flung affairs, alighting less and less often on English soil, Hazel had taken her friend home with her on holidays.
Home to Newcastle, to the dark and formal suburban house that seemed less a home than boarding school, to parents as gray as Newcastle skies. Shadow people, Louise had thought them, transplants that had not taken root in alien soil.
The girls had remained friends past school-leaving, Hazel studying psychology at university, Louise working at an insurance company. Then one day Hazel had rung, inviting Louise to come with her to Scotland, just as she must have rung this new friend, Gemma. But Louise had had to wait until her August holiday, and by then, Hazel had met Donald Brodie.
In spite of the fact that the two of them were so obviously a couple, Donald had extended the umbrella of his charm over Louise as well, and the three of them had become inseparable.
When Louise’s holiday finished, she had resigned her job in London by post. She and Hazel worked together catering for shooting parties, and when business dwin-dled with the end of the season, the girls had found jobs in an estate tea shop. It had seemed as if they might go on forever, the three of them.
And then Donald had asked Hazel to marry him, and within a day, Hazel had vanished from their lives.
Heather Urquhart had made an excuse of needing a change of clothing, forcing Donald to take Pascal and Martin back to the Inneses’ in his Land Rover, along with Gemma James. Gemma had had quite enough tête-
à-tête with Donald already, in Heather’s opinion, back at Benvulin.
Not that she was protecting Donald’s pursuit of her
cousin, Hazel, by any means—it was his courting Gemma round the distillery that got up Heather’s nose.
Crossing the wide expanse of the Spey at Boat of Garten, she soon reached her bungalow. She pushed the automatic opener that caused the heavy wooden gates to swing open, then closed them again as she stopped the car in the drive. Thick hedges of arborvitae surrounded the front of the house, and in back the garden ran down to a small, reedy loch. The house, a snug structure of white stucco with natural wood trim and a deep, overhanging tile roof, was her refuge.
Her job was demanding, requiring constant interaction with both the distillery staff and the public. When she entertained professionally she used the distillery premises, or local restaurants; in her private dalliances, she saw only men who were willing to share their beds. She seldom invited anyone to her home, male or female.
Turning her key in the lock, she felt the usual rush of pleasure as she stepped into the house. A tiled entrance led to an open-plan kitchen and a sitting room, fitted and upholstered in white. The contemporary furnishings were unmarred by paintings or knickknacks. A few large potted plants drew the eye to the glass wall at the back of the sitting room that framed the view of garden and loch.
Heather went straight to the kitchen and put the kettle on. After the rich lunch and the whisky at Benvulin, a cup of tea would clear her head. She needed to think.
How odd it had felt to see Hazel again. It had been what—ten years? Since her aunt’s funeral in Newcastle, that had been the last time. Hazel had come with her newly acquired husband, Tim Cavendish, and he’d served as an effective buffer between the cousins.
The kettle clicked off at the boil, and after brewing a
cup of green tea, Heather took it into the sitting room.
She sank into her favorite chair and curled her legs beneath her, gazing out at the loch as she tried to recall Tim Cavendish’s face. He’d been a bit quiet and studious-looking, a far cry from Donald Brodie’s large exuber-ance, as if Hazel had been deliberately going against type. But if Hazel had been so determined to erase Donald Brodie from her life, why had she come back after all these years?
Of course, Heather could understand Donald’s allure—she’d not been entirely immune—but she’d been too fiercely ambitious to allow herself to fall in love with him.
The real question Heather had to consider, however, was what Hazel’s return meant to Benvulin. If Hazel decided to stay, could she be won over to Heather’s view of the distillery’s future? Benvulin was still a limited company, with Donald holding the majority of shares, but if Heather could convince him to sell to Pascal’s French group, it would give her more control. Should she try to win Hazel over, make an ally of her?
No. She set her cup down with a thump. She’d worked too hard for this to depend on anyone else, and the last thing she wanted was to be beholden to her cousin. It would be much better for everyone concerned if Hazel could be convinced to go back to London, and Heather was prepared to make that happen—whatever it took.
Donald decanted his passengers in Innesfree’s graveled drive with less ceremony than he’d have accorded a halfway decent bottle of wine, Gemma felt sure.
“I’ve some things to attend to at the distillery,” he called through his open window. “There’s only a skeleton crew on the weekend. But I will be back for drinks, and
to taste the fruit of our efforts,” he added with a salute as he pulled away.
And did he consider Hazel one of the fruits of his efforts? wondered Gemma. A just dessert?
Martin and Pascal set off immediately for the house, Martin a little groggily, as if he hadn’t quite recovered from his whisky-induced nap, Pascal with the firm step of a man with a purpose.
Gemma, however, stood a moment longer, surveying the house and garden in the flat light of midafternoon. It was the merciless time of day, when blemishes stood out from the hazy camouflage of morning and evening—a pile of timber against one side of the barn, proof of unfinished construction; a half dozen clumps of dandelion rising above the smooth surface of the lawn; a patch of crumbling harl above the scullery door. She found it comforting somehow, this evidence of ordinariness amid the B&B’s manufactured perfection.
Real life was waiting at home, for her and for Hazel.
She took a deep breath and headed for the barn, determined to pin Hazel down this time, to make her see reason.
But when she entered their room, it was empty. Both beds were neatly made, the duvets puffy. Hazel’s overnight case was closed, her few toiletries on the dressing table neatly arranged. Only a used and rinsed teacup betrayed the room’s recent habitation.
At least Hazel wasn’t with Donald; Gemma could be assured of that much. She would look for her in the house. But first, she took her phone from her handbag and punched in her home number. Suddenly too anxious to sit, she paced as it rang, sounding tinnily distant.
Where were they? Thinking of Duncan and the boys in the park, or perhaps at Otto’s for afternoon tea, she felt a stab of longing, and beneath that, a nebulous worry.
Why had Duncan been on the phone so late last night?
And why had he not answered his mobile? Had there been an emergency at the Yard, and all their plans for him to spend the weekend with the boys gone for naught?
Or had something else happened? But, in that case, surely Duncan would have rung her, she reassured herself. Still, a nagging instinct told her that something was wrong. She should have kept trying last night; she should have rung again first thing this morning.
She should never have left them.
Gemma let herself into the house by the front door, closing it gently behind her. The hall smelled of flowers and furniture polish, but the house was quiet, as if still deep in afternoon slumber.
Peeking into the sitting room, she found it empty as well. The fire was laid but cold, the cushions restored to plumpness after last night’s lounging. The room might have been a stage set, waiting for the action to begin.