Chapter 2

“Has Freddy arrived yet?” Viv asked. “He needs his final fitting.”

“Not yet,” I said. I was perusing the Evening Standard I’d grabbed at Notting Hill Gate the night before. There was a charming article about the royal tots, which I devoured, as I was totally enamored with those kids. Apple cheeked and clear eyed. I just adored them all. Thank goodness Harry and Meghan were making more for us all to love.

“Please tell me you’re not having baby pangs,” Viv said. She leaned over my shoulder and squinted with distaste at the article. Viv wasn’t really the maternal type.

I put my hand over where I assumed my uterus was, you know, behind the slight roll of chubby belly that sat between my hips.

“Nope, not even a spasm,” I said. “However, I am having some puppy pangs, which are just like baby pangs but for puppies.”

I batted my big baby blues at her.

“No.” She shook her head.

Darn. Well, it was worth a try.

Woof!

Viv and I both turned to the door. Freddy pranced in, no raincoat today, as if he owned the joint.

“Are you sure you don’t want a dog?” I asked. “He’d really add a whole new layer to our advertising. We could feature him on all of our promotions.”

“Scarlett, we sell hats,” Viv said. “There is no correlation between dog owners and hats. If you can find me statistics that prove dog owners buy five times the number of hats as non–dog owners then I could see where you’re going with this, but if you’re just wanting to get a pet, we can acquire a fish.”

“A fish?” I asked. I knelt down to scratch Freddy’s ears. He leaned against me as if he’d been waiting for a good scratch all day. Handsome boy. “You can’t cuddle a fish.”

“Precisely.”

I rolled my eyes and then turned to the door. Harry was holding it open for Aunt Betty. They seemed to be having an intense discussion.

“You didn’t say that to him, did you?” Harry asked.

Aunt Betty jutted out her chin in a stubborn pose. “No, but somebody should.”

“Aunt B, going after the sponsor of the dog show is not going to help Freddy win the competition,” Harry said.

“This is bigger than the dog show,” she said. “I think that dog food was making Freddy sick. I don’t care if Gerry Swendson is the biggest sponsor of the show. His dog food is bad.”

Harry glanced up and met my gaze and shrugged as if he had no idea what to say. I turned to Aunt Betty. “What’s this about bad dog food?”

“The winner and the three runners-up for the PAWS dog show get a year’s supply of food from Swendson’s Dog Food, the company that sponsors the show,” she said. “Freddy was a finalist last year, so he won some dog food, but it made him sick and I threw it all out.”

“Are you sure it was the food?” I asked. “He didn’t get into the garbage or some strange plant at the park?”

“No, I’m quite sure it was the food,” she said. “And I think someone needs to talk to Swendson about it to warn him that his quality control is no good.”

“I can try and look into it for you,” Harrison said. “My company investigates all sorts of investment opportunities. I can see what the word is about the quality of Swendson’s Dog Food.”

“Oh, would you?” she asked. “It would relieve my mind, knowing someone was doing something. I mentioned it to several people last year but everyone made excuses just because Swendson is a sponsor. Our dogs need better care than that.”

“Agreed,” Harry said. “Don’t think on it anymore.”

Aunt Betty turned to Viv. “How did the hat turn out? Did you decide on the bowler? I am just dying to see it.”

Freddy abandoned me and approached Viv with a sniff and a small wag. She stared at him, clearly immune to his charm. He sat at her feet and looked up at her.

“That’s better,” she said. “I’ll go get the hats.”

“Hats?” I asked. “As in plural?”

She gave me a look. “What? I couldn’t decide what he’d look better in—a trilby, a bowler, or a fedora.”

“So you made all three?”

She waved her hand. “Don’t make it into a thing. He has a very small head. It wasn’t that much work.”

I waited until she walked out of the room before I looked at Harry. I made a face that I hoped indicated my surprise and he mirrored it, breaking into a grin that I returned. We both loved Viv but there was no question that she was a strange bird. Three hats for a dog? She could deny it all she wanted but she liked Freddy and she liked making the dog hats.

“I hope she hasn’t gone to too much trouble,” Aunt Betty said. “I certainly didn’t want her to tax herself on Freddy’s account.”

“Don’t you worry,” I said. “Once Viv gets an idea, well, it’s best to just let her run with it. Lucky Freddy. He’ll be the most dashing dog at the show.”

Aunt Betty smiled but I could see it was forced and she appeared to be fretting.

“Are you worried about the competition?” I asked.

“No,” she said. She shook her head and her white hair sparkled in the store’s bright lights. “Best in show is Freddy’s for the taking, but I am concerned about Swendson’s food.”

I nodded. My former job in hospitality, otherwise known as a people pleaser, usually helped me find the sunny-side-up or the glass-half-full angle to any situation. I racked my brain, trying to find the silver lining here. It was tricky.

“Harry will figure it out,” I said. “He’s the best, and I’m not just saying that because I’m going to marry him.”

“You’re right, dear,” she said. She glanced between us. “You two are going to make beautiful babies.”

I felt my face get hot. Babies? We hadn’t even trained with a puppy yet! When I glanced past her at Harry, he was smiling at me in that way he did when he thought I was adorable in my embarrassment. This was one of the many reasons why I was marrying this man. In a world that frequently considered me odd, my man got me.

Viv, with an armful of hats, came back into the room. Being the mad hatter that she was, Viv hadn’t just made hats for Freddy but had pushed on and made matching hats for Aunt Betty as well. To quote my British friends, they were smashing!

I sat beside Harry while Aunt Betty and Freddy did an impromptu fashion show for us. Despite his appearance of being a love lush, wanting never-ending tummy rubs, when Aunt Betty put him through his paces, Freddy was on task. He followed all of her commands instantly and when he pranced through the shop wearing his bowler jauntily perched over one eye, well, I didn’t see how he couldn’t win the dog show.

Aunt Betty clapped her hands and looked overcome. “These are simply brilliant. Thank you, my dear, thank you so much. We have the cocktail party tomorrow night and I can’t wait to put our competition on notice.”

She impulsively hugged Viv, who is not a hugger by nature, and to my surprise Viv hugged her back. She even reached down and patted Freddy’s hat.

“Yes, I think these will do,” she said. “My work here is done.”

With that, Viv left us in the front of the shop while she disappeared into the workroom to go shape, stitch and embellish some other client’s dream.

Harry rose from the couch, and I joined him. I gathered the hats for Freddy and Aunt Betty and boxed them in nests of tissue paper in our trademark blue-and-white-striped hatboxes with the name Mim’s Whims scrawled across the lid with a silk braid cord for a handle. Harry was going to look adorable carrying these for his aunt.

“See you at the pitch later?” he asked.

“Pitch?” I asked. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Rugby pitch,” he clarified. “It’s the Thirsty Lions’ first match of the season. Remember?”

I hadn’t but I didn’t admit it.

“Oh, right! Of course, I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. This was the truth. I knew nothing about rugby except that Harry had been playing since he was a kid and he became a little crazed while following his favorite team, the Newcastle Falcons. His local club team was sponsored by a pub called the Thirsty Lion, thus the very original team name.

“Freddy and I will be there as well to cheer you on,” Aunt Betty said. She looked at me. “You know the old expression—‘Football is a gentleman’s game played by ruffians, and rugby is a ruffian’s game played by gentlemen.’”

I thought about American football. There was nothing gentlemanly about it so I figured she was using the common name for soccer in the rest of the world, which was definitely more apt since they used their feet so much, you know, when they weren’t flopping on the ground trying to get a foul. There was no flopping in rugby, thank God. Plus, Harrison in shorts. What’s not to love?

---

*   *   *

The pitch, as it turned out, was in a city park northwest of Portobello Road. Viv, Fee and I closed the shop and took the Underground to the nearest stop. It was a short walk from there in the dreary weather. The high was fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit or thirteen-point-nine if I was going by Celsius, which my brain even after three years simply couldn’t grasp. Thirteen, in my mind, was like crazy Minnesota or Nebraska cold. Of course, having moved to London from Florida, fifty-seven felt pretty cold, too.

We carried a thick, plaid wool blanket to sit on and a backpack full of food, including a thermos of hot tea. As we crossed the tree-lined grassy lawn toward the playing fields, I could just make out the pitch. Harrison’s club wore red and black colors, which I knew from seeing him launder his uniform. The other team was in green and white. If we were judging by color, I thought the red and black definitely made more of a winning statement.

When we arrived at the sideline, I saw my two very best friends, Andre Eisel and Nick Carroll, who were already seated in folding chairs with a plaid blanket spread in front of them. They were the first friends I’d made when I moved to London and I simply adored them.

“Scarlett, over here!” Andre stood and waved. He was tall and built, with dark skin, close-cropped hair and a rogue’s smile. The diamond stud he wore in one ear flashed at me almost as brightly as his grin. A photographer by trade, he owned a studio down the street from our hat shop, although his partner, Nick, wasn’t a photographer but a dentist.

Nick waved a large red and black flag at me and when he stood, I noted he had completely decked himself out in Harrison’s team colors, with red pants and a black rugby shirt with a fat, red stripe around the middle. This didn’t flatter his rounded figure, but really, who was going to notice when he paired it with an enormous red-and-black-striped velvet top hat, which sat low on his brow and added about a foot to his overall height?

“Nicholas Carroll, where did you get that abomination?” Viv asked. She stared at the hat as if it had done something more to offend her than merely exist.

We were all wearing red and black hats as well, because Viv insisted that we always wear hats when out in public so as to advertise the shop. I really didn’t mind today because it kept my ears from freezing. I had chosen a black bucket hat with a big red rose for embellishment. Fee had donned a felted newsboy cap in red with a black band, and Viv wore a festive tam in a Fair Isle pattern of red and black with a large red pom-pom on top.

“Whatever do you mean, Viv?” Nick asked. He doffed his hat, making his thinning reddish-blond hair stand on end as if it, too, were outraged by the insult to his chapeau.

“That!” Viv pointed to the hat in his hand. “Where did you get that? The Non Stop Party Shop?”

“Right in Kensington,” he agreed.

Viv gave him a dark look. “I bet it leaves a black sweat ring around your head.”

“Ah!” Nick gasped and looked at Andre. He lifted the hat and pitched forward, shoving his head in Andre’s direction. “It hasn’t, has it?”

“No, love, you’re fine,” Andre said. He grinned at me and opened his arms for a hug.

Next I hugged Nick, who still looked worried. “Don’t listen to Viv,” I said. “Your hat is festive and fun and there’s nothing wrong with that. You know how she gets about hats in general and her hats in particular.”

“Hmm, rather like I am about teeth, I expect,” he said.

“Exactly.”

Fee and Viv hugged our friends, too, while I looked for my man among his team. Once I spotted him my heart did that fluttery thing it always did when I caught sight of Harry. I used to think it was indigestion back when I couldn’t stand him but now I knew better. And today it seemed to do an extra somersault at the sight of him in his rugby attire.

Fee stood beside me and followed the line of my gaze. “Nice kit, yeah?”

“Kit?” I asked.

“Their uniforms,” she explained.

“Oh, of course,” I said. “There’s nothing quite like a man in a rugby shirt, is there?”

“Nope, nothing,” she agreed.

We watched as the men warmed up—lots of stretching and strutting, and a few halfhearted attempts to wrestle one another to the ground. Then the referee appeared. Harrison caught sight of us, hard to miss with the hats and all, and jogged over to our blanket. He took his mouth guard out and scooped me close and planted a solid kiss on me, charming me stupid of course, before he let go and exchanged high fives with Nick and Andre.

“Thanks for coming out,” he said. He scanned the crowd. “You haven’t seen Aunt Betty, have you?”

“No,” I said. “She’s probably just running late.”

A frown marred his forehead. “I’m worried about her. This dog show business is getting—”

“Oy, Worthless, get over here!” a voice shouted from the pitch. My eyebrows lifted in surprise at the nickname, but Harry grinned. Clearly, he’d been called worse. He kissed me quick, put his mouth guard in and then jogged back onto the field.

Fee had opened the thermos and was pouring tea into thick paper cups. I glanced at the basket Nick and Andre brought and saw that they were also drinking hot tea but out of real china. I raised a brow in question and Nick tipped his nose up in the air.

“Just because we’re dining al fresco does not mean we’re savages,” he said.

I kneeled on their blanket and swiped a chocolate-dipped biscuit out of a crystal bowl. Nick wagged his finger at me. “That’s not a proper dinner, Scarlett.”

“It’s an appetizer,” I said.

He shook his head and then held up a dish of fat, juicy strawberries. “At least have something healthy with it.”

“Nick, you are a better wife than I’ll ever be,” I said with a sigh.

He patted my hand. “Don’t you worry. I offer lessons.”

I laughed and he raised his eyebrows and gave me a pointed look. Oh, dear.

A whistle sounded as the match began. Truthfully, I wasn’t really sure what I was watching. There was a circular pile of men in the middle and each team had a line of men staggered down their side of the field. Viv was already bored and looking at a selection of pearl beads on her phone, but Fee seemed to know exactly what was happening. In fact, she jumped to her feet and started yelling, although I wasn’t sure if she was encouraging our team or chastising them. Nick bounced up out of his seat and joined her. I was impressed that he managed this without spilling any of his tea.

Andre was sitting in his chair behind me and he leaned forward so that he was half over my shoulder and asked, “Do you have any idea what is going on?”

I thought about bluffing, but what would be the point? I glanced at him and said, “Not a clue.”

He grinned. “Harrison is shirking his duties to make you a proper English wife.”

“Clearly,” I said. “Although, I have managed to put the kettle on for tea without burning down his apartment.”

He raised a brow. “Look at you, getting all domestic.”

I preened just the littlest bit. Cooking had never been my strong suit. Once, I went to heat water in the microwave for tea, and Harrison looked like he’d keel over. I learned quickly that the kettle was the only acceptable way to heat water for tea and this fact was nonnegotiable.

“All right, I’ll give you the short course on rugby,” Andre said. “That pile of bodies in the center is the scrum.”

“Scrum, got it,” I said.

“In the center of the scrum each team has a hooker,” he continued. I snorted, because I’m mature like that. He gave me a look. I stopped. “The hookers try to hook the ball out to their mates and then the team has to run the ball over the opposing team’s line to ground it for a five-point try.”

“Well, that seems simple enough,” I said. “It’s a bit like American football, you know, except for the fact that there are no helmets or pads—or any safety gear, for that matter.” I tried not to think about this, as the thought of Harrison with a head injury made me queasy.

“That, and in rugby you can ruck and maul, and you only pass the ball to the side or back. Also, the game doesn’t stop at a tackle,” he said.

“It doesn’t?”

“Nope, whichever team grabs a dropped ball first, can grab it and keep going.”

“Dang,” I said.

I glanced back at the field. Despite the baggy shorts they all wore, I noticed the muscle-hardened legs and defined shoulders and kicked myself for not being a bigger fan of rugby earlier in my life. I scanned the men I could see and noted that Harrison’s friend, or the guy he called his “best mate,” Alistair Turner, was in the thick of the match.

Alistair had become a good friend over the past few years as he’d used his lawyerly abilities to help us out a couple of times. Seeing him on the pitch now, grabbing the oblong ball and running with his unruly shoulder-length black hair flying as he sprinted for the line, I had to check and see if Viv was catching this. Argh! She was not!

“Hey, Viv,” I said. “Look! There’s Alistair!”

Viv thumbed through some more pictures on her phone. When she did glance up, it was with a bored look. I pointed. She heaved a put-upon sigh and glanced at the pitch.

I watched to see if her eyes narrowed or widened in recognition. The woman was stone cold. There was not one indrawn breath of surprise or flutter of an eyelash in appreciation of the man’s athletic prowess. Good thing Alistair was soaring out on the field because here on the sideline, he was crashing and burning.