After he ended his conversation with Giles Blitherington, Trevor Chase smiled at me, evidence of a slight strain in his face. I itched with curiosity. Why had he felt it necessary to lie to me about the phone call? He didn’t realize I knew it was a lie, but it made me a bit wary of him, whereas before the phone call I was ready to invite him out to dinner.
I had gotten a bit too flirty too fast. That’s not normally my style. I suppose it had been too long. After all, it had taken me some little while to get over Tris. Was I really ready for the dating game again?
Maybe not, I told myself. At some point I’d bring up the young lord of the manor and see how Trevor reacted. At the moment, though, I decided it was time to get back home.
I stood and offered Trevor my hand. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Trevor, but I’m afraid I must be getting home and back to work.” The warmth of his hand in mine was almost sensual, at least on my part. I wondered what he thought about the dry coolness of my hand? Some men find it vaguely unsettling.
Apparently not Trevor. He smiled his beautiful smile as he escorted me to the front door of the shop. “I’m sorry you have to rush off,” he said. “But I understand the demands of the writer’s life, I assure you.” He smiled again, broadly this time. “And, moreover, I believe I shall see you this evening.” He unlocked the door.
Startled, I couldn’t think what he meant. “I beg your pardon?”
Trevor laughed. “The village grapevine has you a new recruit to the Church Restoration Fund Committee. I’m a member of the board of the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society. Don’t disappoint me and say you’re not coming to tonight’s joint meeting!”
“I suppose I can’t disappoint the village grapevine. Can I?”
I’d swear he winked at me, but his countenance was grave as he replied, “No, Simon, don’t disappoint them.”
I gave him one of my highest-wattage smiles, and he blinked. “See you tonight, Trevor.” I left him standing in the doorway of his shop, slightly bemused.
Whistling a jaunty air, I reaccoutred myself with hat and sunglasses, gathered up my mail, and headed back down the High Street toward home. When I reached St. Ethelwold’s, I paused for a moment to stare at its perpendicular facade. The outside of the church was lovely, but I had been delighted to discover many Early English elements inside. The church was a charming blend of styles, and even such a supposedly godless creature as I could appreciate it. Like many Americans, I am secretly awed by the sheer antiquity of many of the buildings in England.
A stand of old trees shaded the large churchyard abundantly, so that even on this warm day, dark shadows here and there obscured some of the headstones. I was about to walk on toward home when a slight movement back in the shadows near the rear of the church caught my eye. I concentrated hard, and my vision sharpened. (There are some things I’m still attempting to master about this vampire business.)
For a few seconds, I could see into the shadows, and what I saw astonished me. Letty Butler-Melville, clutching a basket of flowers in one hand and brandishing a pair of secateurs in the other, appeared to be engaged in a furious argument with a man whose identity I did not know. They weren’t close enough for even my acute hearing to pick up what they were saying to each other. But to judge from the expressions on their faces, they weren’t delighted with each other.
I let my concentration lapse, and the sharpness of sight faded. Walking on toward home, I pondered this small mystery of village life. Who could the man in the shadows be? He looked to be in his sixties, weather-beaten and rugged. Perhaps he was the sacristan and had failed to do something properly. Letty, the officious wife of the vicar, was upbraiding him for his dereliction of duty.
That made as much sense as anything. I’d keep an eye out for the man and try to figure out what the trouble might have been. I found it interesting that Letty Butler-Melville could rouse to such a pitch of anger. On the previous occasions when I had encountered her, she acted as if she didn’t have the nerve to scare the proverbial goose. But in the heat of passion, she certainly looked different The drab creature I knew had disappeared, to be replaced, at least momentarily, by a spitfire. Curious.
Reaching the door of Laurel Cottage, I decided that I’d had enough speculation for now. I put thoughts of the village firmly aside as, a few minutes later, I changed into my writing duds and got comfortable in front of the computer. It was time to start a new book, a time that normally energizes me as the ideas buzz in my head.
But for the moment I was a bit too unsettled by the events of the morning to focus as I should. Turning away from the computer screen, I picked up the mail I had received from Abigail Winterton. Glancing idly at the envelopes, at first I saw nothing that demanded my immediate attention. Mostly business correspondence, with perhaps a couple of fan letters. Nothing that couldn’t wait.
One of the letters bore a Houston return address. I frowned, staring at the scrawl, trying to decipher the name of the sender.
Slowly, I slit the envelope with a letter opener and pulled out the folded sheet within. I spread out the letter and scanned the contents quickly. Then I went back and read it through again, carefully, taking in the full import.
Dully, I registered the date at the head of the letter, then checked the smudged Houston postmark. It had taken the letter three months to reach me, having been forwarded several times, from my old address in Houston to my hotel in London and now to Snupperton Mumsley.
Having had the news earlier would have made little difference. Jack would have died no matter whether I was there or here in England. The only thing I could have done for him, to have saved him, he wouldn’t have accepted.
Jack Quinn and I had been best friends since I had moved to Houston from Mississippi nearly ten years before. I met him one night my first week in Houston, at a bar in Montrose. He came home with me, but instead of going to bed together, we ended up talking all night and most of the next day. He became my dearest friend, the one who held my hand through every one of the ups and downs of graduate school, and I nursed him through one broken romance after another. He was an optimist always thinking that the next one would be Mr. Right instead of Mr. Right Now.
Jack had a big heart but love made him careless. Six years ago he came to me and confessed that he had tested positive for HIV. At first, I was furious with him. How dare he do this to me? How could my best friend be so careless with his life?
I didn’t speak to him for a month, but I realized how stupidly selfish I was being. I called him one night to apologize, and he waved it away. He understood, he said, and he was sorry he’d made me so upset
That was Jack. Nothing much seemed to faze him. Not even when I confessed that I was having a torrid affair with my major professor. Not even when I told him my new lover was a vampire who wanted to share his “gift” with me.
Jack did his best to talk me out of it. But by then we had both seen numerous friends and acquaintances die from AIDS complications. Late one night after having attended yet another funeral, terrified by what was happening to those I cared so deeply about I finally yielded to Tristan Lovelace’s blandishments, and I let him turn me into a vampire.
It wasn’t nearly as frightening as I had expected. Death, when it came, was almost a relief. I remember waking afterward, being filled with relief, knowing that now some things could no longer touch me. Tristan had explained everything carefully beforehand, and I knew much of what I should expect. I was happy with my new state of existence.
But for once, Jack couldn’t share in my joy. I hinted for a while, then even came right out and told him that it wasn’t too late. He could save himself, if he wanted to, by becoming a vampire like me. For whatever reason, he refused.
That began the rift between us. I tried keeping in touch with him, but as time passed, I became more and more caught up in my work, trying to finish the dissertation and put up with an increasingly difficult relationship with Tristan. So Jack and I drifted further and further apart.
I called him about a month before I was ready to leave for England, hoping at least to visit with him one last time. But he told me, the weariness evident in his voice, that he simply was too ill to see me. I said goodbye to him then, whispering softly, “I love you, Jack,” into the receiver. I don’t think he ever heard me.
And now I was staring, through crying eyes, at a letter from an acquaintance informing me that Jack had died two weeks after I left Houston for England.
I folded the letter carefully and put it back inside the envelope. Pulling open the bottom drawer of the desk, I laid the envelope on top of the pile already nestled there. I shut the drawer, then turned my chair back to the computer screen.
Taking a deep breath, I focused once more on the task at hand. Time to start a new book.