women have with British men and the royal family. But it seems like a bit of a leap to call you
his lordship
.”
My question made him groan and touch his lip as if he were still in pain from the hot sauce.
“I didn't put that much on it. Try honey or baking soda.”
“Another home remedy?”
“Don't change the subject. What kind of misunderstanding took place for you to become
my lord
? Did you and the priest mix up the sermons? Did you black out and turn into that famous young pop singer?”
“Who?” He was confused.
“Never mind. Just explain. I'm curious.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “It's just a bit of rubbish, actually. When the lease for the house I'm renting was made up, it was accidentally placed in the wrong name with the wrong title.”
“That's weird.”
“It was a bit of a pain. But by the time I made the corrections and told the agent that I wasn't a viscount, the papers had already been drawn up with the titles.”
“A what-count?”
“A viscount. It's spelled V-I-S-C-O-U-N-T. But it's pronounced
vie-count
. It is actually a courtesy title nowadays.”
We were almost at the public beach. It was empty. He picked up a stick and threw it for Moby. “So, do you still want to get some work done in the bookshop today?”
I moved around him until we were toe to toe. “Wait a minute. It can't be that easy to get fancy titles mixed up. Who was the real viss-viecount you were mistaken for?”
He paused, opening and closing his mouth. “The viscount of Knightsbridge.”
“Wow. That sounds like something that would be hard to mix up.”
“That's what I thought.” Moby returned with a stick in his mouth and Kit wrestled it from him and threw it again. “We need to clear an area so you can get from front to back of the store without tripping.”
“What we need to clear up is this idea that you're royalty.”
I moved toward a bench on the beach and sat down. I had so many questions and so far none of his answers fit. He came all the way from England to bird-watch and study the lumberjacks, but he barely talked about birds and logging. He seemed far more interested in helping clear the books in the store. The women in town loved him and he was embarrassed by it. Or maybe he was so used to being adored that he didn't care. Or was it something else? And now this strange situation with his title. I wasn't normally a suspicious person, but I was very confused by this man.
“Which cottage are you renting that caused a mix-up?”
“It's over there.” He pointed across a cove to a large cedar house with two-story windows and a deck on two levels.
My mouth fell open. “That's not a cottage. That's a mansion.”
“It's not as big as it looks. And it's the off season. It was cheap to rent.”
I glanced at his expensive shoes. “Right. When are you going to invite me for cocktails?”
Kit ignored the question and sat down beside me. We watched Moby run back and forth along the beach.