Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

      “How are you?” Emily’s plump face peered out from the kitchen door.

      At least no kidney’s frying this morning—just coffee. “Fine. Just got up early. I’ve lots I want to do today.”

      “Feeling alright?” Emily looked unbelievably worried.

      “You bet! Living here seems to agree with me.” Her life had certainly taken a turn for the better this past week. Some week! She’d left Charleston, a newly unemployed school librarian, recently spectacularly dumped by the love of her life. Today she owned property in England and enough money to consider herself a woman of independent means. These things happened in the romance novels Gran used to read, not to Dixie LePage.

      Dixie thought more about it as she drove into the village. Talk about life changes! She’d even found new men—Sebastian, polished, as good looking as hope and as worrying as a sore tooth; Christopher, strange as they come and faster than a speeding bullet; James, the obvious villain of the piece—the sleazy nephew.

      She bought still-warm croissants from the baker on High Street and fresh coffee, ground to order in the small grocery store next door.

      “Fine grind, I’ll remember that,” said the round and cheerful woman behind the counter. “You’re the American who’s moved into Orchard House, aren’t you? We deliver on Tuesdays and Fridays. Call us and we’ll send up whatever you need. I’m Kim, just ask for me.”

      “I will,” Dixie replied, taking the business card from Kim, “but I’m still waiting for a phone.”

      “You are? Did you call British Telecom?” Dixie nodded. Sarah went on, “I’ll have a word with my son. He works for them. I’ll see what he can do.” Dixie thanked her and left with her coffee and a plastic bag of milk that threatened to leak.

      The Aga had gone out in the night, but Dixie managed to relight it on the third try and felt she’d scaled some new domestic height. On the back door she found a note from the milkman asking when she wanted delivery started, and how much. Someone had tucked a parish newsletter into the mail slot in the front door. It was as if the village suddenly decided to acknowledge her presence.

      Sipping her coffee, Dixie wondered where she could buy more of the solid fuel to replenish the dwindling supply. She took a deep breath. Yesterday she contemplated purchasing a new refrigerator. Today, it was milk delivery and fuel. What next?

      What next was Sally rapping on the back door to give an estimate for cleaning.

      As they walked through the house, looking over the peeling wallpaper, yellowed paint and damp patches over the front door, a quick sale seemed the best idea. But a few minutes surrounded by the pear wood paneling in the dining room and imagining a good log fire in the marble fireplace in the drawing room, and Dixie knew she was here to stay. Maybe for more than a month—or two.

      The front doorbell rang as they were halfway upstairs. It was the locksmith.

      Sally called from the stairs, “I’ll check out the upstairs.”

      Dixie hesitated. Why? She couldn’t be in two places at once. Sally could easily look over the bedrooms by herself. The locksmith set his tool bag down with a clank. “Let’s look at these locks of yours.”

      “Tell you what,” he said after inspecting the doors. “I can give you a nice set of Chubb locks. Front, back and French windows, and that side door by the breakfast room. No sense in just doing the front door.”

      Dixie agreed, even though the price suggested gold-plated locks. She intended to prevent uninvited visitors, whatever the cost—and heck, she didn’t need to pinch pennies now.

      He busied himself drilling a perfect circle in the oak front door, and commenting on the antique lock. “Wonderful they are. All made by hand back then. Beautiful to use and work with, but they’ll never keep out anyone who knows what they’re doing.”

      They hadn’t.

      As he moved on to the French windows, another man arrived at the front door. “Cheers. Mum said you needed phones.”

      A couple of hours later, Dixie had phones in the kitchen, the front hall and the big bedroom overlooking the back garden that she’d earmarked for her own.

      She closed the door on British Telecom just as the locksmith came in from the kitchen.

      “You’re all set up. They won’t get in here easily.” He handed her a set of bright keys and left her in a quiet house. No bustle of workmen, no toneless singing, no burr of automatic tools. Alone in her own house.

      Except for Sally! The upstairs was deserted, but open doors and closets ajar showed where Sally had gone through the rooms. In the book room, someone had rifled through Christopher’s stack of books. No doubt about it. The copy of The Jew had been at the top of the pile. Now it lay open, a few inches from the rest of them. Why worry? Sally had been curious, that was all.

      Sally had left a note and estimate on the kitchen table. She’d slipped out, she said, because Dixie was busy. She could send in a crew on Wednesday if Dixie would call. The charges seemed reasonable enough, given a major spring clean was needed. Dixie went around and locked every door. It was getting late and she had to get back to Emily’s and tell her about moving out in the morning.