Page 40 of A Change of Location
“You’re on maternity leave.”
“I’m postpartum. Not terminal.”
“Frankly, I wanted to punish Owen by making him—or Nigel—break the news to you. Guess they didn’t have the balls.”
“Who in hell is our location manager now?”
“Alistair McLaren. My assistant. Owen wanted him all along. It was just a matter of time till I got shoved aside.”
“Hannah, I had no idea what you were dealing with. This sucks. Massively.”
She drew a shaky breath. “Tell me about it.” She wasn’t about to burden Liz with the complications of her immigration status, or her dwindling funds. “But I did have a nice visit with my grandmother in Wales before Martin Latimer invited me to Stanwell House for the annual spring festival. After that, I’ll be back in Boston to meet your little Lexi. And find a job.”
“Don’t rush,” Liz advised. “Wait till the dust settles at Hartcliffe Studios. Because I’m going to stir up lots of it.”
“You can’t risk losing your producing partners’ goodwill. If you get all defensive about me, that’s what will happen. It does neither of us any good.” Shifting the subject, she asked, “Are you getting enough sleep? How’s Tom coping?”
She listened politely to a fulsome and illuminating description of life with a newborn.
The call ended, and all the difficulties awaiting Hannah across the Atlantic came rolling at her with the force of a spring tide.
Liz, recovering from childbirth, had to cope with unfamiliar responsibilities as a first-time parent, and her unpredictable emotions.
If and when Chase returned to Falmouth and tried to resume his former existence, he’d face a multitude of challenges.
And unless Hannah secured a scouting job, she’d have nowhere else to go except Bear Knoll, the parental home she’d fled a decade ago, to which she returned only when absolutely necessary.
***
Responding to Martin’s texted invitation to afternoon tea, she found him in the kitchen, bracketed by Ariel and Millie, covetously eyeing a plate of scones and the wedge of cheese on his cutting board. Seated across from Poppy at the long table was an older version of the young mother Hannah had spotted in a family photograph at Latimer House. Slender, with regular but unremarkable features in a sun-burnished face, she styled her graying brown hair in a no-fuss bob.
“Hannah, meet my mother. Lady Richard Latimer, according to Debrett’s etiquette guide. And Posh magazine. She answers to Isobel.”
“How do you do, Hannah?”
“Very well, thanks.”
“I was more than a little alarmed when I heard Wendy Edney’s daughter is helping me judge the floral arrangements.”
“Is she? I mean, am I?”
“That’s the question I was going to ask you.” Martin set down a wooden plank of cheese and biscuits.
“I’ve never done it before.”
“No matter,” Isobel assured her. “We have scoring sheets. Entries are identified by numbers, not names, to prevent favoritism. The former vicar’s wife and I used to do it together. The current incumbent isn’t keen, and I doubt her husband will be.” Turning her attention to Poppy, she said, “At Easter I visited friends in Portugal. How does your father like his ex-pat life?”
“Couldn’t be happier. Was it a nice holiday?”
“Very. Bridge playing and brass band concerts—a change from boules and La Rochelle’s baroque music society. I painted watercolor landscapes, which I never manage to fit in between commissions.”
Martin explained, “Mother makes portraits. Of children.”
Poppy lifted the lid from the teapot to check the brew before filling the cups Martin had placed in front of her.
“Hannah’s joining us on the Dashers’ trial pub-to-pub run,” he announced, presenting her teacup.
“Oh.” Poppy’s tone was noncommittal.
