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He straightened, brushing off his hands. “Is that the caretaker’s cottage?”

“It is. Would you like to see it?”

He walked half a step behind her down the path through an uncultivated portion of the land. When they passed through a stand of scrub oak trees, the caretaker’s cottage came into full view. It was a small version of the cedar-shingled main house with a modest wooden porch stained a dark brown under a sloping roof at the front.

“I had two of my maids come and clean it after our conversation at Oleander House,” she explained as they approached. “A cart will bring furniture up tomorrow morning. If there is anything else you might require, you need only let me know.”

“I’d like to look inside,” he said.

Adele lingered outside while he climbed the porch steps, his heavy boots clattering on the wooden slats. He reached for the screen door, the hinges protesting wildly as he pulled it toward him. He gave the knob of the dark brown front door a twist and pushed it open, disappearing inside.

While she waited, she shifted her weight slightly from foot to foot. She found herself hoping he liked the home she was providing him. It was modest, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the living room, bedroom, dining room, and kitchen all built around a central hall would suit him. On hot nights, he would be able to open the windows in every room and catch the cross breezes that would cool the house, and on those rare nights it rained he might sit on the porch and watch the elements wage war against the foothills.

After a few moments, Macalister reemerged. He said nothing, merely walked over to the railing that framed out the porch and gave it a little shake. He did the same thing with one of the plain columns of wood holding up the porch’s roof.

“It is suitable?” she asked.

“There’s a space at the back that’s not being used. Any objections to me planting a vegetable garden?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“I’ll move in Wednesday,” he said.

She let out a little breath. “Good.”

She thought the matter concluded, but then Macalister surprised her by asking, “How often can I expect to see you up here, Mrs. Whitley?”

“Oh,” she said, a little startled. “I will come as often as I can to see the progress of the work, but that depends a great deal upon my obligations in town.”

“Mrs. Barnes said your husband owns hotels.”

“Yes, he does. The Andalusian and the Colorado Grand.”

“I’ll need help doing the initial clearing of land if you want the ground ready for the initial planting season,” he said, pivoting subjects so quickly she hardly had time to think.

“Hire the men you need. You may write to me at the Gables if you have any other requirements.”

Macalister gave the caretaker’s cottage one more look and then turned back to the house, their business done.

chapter twenty-nine ADELE

Although Adele had fully intended to return to Rosewood House on Wednesday for Macalister’s first day, she found herself frustrated by her many obligations, making calls and hosting supper for four of Guy’s more important investors down from San Francisco for a yellowtail fishing trip off Catalina Island.

The Thursday after her walk around the garden with Macalister, Adele returned to the Gables from tea at a neighbor’s home relieved to remember that she had nothing more planned for the evening than an intimate supper with Margot, James, Mama, Papa, Mrs. Barnes, Miss Barnes, and Guy at home. All she had to concern herself with was what she would wear that evening.

That was, until the hour for supper actually came.

Through the open door of the drawing room, Adele could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, the awkwardness of her present situation growing more oppressive every moment. Next to her on the light blue striped sofa sat Margot in a pink silk evening gown and across from them James in his dinner jacket and black tie. Mrs. Barnes and her daughter, who had arrived a good half hour ago, sat in two of the Louis XV chairs Adele had purchased in Paris, while Mama and Papa occupied the other set.

Guy, however, was nowhere to be seen.

At first, Adele had not worried. Her husband had a habit of keeping long hours, insisting on personally overseeing many aspects of his hotels’ staffing and accounting despite employing competent staff. Adele had grown used to him flying into his dressing room to quickly change for supper or wherever they were due to be that evening. On the rare occasions that he was unavoidably detained, he always sent word in the form of a message carried by one of his hotel’s pages.

That afternoon, however, there had been no note, no warning that when the various clocks around the house began to chime eight bells he would still be detained, despite knowing their evening plans.

Adele rose to her feet. “Shall we go through to the dining room?”

She saw the flash of something hard and thoroughly disapproving in Mama’s eyes. “Perhaps we should wait for Guy, or do you think he’s forgotten? He does become rather wrapped up in his business dealings.”