"This is Richard Markson, Mal," Sarah said, bringing him into the kitchen where I was filling a bucket with ice. "Richard, meet my very best friend, Mallory Keswick."
"Thanks for having me on such short notice," he said as we shook hands. "And it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Keswick."
"Please call me Mal, and I'm happy to meet you, and to welcome you to my home."
He smiled, glancing around. "It looks like a lovely place, and I must say, I'm very partial to these old colonials, they have such charm, as do the old farmhouses in Connecticut."
"Yes, they do. What would you like to drink, Mr. Markson?"
"A glass of white wine, thank you, and I hope you're going to call me Richard." nodded and carried the bucket of ice to the hutch, which generally served as a bar. "What about you, Sash? What are you going to have?"
"Me? Oh, I don't know. White wine, I guess. Is there a bottle in the fridge?"
"Yes," I said over my shoulder and took out three wine glasses.
"Let me do that," Richard said to Sarah when he saw her struggling with the corkscrew, and a split second later he brought the bottle of wine to me. "Here you are, Mal."
"Thanks," I said, then filled the glasses. "Let's go to the small den. It's cozy there. Sarah lit a fire a while ago, since it's turned so chilly tonight."
Once we were settled in front of the blazing fire, Richard lifted his glass and toasted the two of us.
"Cheers," Sarah and I said in unison, and then we all settled back in our chairs and fell silent.
It was Richard who spoke first. Later I came to realize that he was very good at breaking the ice, making people feel comfortable. Perhaps that was part of his great success as a journalist.
Looking at me, he said, "What a fantastic success you've made of Indian Meadows. It's great for us all, none of us knows how we could manage without it now."
"Oh, so you do use the shops, do you?" Sarah said, a brow lifting.
"Certainly do. I bought all of my Christmas gifts here last year, and I fully intend to do the same again. I'm frequently over here browsing around."
"Funny, we've never seen you," Sarah murmured.
I said, "It's nice to meet a satisfied customer. You are, aren't you?"
"Very much so," Richard assured me, smiling. He took a swallow of wine and went on, "And I love Nora and her cooking. To tell you the truth, I don't know what I'd do without her. I buy most of my meals from the café takeout-her soups, her salads, and that delicious cottage pie."
Sarah and I exchanged dismayed glances, and before I could say a word, she exclaimed, "It's a good thing you do like it, because that's what you're getting for dinner tonight. Nora's chicken soup and cottage pie."
"Oh," he said. "Oh, that's great. Great. As I said, I am her biggest fan."
"I could make something else, spaghetti primavera, if you like!" I suggested swiftly, feeling embarrassed.
"No, don't be silly. The cottage pie's wonderful."
"Bet you had that last night?" Sarah said, making it sound like a question.
"No, I didn't!" Richard protested, and then he broke off. His mouth twitched and he started to laugh. Glancing at me he shrugged. "But honestly, I don't mind eating it again."
The expression on his face was so comical I found myself laughing with him. Between chuckles, I said to Sarah, "We're going to have to start cooking again. We don't have much choice."
"You're right, Mally," she replied, gazing at me for the longest moment.
Richard asked me more questions about Indian Meadows, how I had come to start the shops, and I told him.
He mentioned the Lettice diary and confided how fascinating he had found it.
Sarah listened to us talking, occasionally joined in, went and got the bottle of wine from the kitchen, and kept filling our glasses.
At one moment she came back from the kitchen and said, "I've put the cottage pie in the oven," and pulled a funny face. We all laughed.
Later, when I went into the kitchen myself to check on things, Sarah followed me. "I can do it, really I can," I said. "Go and keep Richard company."
"He's all right, he's looking at the books on the bookshelves. Listen, I want to tell you something."
She sounded so peculiar, I turned around to face her. "What is it?"
"It's lovely to hear you laugh again, Mal. I haven't heard you laugh in years. That's all I wanted to say." stood there returning her loving gaze, and I realized that she had spoken the truth.
As it turned out, laughter was the keynote of the evening.
Richard Markson had a quick wit and a good sense of humor, as did Sarah, and their repartee was fast and furious. At one moment they were so amusing I found myself chortling yet again, and so much so I had to stop serving the cottage pie for fear of spilling it.
I sat down at the table for a second, letting my laughter subside, and I looked from one to the other, thinking how well matched they seemed. It struck me that he was the nicest man Sarah had brought around in a long time, and it was quite apparent that he liked her a lot. And why wouldn't he? My Sashy was beautiful and smart, kind and loving, and quite irresistible at times, like tonight. She was inimitable.
Rising, I went back to the oven and brought out the cottage pie again.
Sarah said, "Why don't you put the dish in the middle of table, Mal? We'll help ourselves."
"Good idea," Richard agreed.
I did as Sarah suggested and sat down.
After taking a sip of wine, I watched as Richard served himself, then stuck his fork into the pie on his plate. How awful that Sash and I hadn't been more inventive with the dinner. But how could we have known that he was a regular customer of the take-out kitchen? I began to eat, and a bit later, when I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he was relishing the pie.
It was over the Brie cheese and green salad that Sarah zeroed in on him. Leaning back in her chair, she asked in an offhand way, "How long have you had a weekend place up here, Richard?"
"Just over a year."
"Your Cape Cod looks very charming from the outside. Do you own it?"
He shook his head. "No, it's a rental. Kathy Sands found it for me, and she's-"
"Kathy was our real estate broker for Indian Meadows," I cut in. "She's a terrific woman, don't you think?"
He smiled. "Yes, she is, and I started to say that she's been looking for a house for me to buy, but the houses are all far too big for me."
"Oh, so you live alone then, do you?" Sarah asked, throwing him a quizzical look.
"I'm single," he said. "And I certainly don't want a large house to roam around in alone."
"That's understandable," Sarah murmured. "I'd feel the same. But of course I come here every weekend to be with Mal." There was a little pause before she said, "I've never been married, have you?"
"No, I haven't," he said. "I've roamed the world as a journalist, been a foreign correspondent until recently, and I guess I was always too involved with my job to think of settling down. I came back to the States three years ago and took a job with Newsweek." He pursed his lips, gave a half shrug. "I decided I'd had enough of foreign places. I wanted to come back home to little old New York."
"Are you a New Yorker?" I asked.
"Born and bred. You are too, aren't you, Mal? And you, Sarah?"
"Yes," I answered. "We are."
"We've been friends since we were babies," Sarah informed him, laughing. "Actually, you could say we've been inseparable since our prams. Anyway, what brought you up to this neck of the woods for weekends?"
"I was a boarder at the Kent School before I went to Yale, and I've always loved it up here. To my way of thinking, the northwestern highlands of Connecticut are God's own country."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Connectictut, January 1993