As Alastair drove slowly around the paved, circular drive, she saw him watching her in his rearview mirror. No matter what he said, he must have felt bad at losing his ancestral home.
It was a truly beautiful house—long, low and as Spanish as if it was in Barcelona. There was a bay with round-topped windows at one side, a magnificent front door with huge iron handles and more tall windows at the far end.
Alastair stopped his car but stayed inside. Kate turned off the ignition, got out and went to him.
He rolled down the window. “I’ll leave you here. Everyone in town knows that Ms. Medlar likes her privacy. You don’t enter unless you’re invited.”
She thought how all the stories of rich old women being bamboozled by their employees involved isolation. “Thanks for telling me. And wish me luck.”
“That I do. Looks like they’re expecting you. The front door is open.”
She looked toward the entrance and saw a three-inch gap left by the open door.
“So it is.” She stepped back from his car.
“Mind if I call you tonight to see how things went?” he asked.
“Please do.”
He smiled at her in encouragement, then slowly drove back down the drive. Kate got the flowers and fruit out of her car, went to the front door, straightened her shoulders and rang the bell.
No response. She waited, did it again, waited. Still no one.
Tentatively, she pushed the door wide-open. “Hello?”
She stepped into a beautiful foyer with a triple tray ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung above a marble floor that was a swirl of cream and pale coffee. She put the flowers and fruit basket on a stone-topped table that was against the wall.
In front of her was a pretty living room with a big blue Oriental rug, double couches of light blue and two chairs in navy toile.
As she stepped forward, what struck her the strongest was the light. In every direction she looked, there were floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside were palm trees and a wide body of water. Beautiful! To her left was a hall with a skylight. To her right were closed double doors that she thought probably led to the master suite.
Was her aunt Sara in there? Possibly with a caretaker? Or maybe a nurse?
The house was silent but it didn’t feel empty. But then, with that much light, it couldn’t feel anything but part of the world.
She went toward the hallway, walking quietly. She knew she was snooping but her love of houses was an irresistible force. There was a dining room with an antique table, and chairs upholstered in a pretty print of flowers and vines.
The kitchen was big and cheerful. From the appliances and the trays full of oils and the giant spice rack, it looked like someone liked to cook.
Across from the kitchen was a glass wall that enclosed a breakfast table. The view was of a big swimming pool and a paved courtyard, plus a screened-in area.
Open to the kitchen was a large family room with a TV the size of a highway billboard. There was a huge couch with colorful pillows.
To the left was a pair of open double doors. “Is anyone here?” she asked.
When there was no answer, she went into what appeared to be a suite, possibly the one her aunt said would be Kate’s. One end of the living room was all glass and looked out to see a bit of lawn and the pretty canal. A gray-green iguana that had to be six feet long was lying under a clump of palms. Near him were four smaller bright green lizards. Two long-legged white birds—the kind she’d seen only in zoos—were pecking at the grass. They all turned to look at Kate, seeming to ask why she was in their territory. Unafraid, unmoving.
“Well, Kate,” she said aloud, “you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Down the hall, she passed two walk-in closets that flanked a bathroom tiled in shades of cream. At the end was a bedroom with a white bed with a light blue spread. The French doors at the far end had blinds on them. When she lifted one, she saw a walled courtyard. Very private. It had a brick-paved floor, and there were big flower beds full of plants that in Chicago could only be grown indoors. In the center was a fountain with a dark green sculpture of a girl dancing in the rain. It was so pretty that it took her minutes to take it all in. This courtyard was off what could possibly be her bedroom.
In the far corner was a raised flower bed filled with thick palms that had long, slender tendrils. Below it, in the shade, was a man in a T-shirt stretched out on a chaise longue. He had in earbuds and a light blanket covering his legs. His eyes were closed.
She was sure he was Jack Wyatt—and it was easy to see what people seemed to like about him. Black hair that was on the long side, black whiskers, sharp cheekbones. He did indeed look like a very handsome criminal.
Not her type at all.
When she opened the door, it made no sound, but that didn’t matter. If he hadn’t heard the doorbell over whatever he was listening to, he wouldn’t hear a door.