Their mutual attraction is instantaneous, but can she deal with his dark and shady past or will old family scars and secrets stop her from trusting him and keep them apart forever?
They are opposites in every way. Can they find happiness together despite their major differences?
Twists and turns at every corner heighten the suspense in this cozy village mystery.
Chapter One
Too Many Cooks
“Yes, sir.”
“And do not bother me with this nonsense again!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is it suddenly SO bloody difficult to find suitable, decent, dependable domestic help? My father never had any trouble finding or keeping suitable staff. Are the whole lot of these new domestics slow on the uptake?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“They’d all rather be on the dole than work for a decent wage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell has happened to this country?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Thank you, Edwards. I’ll not be needing you for the rest of the evening. Get some rest. You look tired, Bernard. See you in the morning.”
Bernard Edwards gave Mr. MacKalvey a slight nod and disappeared down the hallway and into his room. It was harder and harder to find suitable, decent household help because Mr. Kenneth MacKalvey was becoming more and more demanding, increasingly irritable, and terribly unpleasant. Bernard remembered a discussion with a former employee, the sweet, wonderful, Italian cook, Loretta Colavita.
“Bernardo, does he think he owns us? He is so critical. Nothing is ever to his satisfaction. He is never pleased with anything. He never smiles anymore. He’s never happy. I hardly recognize the wonderful gentleman who hired me years ago. What the hell happened to him? He nitpicks about every tiny thing we do. He wants constant perfection. And then he goes on and on like some nag of an old woman. He can be so mean and vindictive. He treats us all like pond scum. He’s nasty.”
“I know, Loretta. I think he must be a very sad man on the inside.”
“Yeah, well, on the outside, too.”
“I’m so sorry to see you go, my dear. You are a terrific cook. And you are… delightful company. You are truly a wonderful woman and… and a joy to be around. And I… I…” he stopped himself.
“Well, I’d rather scrub toilets in a men’s prison for the criminally insane than stay in the same house with the likes of that foul bastard and cook for him one more day. If I cook him one more meal, I swear it will be laced with arsenic. Goodbye to you, my dear sweet Bernardo, and good luck to you, too. When are you going to get disgusted enough to leave that miserable fart all alone, which is what he truly deserves?”
“Oh, dear Loretta, I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I’ve been with his family since I was a child. You could say we grew up together.”
“Except that one in there, he never grew up. He’s still a mean-spirited rich boy, who has lost his charm, if he ever HAD any charm in the first place. Which I am beginning to doubt.”
“Oh, that’s not true, dear Loretta. He’s a good man.”
“I know, I know. I’m just so angry with him at the moment.”
“He will regret this day, I assure you, and he will beg you to come back. Goodbye, my dear Loretta. And until that day comes, I shall miss you. Terribly.” Bernard gave her a hug.
“Well, until that cold day in hell comes, I shall miss you, too, sweet man,” said Loretta, kissing one cheek, and then the other. She patted his cheek. She looked deep into his eyes. And the exceptional Loretta Colavita left MacKalvey House. Bernard waved as he watched her car pull out of the driveway and disappear down the long road toward town. Days passed.
“I miss Loretta Colavita, sir,” Bernard sighed
“Damn it, Edwards. I know you do! I saw the way you mooned after her. I heard her call you ‘Bernardo’ and ‘sweet man’. I saw her fuss all over you when you caught a cold or complained about a sore throat. I miss her, too,” he sighed, “very much. So let’s not go getting so attached to the next cook, what do you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
The delightful Loretta Colavita was followed by three less than stellar cooks. The red-haired Irish woman told him off, brandishing a kitchen knife at him, and left within the week. Then came the Swedish matron who only made fish, fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, and fish for dinner. She lasted almost three weeks, and only because she understood very little English and had no idea the Master of the House was insulting her and her cooking day in and day out after every meal.
“Bloody hell! I feel like a hapless prisoner of war aboard a Viking warship in the middle of the damn miserable ocean. Fish. Fish. Fish. MacKalvey House positively reeks with the disgusting smell of dead fish. Luckily our nearest neighbor is more than thirty-two kilometers away, or they’d all be complaining about our stench and reporting us to the clean air authorities.”
The Swedish matron was replaced by Greta, a German woman who hardly spoke and made decent, stick-to-your-ribs food three times a day with absolutely no conversation.
“Well, finally, some luck in the kitchen. The Italian, though an outstanding cook and a good woman with a heart of pure gold, was just a tiny bit over-sensitive to criticism. The Irish woman was obviously part of a coven. And the Swede was trying to kill us both with mercury poisoning. But this German woman, the food is decent and she is nice and quiet, she’s okay.”
Greta stayed in her room when she wasn’t cooking. She spoke to no one. She looked hauntingly out the window. One Tuesday evening, after dinner, she shot herself.
“I can hardly believe this bad luck of mine. I can’t seem to find a decent cook without mental problems!” said Mr. MacKalvey after the police and coroner left the next day about noon.
“Loretta Colavita was wonderful, Sir. No mental problems. Excellent mushroom risotto. Exquisite lasagna Florentine. Wonderful woman,” sighed Bernard nostalgically.
“And now that the police and the coroner have finally finished, I have to have that room cleaned and repainted and hardwood floor refinished. Buy a new mattress set and bed linens. A new small carpet. A completely unnecessary expense. AND I need to find another cook. I tell you, Edwards, it’s a bloody nightmare!”
“Yes, sir. A bloody nightmare,” agreed Bernard. It must have been a bloody nightmare for poor Greta also, he thought, with never a kind word or a nod of appreciation in her direction. Never a soul to talk to, no one to care. Maybe if she had someone to talk to, things would have turned out differently for her.
“Sir, did you remember today is Wednesday?”
“Wednesday, yes. What of it?”
“Miss Michelle Rosemont is coming today to photograph the grounds of the estate for the May issue of Historic Hazelton Magazine?”
“Oh, damn the hell, YES, I forgot all about it. Edwards, can you be a dear a handle it for me? I haven’t the stomach for schmoozing with an American photographer today, when I have all this dead Greta mess to deal with. I don’t feel like chatting. And I hate painters in the house. They’re messy and smelly. And noisy. And talk about noisy, hardwood floor refinishers with their power equipment, my head will ache for a week after they are done. Do you think we could find one who doesn’t use power equipment?”
“So, you would like one quiet man, preferably a mute, who uses only sandpaper?”
“Yes, Edwards, that would be lovely. Could you?” Mr. MacKalvey perked up.
“I’ll make some phone calls, sir, and see what I can find to suit you.”
“Thank you, Edwards.”
“Ah, sir? You also invited Miss Rosemont to have lunch with you here at the estate when she was finished. I think you shall have to chat and schmooze, just a little.”
“Lunch? Chat? Schmooze? LUNCH? I did? Yes, I did, I remember now. Oh, no!”
“Yes, sir, that was before Greta so rudely offed herself, without giving any consideration to your ever-expanding social calendar.”
“This is such a major inconvenience! What on earth would possess me to DO such a thing?”
“I don’t know, sir. It seemed so very out of character for you at the time, I almost doubted your sanity. It was so… social.”
“What in heaven’s name was I thinking?”
“I have NO idea, sir.”
“We have no cook. Well, just tell her… tell her I’m… ill,” said Mr. MacKalvey with a dismissive wave, turned, and went upstairs to his suite and closed the door.
A few hours later, the doorbell rang and Mr. MacKalvey heard the lilt of a female voice in the house. He crept to the top of the stairs where he could hear everything, but still remain hidden. Lovely voice. Now he remembered her voice from their phone conversation. He knew that voice. It made him smile. Pleasant. Cheerful. Silken. But from where? That voice, THAT’S what made him invite her to lunch,
the sound of her voice. He wanted to hear more of it. Damn siren’s call. It compelled him. She was probably horrendously ugly and shaped like a manatee.
“Miss Rosemont, I am so very sorry to inform you that Mr. MacKalvey is very ill and will not be able to join you for lunch, but I could fix you a bowl of shredded wheat and a cup of tea if you wish, because our cook is just dead.”
“No, please don’t worry about lunch. I’m not hungry. But I am so terribly disappointed! I was so looking forward to meeting THE Kenneth MacKalvey.”
“You were? Why on earth?”
“Something about that man fascinates me, Bernard.”
Kenneth MacKalvey leaned his head back on the door and gave a little smile as he listened to the conversation. That sweet, lovely voice! Saying sweet, lovely things. About him.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Edwards said with a laugh.
“No, Bernard. I’m not. I only agreed to do this photo shoot out here in the middle of nowhere so I could get to meet him. I’m really disappointed that he’s ill. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Oh, I’m afraid it is. Terminal, in fact. Have you heard about his reputation?”
“His reputation? As an author? Or as an art critic, you mean?”
“Ah, yes! That’s the one I mean.”
“Well, I heard he could be a little harsh at times. But I’ve read every book and article he’s written that I could lay my hands on, and I love the way he writes. I love his choice of words, the way he weaves in nuances and undertones, always completely proper, but with whispers of deep, white-hot passion hidden just beneath the surface, laced with longing, regret, and unspoken desire. It has movement as natural as the ebb and flow of the tides. Sometimes it’s like a warm, bittersweet dance with your former boyfriend on his wedding day to a really nice girl. And sometimes, it’s more like a telepathic orgasm with a total stranger across the room, sizzling, white hot, overpowering, wild, crazy, blissful, quivering, flushed, standing in a crowded room, with no one else around you having any idea of what just happened. You gulp hard and lick your lips. No evidence. And then, from across the room, you see him. He raises one eyebrow, with just the faintest smile. Ahhh!”
Kenneth MacKalvey felt himself blush. His heart was racing. Finally, someone who understood the height, the width, and the depth of the emotion in his work and actually appreciated it. Most people didn’t get it at all.
“No, no, my dear, this is KENNETH MacKalvey we’re talking about.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Kenneth. He’s so multi-layered!”
“Like an onion, you mean?”
“And SO-O insightful!”
“Really? James MacAdoon reckoned Mr. MacKalvey’s treatment of him was more like a public flogging.” Kenneth MacKalvey stiffened and held him breath. Why would Edwards bring that up now? Michelle let out a little giggle.
“Oh, Jimmy MacAdoon is as overly-sensitive as they come. He cries easily. I’VE made him cry, and I’m a gentle soul. Scottish men are unreasonably hard on themselves and each other,” she said with a giggle. “They hold themselves and their male countrymen up to unbelievably high standards on conduct and accomplishment. That’s why they as a group have made such terrific contributions to society in general. Cloning. Engineering. Banking. Golf. Tennis. William McKinley. Alexander Graham Bell. Charles MacIntosh, the raincoat. Highway surfacing, John MacAdams. Steam engine, James Watt. John Boyd Dunlop, tires. Postage stamps, John Chalmers. Kirkpatrick MacMillan, the bicycle. James MacGregor, bleach. John Logie Baird, the television. John Paul Jones, the U.S.Navy. Sir Robert Watson Watt, radar. John Napier, logarithms, Alexander Fleming, penicillin. James Young Simpson, anesthetics. Shall I go on? They just need a little extra attention every once in a while, and they’re just fine.”
Kenneth MacKalvey rushed to his room, changed his shirt, combed his hair, and put on a little cologne, all of a sudden craving a little attention from this obviously intelligent, gentle and kind woman, even if she were very homely. Looks are highly over-rated in today’s society. An ugly woman can still be a great companion when she’s this intellectual and perceptive, and appreciates a man of his caliber and distinction. He casually strolled down the hallway and the staircase.
“Oh, Edwards! I’m suddenly feeling much better. Is Miss Rosemont still about? Edwards? Edwards!” No answer. He heard a car door shut and looked out the window just in time to see a black Nissan sedan pulling down the driveway, and Edwards waving her off.
“The coast is clear,” Edwards said entering the house. “The American has left the building. You are safe from schmoozing, sir,” said Bernard when he came back in the house.
“What was she like, Edwards?” Kenneth asked hesitantly.
“Blue jeans. Trainers. Big camera.”
“Yes, but what was she LIKE?”
“Very Nice. Pleasant. Sunny. You would have just hated her, sir.”
“Thank you, Edwards. Yes, I’m sure I would have just hated her.” Kenneth MacKalvey went back upstairs and sulked.
“Mish, how did it go with Genghis Khan?” asked Tessa, the project manager and Michelle’s best friend, back at the magazine office.
“Really, really disappointing, Tessa. He’s sick. His butler says he’s terminal.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit! There’s nothing wrong with that nasty old fart, he was probably feeling his usual aristocratic, snobby, antisocial self today. I can’t see why you like him. I was really surprised when he agreed to the photo shoot over the phone in the first place, and thrown for a loop when he invited you to have lunch with him at MacKalvey House afterward. Moira has been trying to get a photographer inside that estate for years. He is known for being arrogant, overbearing, and just plain difficult. My auntie hates him!”
“Auntie Loretta? Aunt Loretta loves everybody and feeds everybody. She’s such a wonderful woman. She couldn’t hate a soul.”
“Well, she hates Kenneth MacKalvey. Never mention his name when she has something sharp in her hand, or when she’s driving,” Tessa warned.
“Why? He was so sweet and pleasant over the phone. I can’t imagine him being mean. He has such a wonderful voice, Tessa. And I love the way he writes. I…”
“Yes, and ‘Mr. Sweet and Pleasant’ with the wonderful voice stood you up. Your little crush stood you up, Mish. And he’s not dying, and I doubt he’s even sick. This is the first time in your life you ever got stood up, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I wanted this, Tessa, to meet him, spend some time with him, talk to him, or just listen to him talk.”
“Welcome to the real world, amica mia, where men are jerks who lie to us, cheat on us, treat us badly, and stand us up. All they want from us is non-stop sex and no conversation.”
“I can deal with that last part. You think Moira could talk Kenneth MacKalvey into having some non-stop sex and no conversation with me?”
“Moira has a whole book full of British gentlemen who might agree to that arrangement, but I doubt Kenneth MacKalvey’s on the list. She doesn’t like him either. Nobody around here likes him, Mish. Are you sure you want to meet him? You know what they say, never meet your heroes.”
“Oh, Tess, he was wonderful on the phone, and warm, and sweet. I felt like I knew him from somewhere else,” she said dreamily, “and knew him very well.”
“THAT’S IT! You got the wrong number! Believe me, there is not a soul in the UK who would use the words wonderful, warm, or sweet to describe Kenneth MacKalvey. He’s mean, opinionated, nasty, and arrogant. Forget it, Mish, forget him. He’s bad news. Come on, let’s fill in the blanks on next week’s schedule before Moira comes back to the office. You have your choice. Yet another Keefer Square shoot or some castle ruins out past Hanover House?”
“He’s not, Tess. I know it,” Michelle said softly “And I can’t forget him. Um, the castle ruins. Definitely.”
“Okay. A hunt in Moreland or some lovely cottages in the valley.”
“Horses make me rash up and sneeze and itch. The Cotswolds look-alikes.”
“That’s right, the horse thing. Okay. The little church on the corner of Howell and Lavelle or ponds in the countryside.”
“Both! The church won’t take long and I LOVE sloshing around in the mud pondside. I’ll bring my Wellies.”
“Okay. You’re going to be busy. I hope the weather cooperates with you. I’ll print out copies of this, one for Moira, one for you, and one for me, so I know where I sent you. Okay, we’re done here.”
“No worries. I make my own sunshine. Let’s go grab some lunch. I haven’t eaten. Remember, the evil Ken doll stood me up.” They both laughed.
“That fits him so well! The EVIL Ken doll. I can’t. I’m not supposed to leave the phone unattended.”
“Oh, come on, Tessa, who’s going to call us? This phone never rings. Personally I’ve never heard it ring. I think it lost its ring ability.”
“You’re right. Who would call us anyway? Well, okay, but we have to be back before Moira comes in at two o’clock.” Michelle nodded and they left the office.
They closed and locked the door. A moment later the phone rang.
Kenneth MacKalvey heard the magazine office phone ring and ring, but no one answered it. There was no answering service or machine where he could leave a message for her to return his phone call.
And he wanted to do this now, before he lost confidence and talked himself out of calling her to convince her to reschedule their lunch together. It would have to be somewhere in town because he still hadn’t found a new cook. He had no idea how else to reach her.
Two weeks passed. Kenneth MacKalvay drove himself into town on the false pretext of getting a new suit fitted. He parked his silver Land Rover on the street in front of the Historic Hazelton Magazine office and walked in quietly.
“Ah, Miss? Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me? I am trying to get in touch with your photographer, Michelle Rosemont. Could you please tell me how I may reach her?” he said to a woman with long wavy blonde hair sitting at a desk with her back to him. She recognized his voice instantly and smiled. She turned around and extending her hand.
“You just did, Mr. MacKalvey. I’m Michelle Rosemont and I’m glad to finally get the chance to meet you.”
He was elated to discover the intelligent Miss Rosemont with the silken voice was, indeed, not an ugly manatee at all, but a lovely petite blonde woman with big brown eyes, a pleasant disposition, and a knockout smile. But there was something else about her, something very familiar, so mesmerizing.
I’m home, thought Kenneth to himself, My Lord, after all this time, after every crashing disappointment, after feeling unloved and unlovable for years, decades even, here you are, you sweet woman. It’ like every embarrassing rejection I’ve ever endured was part of a well thought out plan by the universe to bring me here to this spot, at this moment, to you. I am home.
“I‘m an admirer of your work,” she smiled at him, still holding on to the hand he shook. “You’re rather an illusive one, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not really. I was having a rather bad day. I would very much like to take you to lunch to make up for any inconvenience that I may have caused you. Have you had lunch yet? Do they let you out of here?” he said looking around, noticing she was the only one in the office.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that! I’ve missed a few lunches in my life, and I’m none the worse for it.”
“But I insist! There’s a lovely little place on Westinfield Road not far from here, The Peachtree Cafe. It’s one of my favorites. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes, I am. And it’s very nice.”
“When can you get away?”
“I’m the only one here,” she said. He held him breath, looking down, fully expecting the usual refusal. She reached for her handbag and the keys on the wall. “So, who’s going to tell me no? Let’s go!”
As they walked together the few blocks up to Westinfield Road, he placed his open hand in the middle of her back, like he was piloting her down the street. It felt very familiar. He spoke softly in her ear.
“My father, also Kenneth MacKalvey, knew old Jack Benton very well. He helped him get the permit for him to open his shop here, The Waxen Glow. The surrounding shops were afraid his handmade candle business would catch fire and burn the village center to the ground.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And here, The Blue Lady, this shop was opened by my mother’s friend, Nancy Livingstone. Mother tried to talk her out of the ‘Blue’ part, saying it sounded sad, and maybe The Lilac Lady, The Pink Lady or even Livingstone’s would be better. But, to no avail.”
Michelle giggled. She thought he was adorable, telling her stories about the little shops as they passed. She felt the warmth emanating from his large hand to all parts of her body. The sound of his voice was hypnotic and the feel of his lips so close to her ear had her heart pounding in her throat.
“How on earth did you know it was me?” he asked.
“I recognized your voice from our phone conversation.”
“You did?”
“Yes. You have a wonderful voice.”
“Uh, thank you,” he blushed. “Have you been in Hazelton long, Miss Rosemont?”
“Well, for about a year now. I came here on vacation after I graduated from college in Ohio, and never wanted to leave. I met Moira Reed at a party and she asked me to take a few quick shots of Mrs. Holliman’s Bed and Breakfast as a favor because her photographer had taken ill and she had to meet a deadline. She really liked them, fired her old photographer, and offered me his job. So here I am! And I do like it here.”
“That’s good.” He found himself smiling broadly, feeling unusually happy. Soon they were seated at the Peachtree Café.
“So, Miss Rosemont, how did the photos of my estate turn out? I would very much like to see them.”
“Please, Kenneth, call me Michelle. And I’d love for you to see them, but I don’t have them back yet. I took quite a few. Your estate is so beautiful. I edited and balanced them on my laptop, and then I sent out for enlargements. The enlargements don’t come back as fast as the 5 X 7s and the 8 X 10s. I’ll give you a call as soon as they come in. I still have your number. I think you’ll be pleased. At least, I hope you will.” They ordered tea and sandwiches. Kenneth moved in a little closer to her.
“Michelle, there’s a small cocktail party at the St. Cloud Art Gallery this Saturday evening. I would very much like it if you would come with me. I must attend. There’s some artwork I critiqued on display and I need to meet the dull, unimaginative, minimally talented local bore of a pretend painter, Thompson Morton, head to head.”
“Oh, Kenneth, I’m already going. With Roger Killington from the magazine. Do you know him?”
Kenneth nodded and became very quiet, suddenly feeling extremely foolish. He didn’t even consider the possibility that she might already be involved in a serious relationship. But she’d been here a year, and she was very lovely and obviously intelligent, so it stood to reason she’d be taken. But not Killington! He was a nasty bloke, not worthy of a gem like her. “But I understand how you would appear so much less intimidating to Thompson Morton if you showed up with a live human woman on your arm,” she said. He let out an unexpected burst of laughter.
“MISS ROSEMONT! Are you insinuating that I’m a scary man?”
“Why, no, Mr. MacKalvey, I’m not insinuating at all. I’m out and out saying it. And I do hope you were a little kinder to Thompson Morton than you were to James MacAdoon!” She giggled. He burst out laughing. She giggled some more.
“Well, at the time, I had no idea I was being harsh with Mr. MacAdoon. It wasn’t until his tears began to hit the floor that I entertained the notion that maybe my completely honest appraisal of his work might possibly have had a slight edge to it. I truly wasn’t TRYING to be nasty.”
“I hear it comes quite naturally to you, sir.” They were both still laughing. “Don’t feel bad,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to stop laughing. “I made him cry, too.”
“NO! Not you? You’re such a sweetheart.”
“Yes, I did. And this is why I hate taking photos of people. He said my photos of him made his… bum look fat,” she nodded, as a new wave of laughter overtook them both. Kenneth MacKalvey clutched his chest with laughter. “Is… Is James MacAdoon going to be at the St. Cloud Gallery on Saturday? If so, he needs to see us together,” she said. “We are the evil monster duo of his nightmares. Kenneth, when we get done with him, he won’t even want to paint porch furniture.” Laughter.
“Without wearing a disguise,” he added. More laughter. “If I see him there, I’ll come and get you, so we can try to help the overly-sensitive cry baby, James MacAdoon, grow up a little, okay?”
“Help? Okay,” she nodded. “I don’t want to permanently scar him. I like Jimmy, I do. He’s a very nice man. He’s just… a…”
“… a grudge-holding, whiny, extremely untalented artsy baby with a big bum!” Kenneth finished her sentence. More laughter. They finished lunch and they walked back toward her office.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Michelle.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’m from Ohio, I have a degree in early childhood education. I had a strong desire to leave home and never return. I like to take photos, but not of people. That’s about it.”
“Well, I didn’t get to see the photos of my estate and I couldn’t convince you to attend the Morton Event at the Art Gallery with me, but I haven’t laughed this much in years. I had a great time.”
“So did I. And I promise you’ll get to see the photos as soon as they come in.”
“I hope Roger Killington won’t be too upset with me for stealing his girlfriend away for a quick lunch.”
“Oh, Kenneth, Roger and I aren’t a couple. We just work together here at the magazine. We both wanted to go to the Morton Event, and the responses were due by last Saturday. I’m not in a relationship with anyone at the time. I‘m alone here. I’ll see you there, okay?” He nodded. Not in a relationship, good. Alone? Well, not anymore.
“And I don’t really think you’re scary. In fact, I think you’re… wonderful. Thank you for lunch, Kenneth. See you Saturday.”
“Until Saturday then,” he smiled shyly. “Thank you, Michelle.”
She went into the office and waved at him through the window. He waved back sweetly and got into his car and pulled out. She got right back to work, humming.
Tessa came in about a half an hour later.
“Good afternoon, Tessa! How are you this wonderful day?”
“What the hell’s gotten into you? This over the top cheerfulness is not a good look on you. You remind me of that wind-up doll I had as a child…before I broke it.”
“Whoa! What’s the matter with YOU?”
“Aunt Loretta’s weepy today. She misses her sweet Bernardo. She misses living on the big, beautiful estate at MacKalvey House, instead of crunched up in my little apartment. A one bedroom flat is a one bedroom flat, no matter how many times you re-arrange the damn furniture. Luckily, her new apartment will be ready on a week.”
“Speaking of MacKalvey House, I had lunch with Kenneth MacKalvey today,” nodded Michelle, still smiling, still cheerful, still seeing his sweet smile and those gorgeous brown eyes in her head.
“You’re kidding me! Right?”
“No. He strolled in here, as adorable as could be, and asked me to lunch. We walked up to The Peachtree Café. We talked and laughed and had a really great time. Tessa, he’s wonderful.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Any of it.”
“He parked his silver Land Rover right in front of the office. During lunch he asked me to go the Event at the Gallery with him.”
“No! Are you going?”
“I would’ve loved to go with him, but I already said I would go with Roger. Remember?”
“Blow Roger off!”
“I can’t. Roger’s been a good friend. Believe me, I wanted to bang my head on the table when he asked me. I only wanted to go to the Morton Event at the Gallery because I knew he was going to be there.”
“Mish, be careful. When a man is still single at that age, it says a lot.”
“Like, what? That there’s a big, glaring reason why nobody wants him? I don’t believe that. That’s crazy. Maybe he’s just picky.”
“Oh, he’s picky, all right. Ask Aunt Loretta what kind of a nit-picky bastard he is. Mish, this can’t end well. He’s bad news. Trust me, you’re going to get dashed.”
“Oh, maybe, but I don’t care. There’s something about him that I can’t walk away from, something I find magnetic. Being with him, even for a short time, might be worth getting dashed.”
“Don’t say you weren’t warned. He has a reputation for being extremely dangerous. Dark and sinister. He’s an arrogant and self-centered recluse. Nobody likes him.”
“Well… I like him. And I’ll consider myself sufficiently warned. I won’t come crying to you when he breaks my heart.”
“Mish! You’ve been so levelheaded when it comes to men. You can take them or leave them. You’ve been the one in charge in every relationship you’ve been in that I can remember, starting with third grade, Mickey Cantoloni. They never get under your skin. You treat them all like accessories. Until this highly unlikely, old, mean, damaged, frightening...”
“Tessa, please! Enough.” Michelle went back to the stockroom and closed the door. This WAS crazy. She had read his books, seen his photos… okay, cut out his photos, and put them in a folder, stalker-like. She admired his work. She was behaving immaturely. Was it actually Kenneth MacKalvey she was drawn to, or to the image of the quintessential English gentleman she imagined him to be in her mind? Oh, real men can rarely measure up to that! And Kenneth MacKalvey was a very eligible bachelor. He wasn’t old or damaged or frightening. He could have his pick of the women around here. He was handsome, talented, and very pleasant. If he were still single, it was by his own choice. But why on earth would he ever be interested in her? She shook herself back to reality and went back to her desk to continue color balancing the photos she took of the lovely cottages.
“Mish, I’m sorry,” said Tessa, coming into the stockroom. “I won’t say one more bad thing about the evil Ken doll. And I’ll help you out, if I can. And Aunt Loretta will, too. She lived with him for five years. She knows him pretty well.” Michelle nodded, but didn’t say a word.
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