Page 4 of A Change of Location
Next door, at the florist’s, Hannah could converse more confidently with the proprietor than she had when purchasing cheese and wine. She admired fresh-cut parrot tulips and inspected the potted flowers—cheerful yellow primroses and fragrant pastel hyacinths.
The display of gardening books, all available in the adjacent shop—according to a hand-lettered card—featured Wendy Edney’s popular horticulture titles. Each of them, Hannah was aware, had been lovingly dedicated to her daughter and husband.
Rewarding herself for the satisfactory completion of her daily assignments, she purchased a handful of overpriced Tête à Tête jonquils.
“He must like you a lot,” commented the rumpled, red-faced American man who followed her into the hotel lift.
It was an opportunity to prove her feminist cred and explain that she’d bought them for herself. But conversations between hotel floors were brief at best and awkward at worst, so she smiled and shrugged and lifted the golden flower heads to her nose. She inhaled their distinctive fragrance, and was instantly transported to a springtime garden near the coast of Maine.
Chapter 2
Entering her dim and silent suite, she tossed her bag onto the sofa. She parted the heavy curtains at each window, blinking at the sudden blaze of light. After zipping from Mayfair to Soho to Latimer Row to the Savoy, then again to the Row, and from there to here, she wanted to sit down, put her feet up, and chill. Later she’d deal with unanswered texts and unread messages and a cascade of emails she hadn’t had time to review. Using the landline, she pressed the room service button and requested a bucket of ice and a bottle of Sancerre. Her order was fulfilled with the promptness to which she’d grown accustomed.
She had a sitting room that extended into a small dining room, and a large bedroom, all decorated in a restrained Art Deco style. The marble-tiled bathroom contained a large shower enclosure and an enormous tub. Her opulent surroundings were a delightful but jarring contrast with last week’s cramped budget motel, with its clattering air conditioning unit and thin towels. Traversing London by taxicab and tube couldn’t obliterate fresh memories of steering a rented SUV along a rain-soaked dirt road. Instead of today’s business casual outfit and heels, she’d worn faded jeans and a loose Mexican cotton shirt.
In Texas the pace of her days had been far less hectic. The gregarious folks she met there had been talkative, yes, but endlessly, eagerly hospitable throughout her location scouting assignment. Despite the grim plot and somber tone of the television movie, the locals were endearingly thrilled by the prospect of someday seeing their tiny crossroads town on the small screen. Her guide had practically adopted her, inviting her to a church potluck where she enjoyed the finest meal of her trip, and every day since their parting had sent a chatty email. Embedded in the latest was her photo of Hannah sporting a ten-gallon hat while straddling a split-rail fence, with grazing longhorn cattle in the background.
Chase will get a kick out of that one, she thought. I should send it to him now.
With a couple of clicks, her brief message and the attachment were on their way.
Before her departure from the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, she’d emailed his workplace, attaching her picture of an armadillo—for a Mainer, nearly as exotic as the alligator she’d photographed a few months ago near Savannah. She wasn’t likely to come across such bizarre subjects during her many months here in England.
Over the past ten years, her uncle had been recipient of any and all details of her life and work that she thought might amuse or interest him. During his incarceration, she’d regularly sent written letters and printed photos. As a college student and during her yearlong study in Bristol, she’d reported on her theatre productions and student films. Since graduation, she’d kept him informed about the film locations she scouted and movie and television stars who unintentionally strayed into her path. She regularly updated him on significant events in her personal life, such as her dramatic New Year’s Eve breakup with the man she’d dated longer than she should have.
Four months without kisses, she thought bleakly, stepping out of her high heels. And everything else decent kissing led to.
Rising from the sofa, she shed her long-waisted black jacket and removed the little black dress and wrapped herself in the oversized complimentary bathrobe.
Anticipating a lengthy and soothing soak, she turned on the taps and made her way to the sitting room for her cell phone. She ought to provide Liz with a brief update.
Returning to the bathroom to check the water level, she blurted, “This tub is filling fast. It has jets! And I’m drinking wine.”
“I hate you,” Liz retorted. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
Before she placed her phone on the vanity, she felt its vibration against her palm as Big Ben clanged. She didn’t recognize the number on the display. “Hannah Ballard,” she answered. Cautiously she dipped her toes in to test the temperature before easing the rest of her body into liquid warmth.
“Martin Latimer, of Wincott & Sons,” said an English-accented male voice. “You visited the shop this afternoon. Twice.”
She inserted one leg into the water, then the other, trying not to splash. Before the rising steam choked her, she managed to say, “Lord of the Cheese?”
After a quiet moment he said, “In a manner of speaking. Did India tell you?”
“Yes, if she’s a blonde kid in apron and straw hat. I assumed you were Great-Grandson of Wincott.” Her low laugh sounded excessively and unintentionally seductive. She blamed the Sancerre.
“Dead for centuries. No relation. I was born a Latimer.”
“Lord of Latimer Row.” Aware that she was naked as well as almost tipsy, she switched to an assertive, businesslike tone. “I hope there’s no problem with my order.”
“Consider this confirmation of your delivery tomorrow. Very likely by your humble servant.”
“Oh. In that case, I wonder whether you could—” Did she dare?
“If you’re adding more guests, I need to find something to write with.”
With alcohol speeding through her bloodstream and hot water melting her inhibitions, she dared. “Are you able to attend the party? Not just for the delivery, but as my guest. I’ve put out a distress call to every male I know in London. Neither of them responded. When I think of all those women showing up in my suite...”
He laughed, loudly and long. “Delighted to assist, Madam. My only plan for tomorrow afternoon was checking the ripeness of all the cheese stored in the Wincott vault.”
