Page 4 of One Golden Ring
“I put your bag in your room,” he adds.
“Thank you,” I tell him, heading back out and entering the door on the other side of the bookshelf. I can’t help noticing on the way past that there’s an impressive collection of Agatha Christie on those shelves, and a couple of Pippi Longstocking books.
Problem-solve now, then curl up with a book later,I remind myself.
But I can’t help remembering readingPippi in the South Seasto Judi-Bloom when she was ten. She practically fell on the ground laughing at Pippi’s antics.
I connected with Mr. Lockwood’s daughter right away, and I’ve been sending her an email every week or so since she left for her new boarding school—just saying a simple hello or letting her know about funny things that happen around the office. I make a mental note to write to her as soon as we get settled here.
It’s hard to think of such a young kid living away from home. But Judi-Bloom is gifted at math and science, just like her dad, so I guess she needs the specialschool to keep her occupied and help her reach her full potential.
My room in the cabin has a bunkbed that reminds me even more of Wilderness Girl camp. Each bunk has a crocheted afghan and I wonder who made them and how long ago it was.
A dark-stained wooden vanity and chair with a wavy mirror take up the back wall. I think again about the history of this place and the person who sat in that chair when it was brand new. I picture her putting her hair up and writing in her journal.
My bag is on the bottom bunk. I open it up and find jeans and a sweater, and I’m glad I packed a few casual things. I worry that the pink sweater might be a little too casual, but it’s too cold here for me to worry about it for long.
I unpack and dress as quickly as I can, relieved to pull on a pair of boots in place of my heels.
Mr. Lockwood won’t want me tagging along to see his grandfather, but I want to be ready in case he needs anything before he goes.
When I emerge from my room, he’s already out of his and standing by the fireplace, his eyes on the painting of snowy trees that’s hung by the kitchen and a thoughtful look on his face. The hard line of his jaw has softened almost imperceptibly, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about.
“Would you like to come with me, Darcy?” he asks, flashing his dark gaze to me. “It’ll be warm, and they used to have coffee and hot chocolate in the lounge in the evenings.”
Hot chocolate?
My love affair with this place is back on.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d love that.”
He holds my gaze just a beat too long and I realize that I’m beaming at him like he just offered me a winning lottery ticket.
“Hot chocolate sounds amazing,” I say weakly, tearing my eyes from his.
I think we get along so well because we’re both sort of loners.
The thing of it is, he has no life because he doesn’t want one. I’m told that in the days before his wife died he was a happy, relaxed man. But she passed years before he hired me. By the time I met him he was… well, what he is now. A guy who lives to work.
I, on the other hand, wouldloveto have a life outside work. But I didn’t even finish college, so the length of time I’ll need to prove myself in my career before I can even think about being able to step back a little to have a life and a family is an unknown.
Or maybe I do know, and I just can’t face the fact that the time will be never, since I’ll probably spend my entire working life as an assistant.
Leaving school was worth it,I remind myself firmly.
And it was. My sister and her beautiful twins needed me. I would make the same choice again and again if I had to.
Mr. Lockwood is pulling on his long wool coat, looking like he just stepped out of an Armani ad, and I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have changed into something casual after all. But it’s too late, he’s already headingfor the door with his impossibly long strides. There’s nothing for me to do but pull on my coat and catch up.
He waits at the door, holding it open for me with those old-fashioned manners again.
“Thank you,” I say softly as I pass him.
He clears his throat as he joins me back out on the porch and I watch him pull the door shut and not even blink about walking away from it with our stuff inside.
If he’s happy, I’m happy. His stuff is a lot nicer than mine. Of course he can also afford to replace anything of his that gets stolen or eaten by bears.
I push that thought aside as we crunch our way back up the snowy gravel drive.
