Red Clover Inn

Brody joined him. “You look awake and sober.”

“I was awake and sober when you saw me last night.”

“Sober, maybe.” Brody pulled out a chair and sat down, loosening his tie. “Great wedding. Heather says she doesn’t regret that we didn’t have a more formal wedding.”

“She’d tell you if she did,” Greg said, noticing Heather making her way toward them.

“True,” Brody said. “Sloans don’t hold back their opinions.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Also true. When do you head to Knights Bridge?”

“Haven’t figured that out. I haven’t even decided on my flight out of here. Probably Monday but I could leave tomorrow. I don’t have anything I need to do in London. Do you know this Red Clover Inn?”

“I remember it from when I was a kid. Quiet place. It did a good business with fishermen and graduations at local colleges. Do you fish, Greg?”

“No.”

“Lots of rivers, streams and lakes in the area, and the reservoir allows fishing.”

“Great. I’ll keep that in mind if I get bored.”

“You’ll get bored,” Brody said with a grin.

“I’m not staying two weeks. There are plenty of Sloans who can look after the inn. I like that I can help out but I figure my bleary eyes last night at the party are half the reason the idea came up.”

“You always have bleary eyes these days, Greg.”

“Point taken.”

“You could use the break.”

“I guess. Anyway, I need to see my kids. They’ve got stuff going on this summer. It’s not like when they were little.” He drank some of his beer. He could hear a bee humming in the roses. “Maybe I’ll invite them out to Knights Bridge before their summer gets crazy. We can pop down and do a few days in DC, too. See the sights there. There aren’t any sights in Knights Bridge.”

“Rivers, streams, lakes and a reservoir.”

“So you said.”

Brody stretched out his legs, drank some of his beer. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the bucolic setting. “You all could tour Emily Dickinson’s old house in Amherst. You read her in high school, right? Nineteenth-century poet. Historic Old Deerfield and Old Sturbridge aren’t far.”

“Old being the operative word here. Make a list. We’ll see.”

“It can feel like time stopped in Knights Bridge,” Brody said.

“But it hasn’t. It marches on there just like everywhere else. Can’t stop the clock.”

“Cheer up. Hell, Greg. It’s a wedding.”

“What? I am cheerful.”

Brody just shook his head. Greg followed his friend’s gaze to Heather, who kept stopping to greet other guests. Finally she made it to their table and sat next to Brody, grabbing his hand. “What a great day,” she said.

Eric Sloan, the best man, stood to toast the bride and groom, followed by the maid of honor, neither of whom let anyone’s champagne get warm. Succinct was fine with Greg but he was intrigued watching Charlotte address the gathering with such poise and graciousness. Not exactly his experience with her. He could hear her laugh of affection and delight when she hugged her cousin after the toast. Maybe he’d been a bigger jerk last night than he’d realized and he’d misjudged her.

“Got what you deserved, my friend,” he said under his breath.

A few minutes after the toast, Charlotte made her way over to his table. It was fun watching her move. He could see she was fit, but he’d had an up-close-and-personal taste of just how fit last night. All that diving had worked wonders.

She didn’t sit. She greeted Brody and Heather warmly, then turned to Greg. “I see you made it to the wedding.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. You ever come eye to eye with sharks while you were diving?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He pointed his champagne glass at her. “I bet you could take on a shark. You’re in good shape. Into CrossFit? I know some guys who are. It’s smart to stay in shape when you dive for sunken treasure for a living. You never know what you’ll run across underwater.”

“I don’t dive for sunken treasure.”

“Right. You’re a serious scholar. Not going to tell me about sharks?”

She touched a fingertip to a rosebud. “We’re at a wedding, Agent Rawlings.”

“So we are.” But his inappropriateness didn’t fully explain the sudden strain in her voice. He’d struck a nerve. He changed the subject. “Are the younger bridesmaids your cousins, too?”

“Ann and Eloisa, yes. They’re the two youngest of Caleb Bennett’s four children. He’s Harry’s younger son. He’s a professor of maritime history and his wife’s a rare-books specialist. They live in London. Samantha and I are closer in age than she is to her first cousins. We have similar interests.”

“Cool.”

“I went on too long?”

“No. I should have said more in response?”

“You seem bored.”

Greg shook his head. “Not bored. You’re here on your own, right?”

“What? I just explained I have family here.”

“I meant a guy. A date. Didn’t it say ‘Charlotte Bennett plus guest’ on your invitation?”

She frowned. “You’re direct.”

“I like to be clear.”

“Mm. That must be it.” She sounded dubious. “Yes, I’m on my own.”

“Why don’t you sit down, have a beer with us?”