And then he was gone, down the stairs to the underground station.
Kathleen’s project was about finished. She’s fulfilled half her contract, but she was expected to find out what she had invented before it was released. Time was running out.
She turned toward the cab rank, the cider sitting warm in her stomach and the pressure of the job beginning to tighten again around her ribs.
As the taxi drove through the city, Marise lay back thinking about yesterday. The lake, the kayak, the lunch on the grass. Her mind replayed the moment like a reel: Kathleen’s voice naming every flower, her shy smile over tea, her hand resting against Marise’s chest like it had a right to be there.
It didn’t feel like a job anymore. She should be preparing to cut ties instead of getting emersed in Kathleen’s private life.
And that terrified her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Knowles house sat on a quiet, curved street in Forest Hills Gardens, with a steep gabled roof and a mix of brick and timber framing the façade. Ivy grew along one wall, and the front door was a heavy arched wood set into a small stone entryway. Leaded glass windows lined the front, and a narrow path led through a neatly kept garden to a detached garage in the back. It was solid, private, and quietly expensive.
Kathleen pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. For a moment she sat in silence, her fingers curled around the steering wheel. She’d pinned her hair back loosely, and worn the pink silk blouse her father liked.
Rhonda Knowles opened the front door at the first ring, elegant as always, in a linen blouse and cream slacks.
“Hello, dear,” she said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ve been waiting to show you my new painting.”
“I brought muffins, Mom,” Kathleen said, holding up the small paper bag. “And I’d love a cup of your lemon tea.”
Her mother stepped aside, waving her in. “I’ll get Ellen to put on the kettle. We’ll have it in the sunroom. I’ve hung the painting there.”
Kathleen studied the canvas while her mother went off to organize the morning tea. It was a vibrant landscape, with rolling meadows of wildflowers painted in the French Impressionist style.
“What do you think,” her mother asked, appearing at her elbow.
“It’s great. Suits the room.”
Her mother tilted her head to look at it. “I think so. I picked it up in that little gallery in Soho. Come…sit down.”
Once they settled into the cane chairs, Rhonda poured the tea herself, arranging napkins and china like she was hosting a guest, not her daughter. “You look radiant,” she said after a few sips, narrowing her eyes in a way that made Kathleen shift in her seat. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Kathleen said quickly.
“Oh, come on. You’re practically blooming. Did something happen at the lab? Did you publish your paper?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
Rhonda eyed her closely. “Then it’s someone.”
Kathleen hesitated, caught. She didn’t want to lie, not really. But the memory of Darlene chatting away at that dinner with Veronica’s hand resting lightly on the back of her chair refused to go away.
“It’s... complicated,” she said carefully.
Her mother’s expression softened. “Complicated is fine. Is he kind?”
Kathleen blurted out before she could stop herself. “It’s not a he, it’s a she.”
Her mother’s eyes widened, and she was silent for a moment before she smiled fondly at her. “I think that’s wonderful.”
“You’re not upset?”
Her mother reached across the table and touched her hand. “No. You deserve someone to care for you and a woman would suit you much better.”
“I don’t know where it’s going,” Kathleen admitted. “It’s early days.”
