Secrets of the Lost Summer. Carla Neggers

Olivia grinned. “Yeah. Like that. People can wander in the gardens and woods, and I’ll offer books and lectures on various aspects of herbs—cooking, drying, using them in potpourris and fragrances.” She grabbed her rake and flipped it on end, pulling off wet leaves stuck on the metal tines. “I have lots of ideas. Right now I’m concentrating on cleaning out the gardens. You’re staying for lunch, right? I thought Mom was coming, too.”

       “She’s home planning her trip to California. She wants to do the coastal highway.”

       “Sounds beautiful.”

       “She’ll never go, but don’t tell her I said that.” He seemed to give himself a mental shake and nodded toward the house. “How’s Buster?”

       “Staying. He refused to be persuaded not to dig up the lavender.” Olivia was relieved at the change in subject. Buster, a large mix of German shepherd and who-knew-what-else, had shown up at her house unaccompanied by owner, collar or leash, and for the past ten days had gone unclaimed. “I was thinking in terms of getting a friendlier dog. A golden retriever or a chocolate Lab, maybe. Buster looks like he could chew someone’s leg off.”

       “Good. Keep Buster. I’ll feel better about you living out here alone.”

       She felt her father scrutinizing her again as she set the rake against the garage. “I should have worn gloves. My hands are cold, and they’ve taken a beating since I moved out of the city.”

       “It’s only been a couple weeks. You got enough money in the bank, Liv? You’re not betting everything on this place, are you?”

       “I have time to make it work before I go broke.”

       “A business plan?”

       Sort of. She didn’t like discussing her finances with anyone, including her well-intentioned father. She smiled at him as she headed for the kitchen door. “Blood, sweat, laughter and tears. How’s that for a business plan?”

       “Liv—”

       “I’m still freelancing. Jacqui Ackerman gives me as much work as I can handle.” Olivia pulled open the door. “Come on in. Lunch is ready.”

       “Where’s Buster?”

       “Cooling his heels in the mudroom. You’re safe.”

       Not, clearly, that her father was worried. Olivia led him into the kitchen. She had set the table for three and felt a pang of disappointment and frustration that her mother had bailed on lunch. She probably was home planning her trip, but if she couldn’t get herself out here for a visit, how was she going to get herself to California? After two weeks back in Knights Bridge, Olivia still hadn’t seen a sign of her mother on her doorstep. So far, any contact was at the mill, her parents’ house or her mother’s usual haunts in the village.

       Olivia watched as her father quietly stacked up the extra place setting and set it on the butcher-block island. Randy and Louise Frost had known each other since kindergarten and had been married for thirty-two years. Olivia was confident that whatever was going on between them—if anything—would sort itself out. After her experience with Marilyn Bryson, Olivia was resisting the temptation to help anyone, much less her parents. She was essentially working two jobs as it was with her freelancing and her efforts to turn her house into The Farm at Carriage Hill.

       “What’s that, Liv?” her father asked, pointing at the pot of soup simmering on the gas stove.

       “Parsnip, turnip and apple soup.”

       “Ah.”

       “It’s seasoned with a dash of nutmeg. I have chopped fresh parsley and grated Parmesan cheese for garnish. It sounds festive, don’t you think?”

       He picked up a wooden spoon and dipped it into the pot. “Sure, Liv. I’m game.”

       “I’m experimenting with different recipes.”

       He tasted the soup and set the spoon down. “Let’s see what it tastes like with the parsley and Parmesan.”

       Olivia laughed. “That bad, is it?”

       The parsley and Parmesan helped, but not enough. The soup was a little…earthy. Her father helped himself to two hunks of warm oatmeal bread, although he passed on the rosemary jam. “It’s got cranberries in it,” Olivia said. “I made it myself.”

       “All right. I’ll try a little. For you, Liv.”

       She grinned at him. “Thanks, Dad. You’re my test case.”

       “Guinea pig, you mean.” He tried the jam and nodded. “Not bad. If you call it rosemary-cranberry jam, it won’t sound like something out of a feedbag.”

       “Good point. I’ll do that.”

       He made no protest about dessert, old-fashioned molasses cookies made from his mother’s—Olivia’s grandmother’s—recipe. He took a cookie with him as he stood up from the table. “Let’s have a look at your backyard now that the snow’s melted,” he said.

       He’d been through the house last fall, after she’d said she was seriously considering buying it, but not since she’d moved in. He’d inspected the center chimney, the wiring, the furnace, the hot-water heater, any signs of potential water damage. The previous owners had done most of the infrastructure repair and renovation, allowing Olivia to focus on cosmetic changes and any adjustments to comply with local and state regulations in order to open up her house to the public. But the previous owners had thought of most of that, too, since they’d planned on starting their own bed-and-breakfast.

       Buster barely stirred when they went out through the mudroom. Olivia left him inside. Her father wasn’t one for gardens and yard work, but he nodded with approval at what she’d managed to accomplish in just two weeks. “It’s a great spot, Liv,” he said. “No trouble with wild animals wandering over here from Quabbin?”

       “Not yet.”

       He pointed at the old stone wall that ran along the side of her property. “Beyond those woods are eighty thousand acres of wilderness. You’re closest neighbor in that direction is miles and miles from here.”

       “I know, Dad. And my closest neighbor in the other direction is an old man from San Diego who hasn’t done a thing to his property in two years.”

       Olivia didn’t mention that she’d written to her absentee neighbor. When she and her father returned to the kitchen, Buster had knocked down the mudroom gate and was in the living room, asleep on the hearth in front of the low fire she had going.

       “My kind of dog,” Randy Frost said with a grin as he left.

       He was on the road with cookies and soup for her mother when she called. “Is your dad still there? There’s freezing rain in the forecast. It’s supposed to be bad.”

       “He just left.” Olivia sat on the couch in front of the fire. “He’ll be back before it starts.”

       “Right. Good.” Her mother took an audible breath, obviously trying to control her anxiety. “How was lunch? Sorry to miss it, but some things came up here. I suggested we come tomorrow, but your dad—well, it doesn’t matter. Did you have a good time?”

       Her mother had been worried about the weather forecast, Olivia realized now. “Lunch was great. Dad didn’t like my parsnip soup.”

       “But you got him to try it?” Her mother laughed. “That’s an achievement right there. He doesn’t always like to try new things.” There was no hint of criticism in her tone. “I’ll get out there, Liv. Soon. I want to help you with the place. Jess says you’re raking and painting everything in sight. I can handle a rake and wield a paintbrush.”

       “That’d be great, Mom. I know you’re busy planning your trip—”

       “California,” she interrupted, almost as if she were gulping. “I’m going. No matter what.”