back

Soulmate: Chapter 2

Page 2 of 8

two-storey homes of Cotswold stone lined the road, each lush garden separated from its neighbour by neat drystone walls. The houses were draped in cascades of mauve wisteria. Baskets of brightly coloured pansies, lobelia and geraniums hung over most doorsteps. I caught Lizzie's gaze wandering up the gravel drives. Though she'd left behind a very nice house, a colonial Saltbox, it was obviously not in this league.

"How much?" she asked. Lizzie was always interested in property. She was, after all, the wife of a realtor, but her blue eyes had also taken on that bright, covetous look I knew only too well.

"Far too much." Truth is, I really didn't have a clue about property values, because the roof over my head had always belonged to someone else.

I swung the Mini around a bend in the lane. Off to our left was a large village green, surrounded by houses, some of Cotswold stone, others much smaller and older - whitewashed, timber-framed and thatched. At the far end of the green was a rugby pitch with white goal posts, just like the ones used back home for American football. I even noticed one of those old-fashioned red telephone boxes.

Lizzie said something, but I didn't hear it. I was momentarily mesmerised by the goal posts, remembering the football field at Boston College, Jeff standing on the football field in his uniform, waving to me as I sat in the empty bleachers during practice.

"Is that the pub?" Lizzie piped up, pointing a sculpted nail in my direction.

We were just passing it.

"Hang on!" I pulled hard on the wheel and swung the Mini around. Lizzie exclaimed and flailed for the hand strap. By the time I'd straightened the car up, we were nearly past the pub again. I hung a sharp left, and bounced the car into the parking lot. We jerked to a halt in a space right next to the pub door.

Suddenly paler than usual, Lizzie glared at me.

"What?" I protested. "I didn't even touch the kerb!"

She drew in her breath sharply. "I have broken a nail." She pointed a jagged, apricot nail, now spearlike, at me.

I was chewing my well-gnawed, unpainted nails as Reg placed a glass of dry white wine and a pint of one of Tangles' stronger brews, endearingly called Snarlfoot, on the bar. The pub was empty. He'd just turned the 'closed' sign on the door around to 'open' as we climbed out of the car.

"Are you driving?" he asked.

He was a huge hulk with a bulbous nose and small dark eyes that were mercifully alleviated by a crooked, but friendly, smile.

"Eventually," I replied. "After lunch."