“OK.” Leah closed her fingers around her “Abibliophobia” mug (noun—the fear of running out of books) and blew on her coffee.
“And I need yours.”
“Good idea.”
He unlocked his phone, handing it over as Niamh walked into the kitchen.
“Isn’t it a weird coincidence,” said Leah, tapping in her contact details, “that my name is an anagram of your surname?”
Jackson frowned. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Niamh poured a glass of water for herself. “Hardly surprising. Spelling’s not your strong point, is it, babe?” She turned off the faucet, caramel-painted nails gleaming, and looked over her shoulder at Leah. “He’s dyslexic.”
A tic tugged at the lower lid of Jackson’s left eye.
“That can’t be easy.” Leah felt his discomfort on a visceral level. Given too little time to think through a reaction, she blurted, “Brave of you to pick a girlfriend with a name no one can spell.”
Jackson’s gruff laugh startled Niamh but freed a grin on Leah’s lips. She held out his phone. “Text or call me and then I’ll have your number.”
He nodded. “I’ll be back at the weekend.”
Hey. Some communication of his plans. That’s progress.
Jackson picked up their bags and followed Niamh outside. He turned on the porch to give Leah an enigmatic smile before jogging down the steps onto the driveway.
She pushed the door shut with a quiet sigh. Putting her mug in the sink, Leah bent to unload the dishwasher, sore muscles protesting with every movement. Another weekend gone and she still hadn’t brought up the topic of Esther’s diary. She vowed to readmore. Maybe by next weekend she’d have unraveled some further threads and there’d be a clearer story to tell him.
Hazel and Marjorie crashed her reverie with a jaunty knock at the window. Leah waved them in, letting out a moan at the vanilla-and-spice-scented waft coming from the covered dish in Hazel’s hands.
“Morning, sweetie. I’ve made tea cakes for breakfast. They’re still warm.” Hazel’s tea cakes were the stuff of legend.
“We missed your boy.” Marjorie’s greeting was deflated. “He passed the coach house just as we came out.”
Leah choked a little. “Yeah, well,my boyhas a job to get back to. And his girlfriend does, too.”
“We were hoping he’d introduce us.” Hazel was already gathering cutlery and dishes.
They settled at the breakfast bar and dug into the tea cakes.
“You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.” A knob of butter slid off Leah’s knife in slow motion and dropped onto the leg of her jeans. “Oh, crap.”
She left Hazel and Marjorie alone for five minutes while she changed into a clean pair of leggings. Coming back downstairs, she found them interrogating a man she’d never seen before over a freshly brewed pot of tea. Leah halted in the kitchen doorway.
“Landon Peake,” said the visitor, rising to his feet and extending a hand for her to shake. “I do hope I’m not intruding.”
Mr. Peake, it turned out, was a friend of Jackson’s father. He removed a pair of metal-framed glasses and tucked them into the top pocket of a tan checked suit. His swept-back hair, graying beard, and mustache gave him the air of Santa’s suave and slimmer younger brother.
“I was passing through Pine Springs and stopped to take in the sights. When I saw the signs for Weller’s Lake, I remembered Alistair’s mother used to live here. I’ve always wanted to see thehouse.” He gazed around with a benign smile. “It’s a beautiful place. And up for sale, I hear?”
“Mr. Peake knows the Hales through their country club,” Marjorie interjected.
“Have you had many viewings so far?” the visitor asked.
“I believe there are some scheduled,” Leah lied unapologetically. She rescued her mug and leaned against the kitchen counter. Peake’s blunt curiosity made her uncomfortable.
“What is included in the sale?” His eyes traveled to the living room doorway and he subtly craned his neck, as if cataloguing his surroundings.
“I don’t involve myself with the Hales’ personal business. I just live here.” Leah schooled her lips into a polite tilt.
