Love in Another Town by Barbara Taylor Bradford

work.
    In no time at all they were turning through white gates and heading up the driveway of Havers Hill, the farm Maggie had been hired to remodel, restore and decorate.
    Jake parked near a big red barn and then walked around to help her get out of the pick-up. He gave her his hands and she took them. As she jumped down she lost her balance and stumbled against him. He caught her, held her in his arms for a brief moment, and she clung to him. They drew apart quickly, staring at each other self-consciously.
    Maggie turned away, straightened her jacket to cover her sudden confusion, and then reached into the truck for her briefcase and handbag.
    After she had moved away, Jake, swallowing hard, closed the door of the pick-up and swung around, glancing about him as he did.
    The property was magnificent.
    Well-kept green lawns sloped away from the drive,rolled as far as the eye could see. Beyond were pastures, and even farther beyond mountains partially encircled the property. Nearby, an old stone wall bordered a smaller lawn where a gazebo sat in the shade of an ancient gnarled maple, and the wall itself made a fitting backdrop for an English-style border of perennials.
    He shaded his eyes with his hand. In the distance he could see an apple orchard. ‘What a place!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s beautiful. I’d like to own something like this one day.’
    â€˜Then I’m sure you will,’ she replied, smiling at him. ‘If you want something badly enough you can usually get it, if you work hard at it, of course.’
    Gesturing to a series of buildings just ahead of them, she went on, ‘That’s the caretaker’s house over there, Jake, and the farmhouse is the bigger building to the right. Come on, I want to show you around.’
    She began to walk rapidly towards the house, continuing, ‘I told the caretaker, Mrs Briggs, that we’d be coming over, so the front door’s open.’ She glanced over her shoulder at him as she spoke.
    Jake caught up with her and they went into the house together, their shoulders brushing in the narrow entrance.
    Even though the lights were on, the hallway was dark and Jake blinked, adjusting his eyes to the murkiness of the interior.
    â€˜It’s very old,’ he said to Maggie, peering about, moving forward, looking inside several rooms that opened off the entrance hall.
    â€˜Yes, it is. About 1740 or 1750, somewhere thereabouts,’ she told him. ‘And it was furnished in EarlyAmerican style; most authentically, in fact. Most of the furniture’s been sold though. My client only wanted to keep a few choice pieces.’
    â€˜Think about it, Maggie, this house was built before the American Revolution. My God, what these walls could tell us if they could talk!’
    Maggie laughed. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I’ve often thought that myself. About other places I mean, especially in England and France.’
    â€˜Who owned the farm?’ he asked, turning to her.
    â€˜A Mrs Stead. It had been in the Stead family for several hundred years. The last Mrs Stead died about a year and a half ago. No, two years ago, to be exact. She was very old, ninety-five when she died. Her English granddaughter inherited the property, but since she’s a married woman with children and lives in London, obviously her life is on the other side of the Atlantic. So she put the property, the farmhouse and its contents on the market two years ago. She thought she’d sell Havers Hill immediately, because it is such an idyllic place. But the asking price was in the millions and it’s no longer the 1980s. So naturally she didn’t have any takers. She finally had to drop the price.’
    Jake said, ‘A lot of people who want to sell their weekend homes up here are beginning to realize the prices of the eighties are finished. Anyway, who finally bought it? Who’s your client?’
    â€˜A married couple. Anne and