Chapter Twenty-Two
Roman Foxe’s house
Wilton Place
Washington, D.C.
Thursday morning
Elizabeth supposed she’d expected Rome’s home would be an ultramodern, all-glass condo in a hip section of Washington, fit for a young, single Neanderthal with a macho job. She’d pictured dirty underwear in a pile in the bathroom, maybe a couple of empty pizza boxes on the living room coffee table. Or, like Giles, the neo-Viking, a discarded bearskin hanging over the back of a chair. She hadn’t expected Rome to turn into the driveway of a house on Wilton Place, a tree-lined street of well-tended, older houses set back from the street, all of them surrounded with greenery and beautiful blooming flowers. The house was two stories, painted white with bright blue trim, flower boxes set along the upper balcony overflowing with petunias, her favorite. More flowers displayed themselves in hanging baskets suspended from the roof-covered deep front porch. There was only a slight breeze, but enough to make the baskets sway gracefully. The porch held a rocking swing and four rattan chairs surrounding a round table. The double garage sat at the end of the smooth asphalt driveway and connected tothe house. It all looked lovingly tended, homey, and welcoming. Roman switched off his Land Rover and turned to her.
Elizabeth smiled, waved her hand. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you. I’ll accept amazing. Do you want to wait here while I get my cell? I still can’t believe I left it on the charger.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see inside. Your house is hardly what I expected.”
Rome realized he’d been nervous when she’d stared silently at his house. Had she expected him to live in an apartment surrounded with drum-playing cokeheads? He said slowly, “I know it’s not what you’re used to. There aren’t any Wedgwood bowls in a front entrance hall where you can toss your car keys before you waltz into your four-hundred-year-old drawing room and ring for tea.” He knew that sounded moronic, and grinned.
She said matter-of-factly, “What I’m used to, Agent Foxe, is plumbing that desperately needs to be updated and furniture I can’t stretch out on in sweaty clothes without worrying about ruining some fabric selected by my great-great-grandparents. How old is the house?”
“Not six hundred years old with a pedigree and a freaking name.”
She punched his arm. “Don’t be a snob. My house in London doesn’t come with a name.” She paused, added, “Well, my father’s country house—the family seat—does have a name, Darlington Hall, bestowed on it by the first Earl of Camden, in the late sixteenth century. Now I’ve told you my secrets, so tell me yours. Come on, how old is your house?”
“My grandparents built it in the late sixties. They lived here their entire married life until they were both killed skiing at Aspen six years ago, well into their eighties. Have you heard of Aspen?”
“Oh, yes, but I’ve never skied there. What happened?”
“My parents and grandparents skied twice a year together, everywhere from Aspen to Zermatt to Chamonix-Mont-Blanc. You know the old saw—never ski the last run? Well, my grandparents did.” He paused, swallowed. “A young snowboarder ignored the signs, passed out of bounds above them and fell, and caused an avalanche that sent them both flying over a low cliff. Neither of them made it. I’m thankful my parents had already gone back to the lodge or they’d have been killed too.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, the old bittersweet memories blurred, but still moving. “Thank you.” Odd, but he rarely spoke about his grandparents’ death, particularly to someone he’d just met. Yet he’d spit it out to her.
Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. “What a wonderful life they had.”
“Yes, they did. Granddad was a big-time corporate lawyer and grandmother was in technical services at the CIA in Langley until they both decided to take early retirement and have some fun.” He let the rest of it pour out of his mouth. “They’d invited me to Aspen with them that year, but I wasn’t able to go. Why? I don’t remember, but maybe if I’d been with them, I could have helped them.”
She said, “Putting away a sense of guilt can be hard, even when you know what you’re feeling makes no logical sense. I know that for a fact because I feel the same way about my brother, Tommy, always wondering if I could do something else to help him, which I’ve come to realize I can’t. So I’m left with being an enabler. What happened to the snowboarder?”
“His name is Billy Hodgkins—he was sixteen at the time. My dad told me he went to work in his dad’s grocery store in Germantown, Maryland.”
“Now there’s a load of guilt you wouldn’t want to carry, and I’ll wager Billy Hodgkins will for the rest of his life.”
Rome sure hoped so, but he didn’t say it out loud.
Elizabeth got out of the car and stood looking at the house and grounds, breathed in the sweet early-morning air, the rich smell of recently mowed grass from the neighbor’s yard. Was that the scent of night jasmine billowing over a tall wooden fence? She turned to him. “It’s so different from my house in London. I can’t wait to see the inside. And the setting, it’s perfect.”
He’d always thought so, worked to make it look better and better each year. Was she just being polite? “I’ve done a lot of work on the house myself, modernizing, making it mine, I guess you could say. If you like, I’ll show you the three bathrooms I updated, all marble counters, even towel warmers. The master even has a steam shower.”
“Towel warmers? I haven’t seen one of those since I once stayed at the Savoy.”
He walked her through the two more bedrooms with en suite bathrooms and led her to the master bedroom, his favorite room in the house, its walls a rich cream, filled with glossy dark mahogany furniture he’d found at an estate sale in Virginia and refinished himself. He’d kept his grandparents’ two long side-by-side mirrors, but replaced their paintings with watercolors of mountains and lakes.
She said, looking around her, “What a wonderful room, stylish and comfortable. It invites you to sit in that large reading chair with the William Morris reading lamp over your shoulder. And that immense bed—I can imagine taking a run and diving in after a long day, and sinking in, all warm and cozy. I really like the duvet and the lovely shade of gray. I see you made the bed.”
“Surprises me sometimes too. From my youngest years, my grandmother told me if I didn’t make my bed every day an unexpected guest would show up, see it, and think I’d been raised by wolves. Ah, my cell phone.” He slipped it into his pants pocket.
