Once inside, she stood, shivering with more than cold. She could hear her blood pounding in her ears, feel her heart thudding against the wall of her chest as if she’d been running a marathon.
Light filtered in through the partially opened blinds, and a lamp had been left burning on the credenza against the back wall of the reception area. The space felt ominously still, and smelled faintly of men’s aftershave and leather furniture. How odd that she’d never noticed the scent before—had Piers’s presence become stronger in her absence?
She told herself not to be silly—she’d been in the office alone countless times and nothing was different. Taking a steadying breath, she reached back and locked the door. No sense in inviting someone to wander in unexpectedly.
It suddenly occurred to Juliet that she was breaking the law.
What would her brother think of that? The idea made her smile, and she felt suddenly better.
After considering for a moment, she went to what had been her desk and rooted in the drawer for a paper clip. Piers and Caspar had been doing without a secretary since she’d left—she doubted Piers meant to tempt discovery twice—and the neglect was obvious in the desk’s cluttered interior. She found what she wanted eventually, however, and straightened out the silver wire, smoothing it with her fingertips.
She’d begun to feel an unexpected excitement, an exhilarating pulse in her veins, dimly recalled from childhood when she and Duncan had embarked on some sort of mischief.
Caspar’s office was to the right, Piers’s to the left. Juliet turned left without the least hesitation.
“She’s lovely, your boat,” Kincaid called to the blond woman as he nodded at the long, graceful lines of the Lost Horizon. “You must have read James Hilton.”
For an instant, her face held the wariness he’d glimpsed the night before. But as she studied them, something in her features softened and she said, “Yes. Although it was years ago. But I always liked the idea of Shangri-La.”
“Weren’t you in church last night?” asked Kit, surprising Kincaid, who hadn’t realized anyone else in the family had noticed this rather odd but striking woman. It was unlike Kit to speak up so quickly to a stranger.
“At St. Mary’s? Yes, I was.” The woman glanced at Kincaid and inclined her head almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging their brief rapport. “It was a lovely service. But you’re accustomed to it, I’m sure.” There was something in her tone that Kincaid couldn’t quite pin down—envy, perhaps?
“We’re just visiting for the holidays,” he told her. “But I grew up here. Not much has changed.”
She had left the double cabin doors ajar, and Kincaid became aware that Kit was leaning to one side, trying to peer inside the boat.
As he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, preparing to move him on before they infringed on the woman’s privacy any further, Kit said,
“Do you live on your boat, then?” His face was alight with interest.
“Kit, that’s really none of our business,” Kincaid said hurriedly.
He gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze, turning him back towards the towpath, and felt the reassuring solidity of muscle and bone beneath s
the padded anorak. To the woman, he added, “Sorry. We’d better be off—”
“No, it’s all right.” She smiled, erasing some of the lines in her face, and seemed to reach a decision. “Yes, I do live aboard. Would you like to see the boat? My name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Lebow.”
Kincaid introduced himself and Kit, adding, “Are you certain? If it’s an imposition—”
“No, really, it’s all right. It’s nice of you to ask. Sometimes it’s a bit like living in a fishbowl. People peer in your windows from the towpath without so much as a by-your- leave. Have you ever been on a narrowboat before?” she asked Kit.
“No, but I’ve seen them. The Grand Union Canal runs right behind the supermarket where we shop at home. In London,” he added, flushing a little at her attention. “Notting Hill. The supermarket’s across the canal from Kensal Green Cemetery.”
“Oh, yes.” Annie Lebow nodded in recognition. “The Paddington Branch. A nice mooring spot. I stayed there for a few weeks once.”
“On this boat? You took this boat all the way to London?”
“We’ve covered a good part of England, the Horizon and I. I can show you a map of the waterways, if you’re interested. Come aboard and I’ll make us a cup of tea when you’ve had a look about.”
Kincaid let Kit climb aboard first, noticing the length of the boy’s legs as he stepped up from the towpath and jumped easily into the well deck. When had he grown so tall?
“. . . the hull is steel, of course,” Annie was saying. “Wooden boats haven’t been built since shortly after the war. The Horizon is fifty-eight feet long, rather than seventy, but like most narrowboats is only seven feet wide. The traditional boats were usually seventy feet in length, but there are locks on the system that won’t take a boat longer than fifty-eight feet, so a seventy- footer can limit your cruising.”
As she spoke, she led them through the doors and down two steps into the main cabin. Kincaid ducked automatically, his head just
avoiding the low ceiling, then gaped. He was as enchanted as Kit.
The boat’s interior was paneled entirely in lustrous wood the color of pale honey, and illuminated by recessed lighting set into the ceiling.
A stove was tucked into one corner of the cabin on a tiled platform, while the living area held a small cream-colored leather sofa and matching armchair positioned on a colorful handwoven rug. Book-shelves and storage cupboards had been built into every available nook, and the bits of free space on the walls held china plates with laceware rims. Interspersed about the shelves were a few pieces of traditionally painted canalware, the bright rose patterns of a dipper and water can fitting surprisingly well with the contemporary furnishings.
Beyond the sitting area, a dining table extended from one wall, flanked by two banquettes. The far seat backed up to the galley.
And what a galley! It was state-of-the-art, down to the curved granite worktops and oval stainless-steel sink. Kincaid whistled in admiration, thinking of the money required for fittings of this caliber, while Kit muttered “Wow” under his breath. “It’s bigger inside than it looks from the outside,” he added, still sounding awed.
“A bit like Alice in Wonderland, isn’t it?” Annie nodded towards the bow. “She only has a foot of draw, but that space beneath the waterline does make a difference. “Go on, see the rest while I put the kettle on.”
As they slipped past her in the galley, Kincaid noticed a book on the work top. It was an old but well- preserved copy of Narrow Boat by Tom Rolt, a volume he remembered seeing in his father’s shop.
The bathroom was as elegant as the lounge and galley, even equipped with a small bath, and the bedroom held what looked to be a full-size bed covered with a crushed-velvet counterpane in dusty mauve.
It seemed a surprisingly feminine touch for the woman they had met, and roused Kincaid’s curiosity. Her nightstand held a few contemporary novels and a much- thumbed copy of another canal book, The Water Road by Paul Gogarty, a well- known travel writer. Kincaid had to resist the temptation to lift the book and flip through it himself.
Beyond the stateroom they found a neatly fitted engine and work-room, and the hatch to the stern deck. All in all, it was a very tidily laid out and maintained setup. It made Kincaid think of Gemma’s old flat in her friend Hazel Cavendish’s garage, and he could imagine the boat’s appeal. If, of course, one were resolute in resisting the accumulation of things, and solitary by nature. There was no obvious provision for guests, although he suspected the dining banquettes converted into a bed.