If you hate it, then get out, she told herself. It’s time to make the rounds anyway.
So she fetched a jacket, fluffed her hair over it, and went out. She didn’t bother to lock the door. No one would disturb her cottage, and besides, there wasn’t anything in it she really cared all that much about.
Only now did she realize how much that thought bothered her.
* * *
Rachel McAllister had sounded mystified by Lucas’ request to speak with her, but she didn’t say no. She did tell him that Saturdays were busy and that she wouldn’t be able to see him until after six-thirty. He’d said that was fine, even though he chafed at the delay. To take the edge off, he’d called a few friends for an impromptu round of golf, to which they’d all been agreeable. Might as well; winter was on its way, and opportunities to hit the green would be pretty scarce in the near future.
Since they were all casual acquaintances, fine for discussing the merits of a new driver or the Cardinals’ prospects in the upcoming season and not much else, none of them seemed to notice his preoccupation, how he really wasn’t all that focused on the game. Not that it mattered, as he still came out on top, at two under par. Normally he’d force himself to blow a few shots, just so he wouldn’t always win, but today he wasn’t paying the proper attention.
“Drinks?” Dave asked, dropping his putter into the bag on the back of his cart.
“Not today,” Lucas replied. “I need to be somewhere at six-thirty.”
A knowing grin. “Hot date?”
Well, at least Dave had relaxed a lot, now that his divorce was final. Of course, getting paid cash up front for the house that Connor and Angela now owned probably had something to do with his improved outlook on life.
“Not really.”
“Hmm,” was all Dave said, but Lucas could tell he wasn’t quite buying it. His friends were too used to the apparently unending string of women he dated. Not that he’d added to that string in a long time. Ever since meeting Margot, his heart hadn’t really been in it.
He went home and took a quick shower, then put on some jeans and a T-shirt, pulling a sweater over that. For a second he wondered if he was being too casual, then reminded himself he was going to Jerome. If anything, he probably looked overdressed.
Spatters of rain began to fall as he drove south on I-17, so he was glad he’d decided against going down through the canyon. Not that the Porsche couldn’t handle it, but in his current abstracted state, he preferred the straight-line driving on the highway.
By the time he pulled up in front of the shop Rachel McAllister owned, the rain had begun to fall in earnest. Since the weather had looked iffy in the rain department, he’d worn his leather jacket instead of his wool overcoat, but the shop looked very closed. Rachel hadn’t given him any specific instructions, and he waited in the car for a minute, wondering if he should pull around to the back, where he knew the private entrance to the apartment over the store was located.
But then he saw the shop door open, and Rachel herself standing there, giving him a beckoning gesture. He got out of the car and ducked his head, walking quickly to the entrance. She stepped out of the way so he could move past her, then shut the door behind him.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” she quipped, and he grinned at her.
“I like it.”
She made a noncommittal “hmm” noise, then said, “Come on up to the apartment. If we stand by the front door, someone’s going to think the store’s open, and I don’t feel like shooing away tourists right now. The crew I had to get rid of at six was bad enough.”
“No problem,” he replied, letting her take the lead and guide him up the narrow staircase to the apartment that occupied the top two floors of the building. It took some effort for him to avoid seeming too obvious as he studied his surroundings. Angela had told him about this place, but he’d never been here before. It felt cramped to him, although he wasn’t sure whether that was because the place really didn’t have much square footage, or because Rachel seemed to have crammed it full of antiques and knickknacks and potted plants, most surfaces taken up by framed pictures of family members or crystals or figurines carved from stone.
Above all that, though, he smelled something rich and spicy emanating from the kitchen. He must have lifted an eyebrow, because Rachel said, “I’ve had beef barbacoa going in the crock pot all day. Of course you’ll be staying for dinner.”
“Oh, no — I didn’t expect you to feed me — ”
“Maybe you didn’t, but I’m still going to.” Her hazel eyes twinkled. “But I have some last-minute things to do, so I hope you don’t mind chatting in the kitchen.”