Carla Neggers - Red Clover Inn

He dug out his phone and called his son in Minnesota. Fifteen and he had his own phone. Not unusual these days.

“Hey, Dad,” Andrew said. “What’s up? How was the wedding? Are you still in England?”

“Still in England. Wedding was good. Nice setting, great food, great people.”

“Did you dance?”

Greg heard the teasing note in his son’s voice. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that. Did you dance by yourself or with someone?”

“I don’t dance by myself. What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Whenever I said I wasn’t up to anything as a kid, my mother handed me a broom.”

His son chuckled. “Good thing you’re in England, then.”

“What’s your sister up to?”

“Nothing much.”

“I bet your mom has two brooms.”

“She’s not here. She’s at a movie with...” Andrew stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”

“With Richard,” Greg said. “I know. I texted her earlier. I hope they’re having a good time. Listen, I’m on my way to Washington via New England. What if you and Megan join me for a few days? It’s okay with your mom. I have some time off before I start my new job. New England would be different. I’ll be staying at a small-town inn that’s being renovated.”

“I’ve never been to New England,” Andrew said.

“We’d have the place to ourselves. You and Megan can each have your own room.”

“Sounds cool. What’s there to do there?”

“Beats me.”

His son laughed. “Good thing you’re not a salesman, Dad.”

“I was there for a few days in the winter. It’s a pretty town. We can hike, go fishing—swim if you’re brave since it’s only June and the ice just melted.”

“Ha. This the town where Ambassador Scarlatti lives?”

“Yes, it is.”

Greg was impressed his son remembered the retired ambassador, a smart, interesting if also occasionally overdramatic man who owned a house on the same Knights Bridge lake where Brody Hancock had grown up. Vic had encouraged Brody to join the Diplomatic Security Service. They were the reason for Greg’s wintry visit to the small New England town.

“Ambassador Scarlatti lives on a lake, doesn’t he?” Andrew asked.

“Echo Lake,” Greg said.

“He’d let us go swimming and kayaking?”

“Probably. Brody owns the land where he grew up. We can go out there, too.”

“This is sounding better and better,” his son said.

“I can teach you how to fly-fish.”

“Do you know how to fly-fish?”

“Yeah. You bet.” He had no idea how to fly-fish, but how hard could it be? “We could ride bikes, too. This inn must have bikes, or we can borrow some. I know people in town.”

“That’d be good,” Andrew said, sounding more enthusiastic.

Greg didn’t mention he hadn’t been on a bike in years. They chatted a few more minutes. Megan was out with friends, so Greg postponed calling her. She had her own phone, too. Laura had been amenable to them flying to Boston. He’d pick them up at the airport and they’d hang out together for a few days. Going to Minnesota himself was less and less an option. Laura needed space, and he didn’t live with her anymore. The kids were old enough to come to him or he could pick them up at home and take them somewhere. No staying on the sleeper sofa. He and Laura weren’t going to have that kind of postdivorce arrangement.

“Okay,” Greg said. “Let’s make Knights Bridge happen.”

“Knights Bridge?”

“That’s the town where we’ll be staying. It’s west of Boston. Look it up. It’s small but it’s got to be on the map.” He paused. “I think.”

“Great, Dad.”

Greg heard the sarcasm in his son’s voice and grinned. “I’ll get back to you with details.”

When he disconnected, Greg felt both a sense of satisfaction and a sense of loss. He wished Andrew and Megan were with him now, in the quiet English countryside. He was accustomed to being apart from his kids but that didn’t mean it was easy. In some ways, they were better at dealing with his absences than he was. It was the life they knew.

He crossed the stream and continued on the dirt trail through the woods to a grassy field and finally onto a paved lane. Enjoying the quiet, the mystery of where he’d end up since he hadn’t consulted a map, he followed the lane toward the village, past fenced fields dotted with sheep and a large stone farmhouse. Dusk came late this time of year. He wasn’t concerned about getting caught in the dark too far out in the countryside.

Charlotte would be on her train by now. It would take five or six hours to get to Edinburgh. Greg supposed he could have told her about his plan to head to Knights Bridge. Maybe he should have told her, considering what he’d learned about her plans, but she’d been preoccupied with her encounter with swaggering Tommy and in a hurry to get out of there.

A rationalization for his silence, maybe, but why get her worked up? Let her get home and figure out if she wanted to change her mind about Knights Bridge. Why influence her decision?

And if she did change her mind?

Greg tried to ignore the tug of regret he felt. He was looking forward to staying with her at the abandoned inn in the same little New England town. From what he’d gathered, there was plenty of room.

“Could be fun,” he said half-aloud as the lane curved into the quaint, pretty village.

He hopped onto a low stone wall and admired the view of rolling farmland and traditional Cotswolds yellow-stone houses, breathed in the fragrant June air. He thought he smelled rain. He didn’t mind. He welcomed the prospect of rain after months in a hot, dry climate.

When he reached the pub, it was filling up with locals. Greg could have gone back to London with Brody and Heather, but he was content to sit at the bar and order a beer.

Ian Mabry drew the pint himself. “You don’t look as tired as you did last night,” the former RAF pilot said.

“Not saying much. How’s life after the military?”

“It’s grand. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams and I’m back home, here, running this place. I was ready to move on to something else.” He set the beer in front of Greg. “You’re a Foreign Service officer, aren’t you? Diplomatic Security?”

Greg nodded. “Just wrapped up an overseas assignment. I’m taking a desk in DC next.”

“Not enthusiastic?”

“I never saw it coming.”

Mabry grinned. “A promotion, then?”

Greg raised his beer. “You got it.”

“From what I hear, you’ve done everything as a DS agent. You know the ropes. You have credibility.” Ian Mabry looked as if he’d considered similar options in his day as an RAF pilot. “A promotion was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what they say.”

“You believe you can do more good staying in the field.”

“It’s what I know.”

“You’ll bring that experience to your new job.”

“Does your background as a fighter pilot help with running a pub?”

“You’ve no idea,” Mabry said with a laugh.

Greg tried his pint, savoring the first swallow after his walk. Mabry’s upcoming marriage no doubt was making his transition from active duty to civilian life easier. Greg didn’t have family in Washington. A handful of DSS colleagues he considered friends and a few he planned to avoid or tolerate. He’d never been good playing bureaucratic games but it wasn’t that kind of desk job.

“It’s a promotion, pal,” he muttered. “Be happy.”

He finished his beer, realized he wasn’t hungry after all the wedding food and headed up to his room. As he shut the door, he heard raindrops slapping his window and then a rush of rain. He walked over to the window and opened it, welcoming the smell of the rain and the cool breeze. Rain sprayed him in the face. He smiled.