“Ouch,” said Brodie. “I might be inclined to take that personally, Pascal, if I didn’t know how fond the French are of generalizing about the British. But if I were you, I’d be careful of repeating those opinions to our host, when you’ve just enjoyed his cooking.”
This time it was Benoit who colored. “There are always exceptions, are there not? Perhaps Mr. Innes is a Frenchman at heart.”
“That might be taking things a wee bit too far,” said John Innes, who had come in silently, a tray on his arm.
The rich smell of chocolate filled the room. “Although the French and the Scots have a long and mostly harmonious association, you’ll not find a Highlander gives up his identity so easily.” He smiled cheerfully at them and nodded towards the hall. “If you’d care to have your dessert in the parlor, Louise and I will join you. I thought we might discuss a few things before tomorrow’s class.”
Gemma rose as the murmur of assent went round the table, glad enough to quit the dining room’s claustropho-bic atmosphere. She caught up to Hazel at the door, meaning to whisper a private word in her ear, but found Donald Brodie’s large form suddenly insinuated between them. He smelled faintly of cologne, wine, and warm wool; and just for an instant as they moved into the hall, Gemma saw him place his hand on Hazel’s shoulder.
Duncan Kincaid squeezed himself through the crowd coming off the train at Notting Hill tube station and ran lightly up the stairs. Reaching the shop level, he came to an automatic halt in front of the flower stall, eyeing the multicolored masses of tulips. Often on a Friday, he stopped on the way home to buy Gemma flowers, and these were her favorites.
But Gemma was away for the entire weekend, he reminded himself, going on. He and the boys would have the house to themselves—a good opportunity for male bonding, Gemma had told him teasingly. And he meant to make the most of it; a video with Kit that evening, football in the park tomorrow, and on Sunday, Toby’s favorite outing, a trip to the zoo. The weather promised to be fine, and he had left his paperwork at the office with his sergeant, Doug Cullen.
All in all, not a bad prospect, he thought as he exited the tube station into the street, but that didn’t stop him
from feeling a pang as he passed the Calzone’s at the junction of Pembridge and Kensington Park Roads. It was Gemma’s favorite place in the neighborhood for a relaxed dinner, on the few occasions they managed to get out without the children.
He walked along Ladbroke Road, enjoying the soft May evening, and the sense of suppressed excitement that always seemed to hum in the London air before the weekend. The trees were in full leaf, the pale emerald of spring now deepening to the richer green of early summer, but a few late tulips still graced flower boxes and tiny front gardens.
As he passed Notting Hill Police Station, where Gemma was now posted, he thought about how difficult it had been to adjust to working without her. Of course, the change had allowed them to live together, which had deepened their relationship in many ways, but he’d also found that cohabitation did not provide quite the same sense of challenge and unity as working a case together.
Well, he told himself, life was full of change and compensations, and given a choice, he wouldn’t trade the present state of affairs for the former. Shaking off the small shadow of discontent, he turned into St. John’s Gardens and quickened his pace towards home.
The evening sun lit the house, picking out the contrast of white trim against dark brick, illuminating the welcoming cherry red of the door. He retrieved the post from the letter box and let himself in, stopping for a moment in the hall to identify the unusual odors wafting from the kitchen. Caribbean spices—Wesley was still there, and cooking, by the smell of it.
The case Kincaid and Gemma had worked the previous winter had brought them personal loss, but it had also introduced Wesley Howard into their lives. The young man,
a university student with a passion for photography, sup-plemented his income by working at a neighborhood café, and in the past few months he had also become an unconventional and unofficial part-time nanny to the children.
The click of toenails on tile flooring heralded the arrival of Geordie, their cocker spaniel—or rather, Kincaid amended to himself, Gemma’s cocker spaniel. Although the dog had been Gemma’s Christmas gift to Kincaid and the boys, it was Gemma whom Geordie adored.
“Hullo, boy,” Kincaid said, stooping to stroke Geordie’s silky, blue-gray head. The dog’s stump of a tail was wagging enthusiastically, but his dark eyes seemed to hold a look of reproach. “Missing your mum, already, are you?” Giving Geordie a last pat, he straightened and went into the kitchen.
Wesley stood at the cooker, a tea towel wrapped round his waist as a makeshift apron, his dark skin glistening from the heat of the pan. “You’re early, mon,” he greeted Kincaid. “Thought they’d keep you at the nick on a Friday night.”
Kincaid stopped to tousle Toby’s fine, fair hair. The small boy sat at the kitchen table, drawing with crayons, his feet wrapped round the chair legs and the tip of his tongue protruding as he concentrated. “Skived off,” Kincaid said to Wesley with a smile. “That smells brilliant.
Chicken, is it?” As if he had understood him, Sid, the cat, got up from his basket with a languid feline stretch and came to rub against his ankles.
“Jerk chicken, with some herbed rice.” Wesley gave Sid a warning look. “Would’ve had cat steak, if he’d got any further with the chicken wrapper.”
“Jerky chicken.” Toby giggled. “Look,” he added, pointing to his paper. “I’m drawing Mummy on the train.”
Absently, Kincaid deposited the mail on the table as he studied Toby’s artwork. The cars were black oblongs with round wheels and large, square windows; from one of the windows a stick figure with red, curling hair waved out at him. “I see Mummy,” he agreed, “but where’s Auntie Hazel? She’ll be cross with you if you don’t put her in.”
As Toby bent to his page again, Kincaid went to the cooker and peered over Wesley’s shoulder at the sizzling strips of chicken, sniffing appreciatively, then the kitchen clock caught his eye. “Shouldn’t you be at Otto’s?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to keep you this late. And where’s Kit?” His son was usually to be found beside Wes in the kitchen, a hand in everything.
“I gave Otto a ring; he be fine without me. Café’s slow tonight. And Kit, he came home and went straight up to his room. Not like him.” Wesley’s dreadlocks bounced as he shook his head. “I didn’t like to leave. Thought maybe he missin’ Gemma already.”
“I’ll go have a word,” Kincaid said easily, but he felt the stab of concern that dogged him now whenever he thought something might be wrong with one of the children.
Glancing in the dining and sitting rooms as he passed, he thought they looked unnaturally neat; books and toys put away in baskets, sofa cushions fluffed, the keys of Gemma’s piano covered. All a result of Gemma’s tidying that morning, he supposed, as if she were going away for a month instead of a few days.
He climbed the wide staircase, one hand brushing the banister, and knocked at the half-open door of the boys’
bedroom. Across the hall, the room they’d meant to use as a nursery stood empty, but Kit had declined the offer of it, insisting he preferred to keep sharing with Toby.
His son lay curled on his narrow bed, a book in his hand, his small dog, Tess, nestled against him. As Kincaid entered, Kit sat up and let the book fall closed. The terrier lifted her head expectantly off her paws.
“What are you reading?” Kincaid asked, sitting down beside them. Experience had taught him to avoid the usual parental gambit— How was school today? did not elicit voluble replies, especially from Kit, who tended towards reticence at the best of times.