Chapter Forty

ANGELICA HUFFED IMPATIENTLY, tossed her phone onto the dresser by the door. Bill wasn’t answering. By the time she got to the porch, the man she’d seen through her bedroom window had pulled his truck into the lot and stepped out. He was standing by the garage now, looking up at the house appreciatively, his hands on his hips. He was a muscular fellow. A little older than her. Maybe in his early sixties. Sandy blond hair and stubble. Angelica went to the porch steps, squinted into the still evening ringing with the early music of crickets and the churn of the nearby waves. She could barely read the lettering on the side of the truck without her glasses. DRIVER CONSTRUCTION SERVICES.

His big dusty boots were crunching on the gravel as she waved him over.

“Good evening.” She put a hand out with what she hoped was the reluctantly dutiful air of a responsible tenant and not the dreaded accountability of an actual landlord. “My name is Angelica Grace Thomas-Lowell. Vegan. Activist. Bestselling author. I’m a resident here at the Inn by the Sea or Le Chateau au bord de la Mer, whichever you prefer. May I assume I’m greeting a potential guest of this humble auberge?”

“This what?” The man tipped back his faded cap to get a better view of her.

“This inn. Guesthouse. Hostel. Bed and—if you’re foolhardy—breakfast.”

“Sure,” the man said. He smiled and took her hand. His palm, like his handshake, was unpleasantly firm. “I’m Norman Driver. Is the owner home?”

“It’s just me at present,” Angelica said with a rueful flourish.

“But Bill Robinson owns this place?”

“Yes.”

“So where is he?”

“I believe he went to Boston on some errand,” Angelica said. “Please. Come in. I’m sure I can be of some service. I know there’s one room available.”

He followed her into the house. It was just as the door was closing behind him that Angelica got her first electric pulse of warning, a kind of biological strumming of the taut wires connecting her sensors with potential threats. She shooed the feeling away, telling herself it was a regretful harking from that corner of her brain that still housed redundant patriarchal hangups about unfamiliar manly men and frail damsels being left alone together. She led Driver into the small foyer and stopped by the guest book to resume her obligation as h?telier du jour.

“I present our establishment for your perusal,” she said. “Would you like a tour first? Or shall I tell you our rates and conditions? How many nights were you intending to stay?”

Angelica paused while she took him in. Driver’s countenance strummed that wire in her again. Later, when she thought over his behavior that night, she would realize what it was—his eyes. Most guests looked over the establishment when they walked in. Noted the furnishings. Gave the atmosphere a subtle sniff. Leaned and looked down the hall. This man displayed no curiosity about the house whatsoever. His eyes were locked on Angelica.

“Sure,” he said, his eyes unmoving. “A tour would be nice.”

“All right. I’ll, uh…” Angelica shook herself, trying to recapture her resolve. “I’ll start with your room.”

“How about we start with your room,” he said.