At the sound of Mrs. Wardle’s voice, I wheeled around and bumped into Ali. We exchanged puzzled glances before descending the steps.

      “I didn’t realize that someone was up there.” I tried to assume a noncommittal expression.
“Is the lady a family member?” Ali blurted the question I was too polite to ask.
Mrs. Wardle pursed her lips, not quite sure how to respond. “She is the owner’s mother. She is feeble and prefers solitude.”

      “I see,” I said, convinced that Mrs. Wardle was withholding vital facts. Either someone helped the elderly woman up and down the steep staircase for meals, or…she was being held prisoner. I read the same suspicion in Ali’s face. To smooth over the situation, I said, “Mr. Ahmed has several places to consider. We’ll get back to you soon.”

      No sooner were we settled in the car than my cell phone rang.

      “Amanda?…This is Robin…Burke Cameron’s been trying to reach you. Here’s the number where you can get him.”

      Burke answered at once. Without asking my identity, he said, “Ms. Prescott, there’s been a postponement. You were to take Mr. Ahmed to Crestmont this afternoon, but the owner can’t see you until after eight. Can you stall?”

      “No problem. I’ve scheduled two more showings in the area. Instead of going directly to Crestmont, we can have dinner in Warrenton first…”

      “That should do it. Where do you plan to eat?”

      “Your mother recommended The Depot.”

      “Good choice. Stay close to your phone. If there are any changes, I’ll be in touch.”

      Ali searched my face. “Problem?”

      “A shift in the schedule. We’ll eat first. I hope it’s not too dark to see the grounds.”

      “If so, we’ll go back another day.”

      I shrank from Ali’s penetrating glance, refusing him access to my thoughts.

      The Depot’s short-line tracks visible from a picture window were the sole reminder of a once-bustling branch of the C&O Railroad. Time, Interstate highways, and the trucking industry had hastened its abandonment. Inside, the stationmaster’s counter held a spray of flowers, while the ticket office beyond was transformed into a cozy dining alcove. Oriental screens and banks of fresh greenery partitioned the intimate niches to convey a sense of privacy.

      As the ancient clock in the county courthouse struck six, I perused the blackboard menu.

      “I’ll have the sea bass, if it won’t take long,” I told the waiter.

      “Time matters not,” Ali said. “I’ll have the roast lamb.” He leaned forward as the waiter moved out of range. 

      “Why are you so business-like? This is the time to relax and enjoy oneself. If we miss the appointment, we can make another. I’d like to get to know you better.”

      I tensed. “Mr. Ahmed, you must understand several things. First of all, I am here to find you the perfect place to live. By socializing, I do the Cameron Agency a disservice. Secondly, the places that meet your needs are limited. Someone could be making an offer right now on the ideal farm…”

      Ali smiled patiently. “Ms. Prescott, those in a hurry miss the beautiful sights along the way, and you are one of the most beautiful sights I have seen in a long time.”

      Not pausing to blink, I ignored his protest, “…And thirdly, Mr. Ahmed, I am obligated to conduct my relationships with all of my clients on an impersonal basis.”

      Ali laughed aloud. “I thought this was a free country, not a police state. If you choose to spend time with me, that should be your affair, not your employer’s concern.”

      “The key word is ‘choose,’ Mr. Ahmed. I do not choose to have a social relationship with you. The end.”
Ali imitated my serious expression. “Horrors! A fate worse than death!”

      I felt my eyes narrow. “For a newcomer to this country, you’re very familiar with our idioms.”
“My family has traveled here many times and I spent two years at Princeton. You might call me a second-hand American, but I must admit I don’t know what to make of the old woman. Is it an American custom to put grandmothers in attics?”

      “True, there wasn’t much in that attic to keep someone’s mind occupied,” I said.

      “Exactly!” Ali leaned across the table. “I believe the woman was placed there either because she already has lost her mind…or to make sure that she does.”

      “Why would anyone do that?”

      “Perhaps she knows something, or maybe she’s hiding something she won’t give up and was put there to change her mind.”

      As I was mulling over the options, the waiter arrived with our platters topped by silver warming dishes. With a flourish, he whipped off the cover of one, revealing an immense fish sizzling between parsley sprigs and roasted zucchini slivers. Golden duchess potatoes nestled in a gilt-edged side dish.

      “It looks lovely.”

      “And so does mine,” Ali said, as he examined a fan of thinly sliced lamb, faintly pink, surrounded by tiny eggplants stuffed with sweet peppers, tomatoes, pine nuts, and currants. Solicitously, the waiter scooped fluffy rice onto a small place, topping it with a dollop of butter and a squeeze of lemon. 

      Ali rubbed his hands together. “Begin, begin,” he urged. “Food for thought. Perhaps it will help us solve the puzzle.”

      Managing a silent truce, I pierced my bass and savored its delicate flavor, scarcely noting the two men being seated by the maitre d’ at a table behind the nearest oriental screen. For a moment, I thought one looked like Burke Cameron. Of course it couldn’t be. 

      When the bill arrived, Ali reached for it gallantly, but I maneuvered my credit card onto the tray. “This is on the Cameron Agency,” I reminded him. “All part of our service.” I hoped that my aggressive move riveted on his mind the fact that our relationship was strictly business.

      “If you insist,” Ali said, rising to usher me out of the chair.

      As we headed toward the door, I strained to see the secluded table. The man who had resembled Burke Cameron was no longer there, although his companion was seated with his back to me.

      Just then, someone grabbed my elbow and a rough voice in my ear said, “Ms. Prescott, I thought I heard you across the room.”
 

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at