money, Mr. Carter, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. Between my sister and this place,” she looked around her at the distinctly down-at-heel, half-empty bar, “I’m pretty much cleaned out right now.”
“It’s Devon,” he said, looking her directly in the eye in a way she found both flattering and disconcerting. “And it isn’t your money that interests me, Honor.”
Honor blushed. He was flirting with her! Men never flirted with her. At long last she felt herself letting go of some of her pent-up tension and starting to relax. It was nice. He was nice. At least, he seemed to be.
“Are you propositioning me?” she asked bluntly. She never had learned how to do the coy, eyelash-fluttering thing.
Devon grinned. He was looking less teacher and more naughty schoolboy by the second. “If I am, then I’m afraid I shouldn’t be,” he said. “I’m probably old enough to be your father. And besides,” he stared deeply into the amber liquid in his own glass, “I’m married.” Honor couldn’t help but notice that he said this last with all the enthusiasm of a man admitting to advanced-stage syphilis.
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” she observed.
Devon shrugged. “It is what it is.”
It was as if she’d inadvertently popped a balloon. All at once his mood had shifted from playful to serious. The next thing she knew he was looking at his watch and gathering up his coat, preparing to leave.
“Please, don’t leave on my account,” she blurted, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I was only kidding about the proposition thing.”
“Look, sorry,” he said, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and leaving it on the bar beside the pretzels. “It’s not you. I have to get home, that’s all. But it was a pleasure meeting you again, Honor. Really. Maybe next time you’re in town we can catch up properly.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Actually, I’ll be staying in town for a while, if you—”
But he’d already gone, hurtling out the door like he had a fire to get to.
She seemed to be having this effect on people a lot today.
“What do you know about that guy?” she asked Enrique, the barman, after he’d gone.
Now in his sixties, Enrique had been running the bar at Palmers since before Honor was born. As one of the few staff who knew for sure his job was safe, he was more than happy to stop and chew the fat with her.
“Devon Carter? He’s Mr. East Hampton,” he said, “or at least, he is for the summers. Comes out here every year with his family, sometimes for Easter too. He’s on the planning committee, secretary of the Golf Club, part-time deacon over at St. Mark’s…”
“Jeez, OK, OK,” said Honor, frowning. “I get the picture. He’s Ned Flanders.”
“Not quite so God Squad,” chuckled Enrique, surprising Honor by getting the
Simpsons
reference. Somehow he didn’t seem the type. “But he’s big on family values, yeah. Definitely not for you, my dear.”
“For me? Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Honor, blushing again. “Although, for what it’s worth, I’ll have you know I’m
huge
on family values. And I bet you my family’s
much
more valuable than Devon—deacon-of-St.-Mark’s—Carter’s.”
Enrique smiled and poured her another drink.
“It’s good to have you back, Miss Palmer.”
“Thanks,” said Honor with a sigh. “But I’m afraid you’re the only person around here who thinks so.”
CHAPTER FOUR
L UCAS TRIED TO tune out the drunken ramblings of the stinking tramp sitting next to him on the tube as he reread the article in yesterday’s
Evening Standard
.
“What saddens me most,” says bubbly Heidi, her eyes brimming with tears, “is that Carina’s the innocent victim here. She’s a four-year-old child that desperately needs help. How can her own father let her down like this?”
The paper had devoted two full pages to the interview and pictures of “bubbly Heidi,” explaining that she
“It’s Devon,” he said, looking her directly in the eye in a way she found both flattering and disconcerting. “And it isn’t your money that interests me, Honor.”
Honor blushed. He was flirting with her! Men never flirted with her. At long last she felt herself letting go of some of her pent-up tension and starting to relax. It was nice. He was nice. At least, he seemed to be.
“Are you propositioning me?” she asked bluntly. She never had learned how to do the coy, eyelash-fluttering thing.
Devon grinned. He was looking less teacher and more naughty schoolboy by the second. “If I am, then I’m afraid I shouldn’t be,” he said. “I’m probably old enough to be your father. And besides,” he stared deeply into the amber liquid in his own glass, “I’m married.” Honor couldn’t help but notice that he said this last with all the enthusiasm of a man admitting to advanced-stage syphilis.
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” she observed.
Devon shrugged. “It is what it is.”
It was as if she’d inadvertently popped a balloon. All at once his mood had shifted from playful to serious. The next thing she knew he was looking at his watch and gathering up his coat, preparing to leave.
“Please, don’t leave on my account,” she blurted, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I was only kidding about the proposition thing.”
“Look, sorry,” he said, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and leaving it on the bar beside the pretzels. “It’s not you. I have to get home, that’s all. But it was a pleasure meeting you again, Honor. Really. Maybe next time you’re in town we can catch up properly.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Actually, I’ll be staying in town for a while, if you—”
But he’d already gone, hurtling out the door like he had a fire to get to.
She seemed to be having this effect on people a lot today.
“What do you know about that guy?” she asked Enrique, the barman, after he’d gone.
Now in his sixties, Enrique had been running the bar at Palmers since before Honor was born. As one of the few staff who knew for sure his job was safe, he was more than happy to stop and chew the fat with her.
“Devon Carter? He’s Mr. East Hampton,” he said, “or at least, he is for the summers. Comes out here every year with his family, sometimes for Easter too. He’s on the planning committee, secretary of the Golf Club, part-time deacon over at St. Mark’s…”
“Jeez, OK, OK,” said Honor, frowning. “I get the picture. He’s Ned Flanders.”
“Not quite so God Squad,” chuckled Enrique, surprising Honor by getting the
Simpsons
reference. Somehow he didn’t seem the type. “But he’s big on family values, yeah. Definitely not for you, my dear.”
“For me? Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Honor, blushing again. “Although, for what it’s worth, I’ll have you know I’m
huge
on family values. And I bet you my family’s
much
more valuable than Devon—deacon-of-St.-Mark’s—Carter’s.”
Enrique smiled and poured her another drink.
“It’s good to have you back, Miss Palmer.”
“Thanks,” said Honor with a sigh. “But I’m afraid you’re the only person around here who thinks so.”
CHAPTER FOUR
L UCAS TRIED TO tune out the drunken ramblings of the stinking tramp sitting next to him on the tube as he reread the article in yesterday’s
Evening Standard
.
“What saddens me most,” says bubbly Heidi, her eyes brimming with tears, “is that Carina’s the innocent victim here. She’s a four-year-old child that desperately needs help. How can her own father let her down like this?”
The paper had devoted two full pages to the interview and pictures of “bubbly Heidi,” explaining that she
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