Page 32 of Old Money
But I see something else now. Alex Chapman’s front door opens and a child runs out—a little boy in swim trunks and chunky sandals. A woman leans out the door, calling for him to come back, to get his swim bag. The boy ignores her, zooming around the yard in a wide circle with his arms out, singing loudly to himself. He reminds me of Simon. The woman retreats into the house, leaving the door open, and a moment later, a man appears.
“Georgie boy!” he calls, coming out onto the steps. “George, c’mon, get your stuff so we can go.”
He stands watching, hands on hips, until the boy zooms back toward the house. The man starts to turn back too, but then he pauses, shielding his eyes from the sun. He’s looking at me.
“Morning,” he says and waves, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
I stick my arm out the window, waving back. But I can’t make myself speak.
The man waits another moment, then goes back to the house,glancing over his shoulder. He is tall and heavyset, with broad shoulders and very blond hair. And he is not Alex Chapman.
I sit back, waiting for it to click—the obvious explanation that just hasn’t occurred to me. There’s got to be one. I grab my phone, pulling up Jeremy’s email. Either I mixed up the address or he got the wrong one. But, no. This is 84 Bramble Bush, and according to current property records, 84 Bramble Bush belongs to Alexander C. Chapman. Furthermore, he has no other known residence. This is his home. So, what are these people doing in it?
“Hello there,” says a cool voice to my right.
“Oh!” I gasp, whipping my head toward the passenger window, yelping even louder. “Oh God!”
At first, I just see the horse, and then the person on it. She’s dressed in jodhpurs and a white, sleeveless blouse. I duck a little, waving out the window.
“Sorry, hello. I was—”
Then I see who I’m talking to. Liv Yates sits serene and sweatless in the saddle. Her hair is tucked into a low bun, and she’s smiling a closed-lip smile.
“Everything all right?” she asks.
I try to nod.
“Are you sure?” She casts a glance at the car, the old engine wheezing.
“Yes,” I eke out.
It’s not just me. This is the effect she has on everyone.Regalis the word most people use, but that’s too simple. Liv Yates is mesmerizing, in the truest sense of the word. When she looks at you, you don’t blink. And though her husband is the prototypical politician right down to the tilted-head wave, Liv Yates is not anyone’s idea of the politician’s wife. And it’s not because of her striking self-possession or her unapologetic snobbery, or the fact that she rides horseback down the middle of the road at eight in the morning. It’s that she does it without making a sound.
“Car trouble?” she asks politely, though I’ve already answered, twice.
“No,” I say softly, and something shifts in Liv’s bright eyes.Ah, I realize.Not the answers she wanted.
“Some other trouble then—forgive me. Not my business?”
She dips her head, the curve beneath her cheekbones sharpening as her taut smile deepens. This time, she doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“Oh dear, I certainly hope not.” She gives me a teasing, wide-eyed look. “Can’t say ‘hello’ to you without a lawyer present—I ought to know better!”
Liv drops the face and laughs a tuneful chuckle. It skitters down my back like a bug.
“Ajoke, dear,” she says. “And barely. Good gracious, your face.”
I have no idea what face I’m making. I can’t even feel my face.
“Ah well,” Liv Yates sighs, resettling herself in the saddle. “You were always a sensitive thing.”
Liv holds me frozen in her gaze for another endless moment. Then her back straightens and she squeezes the horse with her thighs.
“You’re over the property line,” she says as the horse strolls onward. “I’d move that car before someone makes a call.”
I watch until she reaches the downslope on the other end of the road. At last, she descends out of view and my body unfreezes, my shoulders dropping with such force that my head wobbles. I drop back against my seat, still staring down the road in a daze.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I jump, fumbling to catch it. It’s a text from Jamie.
