“You must be my last-minute reservation,” the woman said, her voice brisk but not unkind. “Rough flight?”
Sadie opened her mouth to respond, but found herself too exhausted to form words. Instead, she nodded mutely and slumped onto a nearby bar stool, her bag thudding beside her on the floor.
Great first impression, Reed, she thought.
“I’m Maggie,” the woman told her, leaning a bit over the bar as she tossed a rag over her shoulder.
“Sadie.”
Glancing around the pub, she noticed a few men gathered in one corner. They eyed her warily, turning back to their breakfasts when she made eye contact. It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome she had been hoping for, but she supposed it was normal for the locals to be cautious around outsiders.
“What’s dragged you all the way to Great Missenden?” Maggie asked, sliding a cup of tea toward Sadie.
She took it gratefully, sipping a small amount of the hot liquid and letting it ease the dryness the flight had left in her throat.
“Work, actually,” she told Maggie, mustering up a small smile despite her exhaustion. “I’m here to help a local author with his book.”
“Only author around here would be Corbyn Pearce,” the other woman replied, raising an eyebrow slightly. “Last I heard, he isn’t open to visitors.”
“So I’ve heard.” Her shoulders drooped a bit. Apparently, Pearce had a reputation in the village as well. “But, I’m here to try.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck, love. He’s pricklier than a hedgehog in a huff these days,” Maggie said, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “He had a real spark once. Hopefully, you can sort out his scribbles.”
Sadie leaned against the back of the stool, taking another sip of her tea. It was clear that Corbyn had been a regular fixture in the village at one time. She had read something on the plane about him being in a horrific car accident several years ago, and he had all but dropped off the face of the earth after that. It made her wonder exactly what she should expect when she arrived at his door the next morning. She had seen an old black-and-white headshot; he had been handsome in a rugged sort of way, with his chiseled features and sharp eyes. It was clear there was more to the story, as most people didn’t just shut themselves away without a good reason.
“His estate is just down the road,” Maggie continued, drawing Sadie back to the present. “He lives there with his housekeeper, Edie, and her husband.”
Sadie gave a little nod before changing the subject away from the dreaded meeting tomorrow. “So, what’s Great Missenden like? Anything I should know about while I’m here?”
Maggie’s eyes brightened, clearly pleased by being asked about the village.
“Ah, where to begin? Small but not dull, if you know where to look,” she said before leaning in conspiratorially. “See that lane up there?” She nodded toward the window. “Roald Dahl used to write his tales just around the corner. Got a museum dedicated to him now.”
“I loved his books growing up,” Sadie replied, perking up a little at the thought of exploring the museum.
“Most do,” Maggie replied with a knowing smile. “Museum’s worth a visit when you’ve got time. The trails leading up to the hills are lovely, too, if the weather permits.”
“I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have,” Sadie admitted with a slight shrug.
“Well, if you do have time, London’s only an hour by train,” Maggie offered. “Though between your author and our little haunts, I suspect Great Missenden might catch you off guard.”
Maggie’s chatter flowed on while Sadie finished her tea. She learned about village quirks and tucked-away corners, a little mental list of places to visit forming in her mind.
A brass key slid across the bar and into Sadie’s vision just as a yawn escaped her.
“Right, that’s enough chinwag for now, love,” Maggie told her, the woman’s expression suddenly turning sympathetic. “You look knackered. Your room’s upstairs, number 7. Get some rest, eh? Dinner starts at 5, and tonight’s special is shepherd’s pie. You don’t want to miss that.”
“Thanks, Maggie,” Sadie replied, the weight of her fatigue slamming into her. “I’ll see you tonight then.”
She hoisted her carry-on off the floor, its straps digging into her palm like someone had snuck a stack of books in it while she chatted with Maggie.
The narrow staircase moaned under her feet as she forced herself to climb. Doubt flickered for a moment. Could she really do this? Could she actually be the salvation everyone seemed to think Pearce needed?
When she reached the door with the number 7 on the left side, she used the key to let herself in. The room was snug, with sloped ceilings and faded floral curtains, but it was quiet and cozy. A quilted bed stood before her, and her shoulders dropped with relief.
“Oh, thank God,” she rasped, her bag thudding to the boards. Jet lag hit hard with a wave that buckled her knees. She staggered to the bed, shoes kicked off in a clumsy tangle, andcrashed onto the quilt. The softness of the mattress threatened to swallow her whole, and she sighed in contentment.
The quilt smelled faintly of lavender, and she was being pulled under almost instantly. All thoughts of Corbyn Pearce and his book vanished as her body and mind gave in to sleep.
