That Night on Thistle Lane (13 page)

Noah Kendrick appeared in the doorway. “Phoebe O’Dunn, the slug-hunter,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “Hello, Phoebe.”

She subtly breathed out in relief. “Noah—hi. I didn’t realize anyone was here. I thought Dylan and Olivia were on their way to San Diego.”

“They are. I stayed behind.”

“But you’ll be joining them?”

“Eventually,” he said.

He wore a black T-shirt over dark jeans, and as he entered the kitchen Phoebe saw he was barefoot. He didn’t make a sound, his movements smooth, controlled. She’d noticed that about him during their brief meeting yesterday. She could see him glued to a computer but at the same time she could see him—what? Doing yoga, maybe. She did yoga herself, at least sort of, and always felt more physically in control, poised, after a session.

Buster followed Noah to the white porcelain sink and plopped down at his feet.

“Buster seems to like you,” Phoebe said.

“I’m the man with the food. I think he misses Olivia. Maybe Dylan, too.”

“You’re taking care of Buster?”

He leaned back against the sink. “You seem surprised.”

No kidding. “I guess I am. Olivia didn’t mention you’d be staying.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

Phoebe wondered what had prompted it but shook off her questions. “I’m here to make pesto.” She pointed toward the mudroom and the back door out to the terrace and gardens. “With the basil. For Olivia.”

“Ah. Yes. Before it goes to seed.”

“My sister Maggie was supposed to join me but she got called away.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Help? Phoebe didn’t know why she was so flustered, then realized she had every reason to be, with a house-sitting, dog-sitting Noah Kendrick a few yards from her. He had to be used to a different lifestyle than what he’d find in Knights Bridge. He also had to be used to having more to do—or at least other things to do—than what Carriage Hill offered.

She unloaded her canvas bag. “I brought pine nuts, garlic, parmesan and olive oil. I think that’s all I need.” She didn’t want him hanging around, watching her, bored, and quickly tried to think of something he could do. “Olivia said she has a mortar and pestle. Do you think you could find them?”

“A mortar and pestle,” Noah said, his tone unreadable.

“They should be in a cupboard. You know what they are?”

“Mmm.”

He hadn’t moved but she was intensely aware of his scrutiny as she set the bottle of virgin olive oil she’d brought on the counter. “I’ve never actually made pesto but Maggie emailed me a recipe. I assume you’ve never…” She stopped herself, rephrased. “Have you ever made pesto?”

He smiled that smile again. “I haven’t.”

“It doesn’t look hard.”

Why was her heart beating so rapidly? Just because he was even richer than Dylan didn’t mean she had to get crazy. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at her, his air of self-control and calm. Those eyes. That smile. She hadn’t noticed them yesterday the way she did now, perhaps because she’d been preoccupied with getting the transcript of the conversation she’d overheard to Dylan, so that he could get it to her swashbuckler. She’d planned to ask Maggie how that had gone when they were making pesto. She hadn’t thought to ask her on the phone.

Phoebe cleared her throat. “How did your first night in Knights Bridge go?”

“Quiet,” Noah said. “Just Buster, an owl and me.”

The twitch of a smile, that spark of humor in his deep blue eyes—Phoebe felt a rush of heat that she couldn’t define or understand. She blamed Friday night. Sneaking past her sister and friends into the masquerade, dancing with a stranger and overhearing an alarming conversation from another stranger had kicked her adrenaline into high gear. Even venturing up to the hidden room in the library attic had taken a toll on her normally calm, sensible nature. If she hadn’t found that room, she realized, she’d never have gone to the masquerade.

She turned to Noah with a pleasant smile, the sort that she often used when she was at a loss at the library. “How long will you be here?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll see.”

“I don’t want to disturb you. I can pick the basil and then make the pesto back at my house.” She gestured vaguely with one hand. “I live in the village.”

“You won’t be disturbing me,” he said. “It’s not as if I have a lot to do.”

A bored high-tech billionaire. Just what she needed. “So you think pesto-making has possibilities?”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m happy to help.”

“Great,” Phoebe said, half meaning it, half not. “Why don’t you look for that mortar and pestle while I start on the basil?”

“Sounds good.”

He seemed genuinely willing to help, but Phoebe wondered how long his interest would last before he got restless. If staying behind at Carriage Hill really was a spur-of-the-moment decision, then he wouldn’t have any of his regular amusements and diversions with him. She supposed he could be working on a new business project. Something that required some quiet time to think.

She couldn’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. She didn’t even know why. Noah hadn’t made any sarcastic remarks. He hadn’t been condescending in any way toward her. He just put her on edge. She hated to think it had to do with his financial status. She wasn’t the type to judge people by their net worth.

Not that she’d met many billionaires, she thought as she made her way through Olivia’s backyard to the garden shed. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t money. It was…

“I just don’t know,” she said to herself, grabbing small clippers off a hook. Her swashbuckler Friday night and now Noah Kendrick Sunday afternoon. Maybe she was the one who was bored and restless.

She ducked out of the shed and up the path to the basil patch.

Noah and Buster wandered out to the terrace. “I found the mortar and pestle,” Noah said.

“Excellent. We’re in business.”

Given past experience, Phoebe expected Buster to barrel to her and tear into the basil, but he stretched, yawned and lay down in a shady spot by the bench.

“Good dog,” Noah said, obviously as surprised as Phoebe was. “It must be Olivia’s influence, or perhaps the heat. I haven’t had him long enough to have an influence. How’s the basil?”

“It smells wonderful.”

He stepped off the terrace into the grass. He was still barefoot. Phoebe noticed the muscles in his bare arms and, under his T-shirt, his shoulders. He was lean but clearly strong, far more fit than she’d have expected. His eyes settled on her and he smiled without saying a word, as if he knew she’d been appraising him.

With a flush that had nothing to do with the summer heat, she snipped a healthy hunk of basil and realized she hadn’t brought anything to put it in. As she considered what she could use, Noah leaned over and took the basil from her. “I’ll get a colander,” he said, then headed back to the terrace and into the kitchen.

Phoebe took a breath, hoping to calm her racing heart. Maybe she should have rescheduled the pesto-making, after all.

Noah returned with a colander. She laid more fresh-picked basil in it and thanked him. If he stayed this close to her, it was going to be a long afternoon. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “If you want to take Buster for a walk in the woods, feel free.”

“We already hiked up Carriage Hill this morning.”

Carriage Hill rose up beyond the open fields behind the house. “I see.” She snipped another basil plant and asked casually, “How was hiking in the White Mountains?”

“We went at hockey-player pace,” he said with a wry smile.

“Is that faster or slower than your pace?”

“Faster. Much faster. I prefer to savor each step up a mountain. I tend to be very deliberate about what I do.” He reached down and brushed her bare shoulder with his fingertips, then smiled as he stood straight again. “Bumblebee.”

Phoebe’s mouth had gone dry at his touch. “The bees like the catmint,” she said, nodding to the frothy purple-flowered border. “Olivia plans to move it to a less-trafficked area.”

“Bumblebees have a natural preference for purple flowers, which tend to have more nectar than flowers of other colors.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He shrugged. “I read it in an article somewhere.”

As smart as he was, she thought, he probably remembered everything he read. She tackled more basil, leaving enough for regrowth. Noah waited, then carried the overloaded colander to the terrace, Buster stirring enough to follow him inside.

Phoebe returned the clippers to the shed. After sneaking into the charity ball on Friday and dealing with Maggie’s suspicions yesterday, she’d wanted a quiet Sunday. Needed a quiet Sunday to get her bearings.

And here she was, picking basil and making pesto with Noah Kendrick.

When she returned to the kitchen, Buster was lapping water out of his bowl in the mudroom and Noah was sipping a glass of water at the table. The basil was in the sink. “I rinsed it,” he said. “I didn’t see any ants, spiders, worms or slugs. Just dirt.”

“That’s good. I’ll do a second rinse. I always do with anything fresh out of the garden. It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

He picked up his water glass. “Of course not.”

As she approached the sink, she noticed that one of the flyers Olivia had designed for the fashion show was on the table. It hadn’t been there before. It announced the show and called for donations of pre-1975 vintage clothing in good condition.

Noah tapped one finger on the flyer. “I saw this on Olivia’s bulletin board in the mudroom. A vintage fashion show at the local library. Your idea?”

Phoebe nodded. There’d been a change in him since he’d taken the colander inside. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, except that she was feeling caught, trapped—as if he knew something that she didn’t know.

She kept her tone even, professional, as she answered him. “It came together fast and the response has been tremendous.”

“And you’re holding the show at the library?”

“That’s right. It has a stage. The founder, George Sanderson, insisted the design for the library include one. He envisioned lectures and concerts.”

“Have you received many donations?”

“Far more than I anticipated. It’s been fun so far.”

Noah drank more of his water, then got to his feet in one smooth movement. “Is that where Olivia and Maggie got their dresses for the other night?” he asked as he walked over to the sink. “Did they come in with a donation?”

Phoebe plunged one hand into the cold water. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but the short answer is yes.”

“And the masks?”

“My youngest sisters made those. Ava and Ruby—”

“The theater majors.”

“That’s right.” Phoebe tried to sound casual. “So how did you enjoy the ball?”

He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms on his chest. “It was quite a night.”

Yes, it was, Phoebe thought. She hadn’t noticed Noah in the ballroom, but she’d been too caught up in avoiding Olivia and Maggie and dancing with her swashbuckler to notice much else. Then there’d been Brandon, and the man she’d overheard. She hadn’t even thought about Dylan’s best friend, although she knew they’d been hiking in the White Mountains.

Noah turned and got a stainless-steel grater out from a lower cupboard. “I can grate the parmesan,” he said.

Phoebe had the feeling his mind wasn’t on pesto but she smiled. “That’d be good, thanks.”

She laid the basil leaves on paper towels, watching him as he placed the grater and the hunk of parmesan on a wood cutting board. He glanced at her, and this time she paid close attention to the line of his jaw, the color and shape of his eyes. His smile was confident, knowing, but at the same time not at all easy to read, deliberately so, as if the man behind it guarded against letting anyone in.

She remembered her swashbuckler moving through the crowd to get to her, every movement precise, smooth, controlled.

It was all she could do not to gasp.

It’s him.

Her swashbuckler was Noah Kendrick.

If she’d been the one grating parmesan, she’d have cut herself. As it was, her hands shook. She tried to focus on blotting the basil dry but her mind was spinning. She’d danced with a billionaire. With Dylan McCaffrey’s best friend. She’d let him kiss her.

And he’d disappeared on her. Had he really meant to come back? Had he lost her? Had she left the ballroom too soon?

Does he know it was me?

Why hadn’t she recognized him sooner? His voice, his eyes, his lean build—so what if he’d shaved and wasn’t wearing a mask and cape?

She hadn’t expected that her swashbuckler would be Noah Kendrick. It was just that simple.

She blotted the basil, her heart hammering. Noah continued to grate the cheese for the pesto. It was all she could do not to think up an excuse and get out of there but she knew that would only draw more attention to her discomfort. He was a smart man. He’d figure out she’d asked him about the masquerade ball right before she unraveled.

Maggie had to know it’d been Noah in the swashbuckler costume. Why hadn’t she said so? Because I told her I didn’t want to know. No doubt Maggie had assumed Noah would never recognize her sister as his princess.

Phoebe didn’t understand the intensity of her reaction. Why not just admit she recognized him? That it was her in the Edwardian dress?

Because it hadn’t been her. Not really.

She should have just gone to the ball openly, with Maggie and Olivia. Then Noah would have known who she was. Probably he never would have danced with her—or if he had, they wouldn’t have gotten so carried away.

She glanced at him. He had a healthy mound of parmesan grated onto a cutting board. He gave no indication he thought of her as anything but the librarian friend of his best friend’s fiancée.

Of course, that was what she was.

Phoebe sighed and stood back from the sink. A slight breeze floated through the open window, calming her. Maggie would have given her note to Olivia, who would have given it to Dylan or even directly to Noah. That was why Noah had stayed behind in Knights Bridge. He wanted to figure out what the story was with this man in the coatroom. Dancing with a woman at a masquerade ball was probably par for the course for him, fun while it lasted but not particularly memorable.