Pitch Imperfect(17)

The floor-to-ceiling sash windows were open and the faded brocade curtains soaked, as were the boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Chloe’s wasn’t one of them.

Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, God. I didn’t mean what I said about not praying.

Chloe’s box was open, next to the fireplace near the piano. The crystal Lalique sparrow Anjuli had bought when Chloe was born sat at the top. Gently, she rubbed it with her fingertip, then closed the box when she heard Rob walk in. “No lights in here yet, sorry,” she said.

She looked around the sitting room, relieved not to find major damage. She had very little furniture and it was all arranged on the right-hand side, around the fireplace. The large area between her furniture and the Steinway at the other end was currently occupied by boxes labelled Books, Electronics, and Stuff I Never Knew I Had.

Together, they pulled the heavy sash windows shut—not an easy task as the rusted pulley system stuck in the old grooves.

Rob shook the rain from himself with a shudder, and so did the collie. Anjuli smiled as both man’s and dog’s hair stood on end.

“Dreich,” Rob said, studying the room.

Well, “drab and dreary” was exactly how she felt, and being with Rob inside the house that had witnessed their happiest moment didn’t help. Rob didn’t seem to share her discomfort. He was on his haunches studying the cast-iron fireplace. It glittered in the semi-darkness, a large surround for his intent form. When she’d moved in the tiles surrounding it had been covered by square, stick-on patterns in garish, flowery prints. Compelled to find what they hid, Anjuli had left unpacking for later and spent the afternoon painstakingly removing the stick-ons and cleaning the glue from the original ceramic. Her efforts revealed Art Deco tiles, seamlessly fitted together to form the dark, graceful silhouette of a sleeping woman.

Rob ran his hand over one of the tiles. “Alphonse Mucha’s ‘Nocturnal Slumber,’ probably added in the 1890s or early 1900s.”

“And preserved by 1970s bad taste,” Anjuli said wryly.

The collie barked and ran a few laps around the sofa, slipping on sections of faded brown carpet before jumping onto her distressed leather armchair. He played with Anjuli’s favourite cashmere throw, soiling it with his paws while his tail brushed the table lamp.

“Stop it, dog. Please?”

Rob patted his thigh and the collie ran to him. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t think he has one.”

Man and dog regarded each other, heads cocked to the side. “He looks like a Reiver to me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not keeping him.”

“Hello there, Reiver.” The dog nuzzled him, then jumped on Anjuli and pawed her thighs.

“Down,” Rob said sternly, speaking to the dog but looking at Anjuli. “You’ve got to be firm so he understands you’re the boss. It works with animals...and people.”

Well, it wouldn’t work with her. “You two can bond while I get him some food. Sorry, I don’t have any boy-band CDs to provide background music.”

A low chuckle spurred her to the kitchen, a large square with a separate utility room and a marble-countered larder used to keep food cool in Victorian times. North-facing, but large windows made the most of daylight hours. Unfortunately, no amount of light could brighten the mildew-coloured linoleum competing for ugliness with the 1970s units.

The dog—Reiver, as Anjuli now couldn’t help thinking of him—deserved a nice bowl of water and a feast for his heroics but a bit of leftover lasagne and some sausages was all she had to offer. And a box of Hotel Chocolat goodies, but dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate, right? Making a mental note to find out more about feeding her new guest, she set the sausages down and filled a plastic tub for him to drink from.

Rob followed Reiver into the kitchen. His shirt was plastered to his chest and with his wet, tousled hair he had an “I-don’t-give-a-damn” look about him that was altogether too disturbing. Anjuli hid a sigh. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked “I-don’t-give-a-damn” too, but in an entirely different way.

She not only smelled of mud, but her sweater was soaked and so were her jeans. A quick look in the utility room and she handed Rob a clean towel, then turned on the creaky tap. Bracing herself, she washed and rinsed her face with icy water. One should never conduct business with a dirty face, no matter if the rest of one’s body looks like it dropped out of a sludge pipe.

Should she offer Rob a hot drink? A stiff drink? Stare at him until the river washed her away?

He seemed oblivious, studying the larger of two holes in the wall and measuring it with an expert eye. “Ask Viking to give you some plywood. There’s a bit left over from the platform he built for the pub that you could use to cover the holes with.”