Page 95 of Road Trip
NO TRESPASSINGsigns were tacked to trees at the beginning and halfway up the path, which led up a sharp hill, leaving her winded.
Finally, she crested the hill and spotted the gardener’s cottage that was home to the last of the Rossingtons. Hardly a cottage to Therese’s way of thinking. It was two stories, built of the same native gray stone as Tarrymore and the other outbuildings on the estate, and the façade was covered in ivy that obscured most of the windows.
Unlike the manor house, with its sweeping vistas, terraced orchards, flower beds, and splendid marble fountains and statuary, the cottage was hidden behind wildly overgrown shrubbery that hadn’t been maintained in decades.
A porte cochere on the north side of the cottage sheltered an aged silver Jaguar, but Esme’s new-looking pickup truck was parked close to the entry to the house.
“Looks like somebody’s home,” Therese muttered. As she got closer, she noticed that all four of the Jaguar’s tires were deflated, and the windshield and windows caked with what looked like decades of grime. The pickup truck’s tailgate was down, and the driver’s side door was ajar.
Suddenly, the front door of the cottage opened and she was greeted with a chorus of friendly barks as Esme’s cocker spaniel ran toward her, tail wagging furiously.
Now the dog was running circles around and around her and jumping up on her ankles.
She scooped the dog up and scratched its floppy ears. “Hello, Sinead. Hey sweet girl. I’m glad to see you, too.” The dog covered her face in slobbery kisses.
“I’m not.”
Therese looked up. Esme Rossington’s voice was loud and diamond sharp. She approached slowly, her right leg dragging just a bit.
“Put my dog down and go away immediately,” she said.
Esme stood five feet away, hands clenched on her hips. She was dressed in men’s denim overalls, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and mud-spattered boots without laces. A tweed newsboy’s cap was pulled down over her eyes.
“But I brought you a delivery,” Therese said, flashing her most engaging smile and holding up a large white paper sack, which Sinead was already pawing at and sniffing.
“I didn’t order anything,” Esme said. “And you’re trespassing.” She yanked a thumb in the direction of the pickup truck. “You should know that I have a loaded rifle in my vehicle. And I’m an excellent shot.”
Therese set the cocker down on the ground, but she continued to whine and paw at the leg of Therese’s jeans.
“No need to fire shots,” she said, trying again. “I come in peace, bearing gifts.”
She extended the bag. “The manager at the bakery in the village said the apple tarts are your favorite. Maeve and I loved yourbutterscotch-rum candies so much we bought some to take home—and some to bring to you. And there’s a nice juicy marrow bone from the butcher shop for Sinead, too.”
Still unsmiling, Esme snatched the paper sack from Therese’s outstretched hand. “There now. I hope you weren’t expecting a tip.”
“Expecting nothing,” Therese said. “But the tart’s still warm from the oven. You should take a taste before it cools down.”
“Fine.” Esme reached into the bag and brought out a tart. She bit into it, sending a trickle of apple filling oozing out. She closed her eyes and chewed, her facial expression relaxing into something approximating a smile.
A moment later her eyes were open and glaring at Therese. “Why are you here? Haven’t I already made it clear that I’m not interested in idle chatter with strangers who violate my privacy?”
“But we’re actually not strangers. We’re family, you, me, and of course, Sinead.”
“Not possible.” Esme crumpled the bag with the remainder of the tart and shoved it into the bib of her overalls. “Come, Sinead. We’ve work to do.”
She limped over to the truck and with effort, lifted a cardboard box, stumbling a bit before grabbing onto the tailgate to right herself.
Therese looked around. “What happened to your helper?”
“I’ve given Reggie notice,” Esme said. “Good riddance to rubbish.”
“Here. At least let me give you a hand.” Therese stepped up and gently took the box from the older woman. Esme looked chagrined, but did not resist the assistance. Therese noted there were two more boxes in the bed of the truck, both cases of canned dog food.
“Come around to the kitchen then,” Esme said, motioning to the right side of the cottage, where a footpath had been worn down in the tall grass and weeds.
When they got to the rear of the house, she yanked at a rickety wooden door and stepped inside with Therese close on her heels.
Lights flickered on. The kitchen had walls of peeling egg-yolk-yellow paint, green linoleum floors, and appliances that looked likethey’d been purchased during the Eisenhower administration. The green Formica countertops were littered with cereal boxes, empty milk cartons, and stacks of magazines, newspapers, and unopened mail. A huge wooden butcher block was centered in the room.
