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I’m selfish keeping him with me?” he asked.
    “Easy answer, Spencer. No. You’re his father. He needs you. People’s needs are never equal in any relationship. The only equal thing between people is their ability to misunderstand each other’s needs,” she said.
    “That sounds a bit Irish if I’m allowed to say that,” he said.
    “That’d be moy Oirish blood, Sor,” she said laughing.
    “And your father?” he asked.
    “I never had a father. I had a dad and I still do,” she said.
    “Shannon….”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. You’re a little minx, Shannon,” he said.
    He hadn’t looked at her. The touch not touched and the look not looked hung like a great weight on a rope which tied them together, pulling them closer and closer.
    She heard a sound and a snort behind them. She spun round to see a huge, horned, long-haired cow about a yard away.
    “Jesus fucking Christ!” she exclaimed.
    “Ah, that’s Petal, one of the Highland Longhorns. She won’t harm you.”
    Shannon watched him get up and approach the beast. He patted the creature with his assured strong hands. She regarded the horns. She would rather take her chances with a mad axeman.
    The mood had changed when he came back.
    “It was your birthday yesterday,” she said.
    “Yes. I was forty-one.”
    “And I’m twenty-nine, just to save you asking, but more because I wanted to tell you,” she said.
    “You wanted to tell me?”
    “Yeah, so that I gave you of myself what you gave me of yourself.”
    He nodded agreement.
    “Fleetworth-Green is very special. I like to think of it as a bit of an island—a sanctuary if you prefer. This boy smoking drugs thing last night is a worry you know,” he said.
    “There’s bound to be stuff. I’m not looking to grandstand it or make dramas. I don’t want scumbags getting rich selling to kids either.”
    “Would you, could you keep me informed of any police-type drug situations in the village?”
    “That would be very much against legal protocols, Sir,” she said.
    “That’s not what I asked.”
    “That’s why I didn’t say no.”
    Suddenly he reached out and touched her arm just below the shoulder. It was an impulsive bond of complicity. She smiled and placed her hand on top of his. There was a stir of passion in her belly as his eyes questioned her hand still lying on his and pressing it to her skin. The warmth melted them into the air and swept them up and away from the weight of separate lives into the scent of lime trees and the sigh of the breeze.
    “I’m flying,” she said at last.
    He had no answer but to let his eyes stay with hers. And fly.
     
     
    She snapped back to the moment.
    “I hope you can make a decent cup of tea,” she said.
    “Earl Grey?” he replied.
    “Nah, come on. Yorkshire Gold, please. They grow lovely tea on the south-facing slopes of the Yorkshire Dales.”
    He nodded seriously.
    “They only harvest it on 1st April and I may have missed it.”
    “OK. Next time then, Spencer,” she replied.
    He drove to the house and stopped at the front entrance. Again he opened the door and offered his forearm. He escorted her up a flight of wide stone steps to an open doorway flanked by massive stone columns. He led the way across a marble-floored hall which itself sported marble pillars. Twin paneled doors opened to reveal a long wide corridor which formed a gallery of paintings. She imagined the people to be Bloxington ancestors although she spotted some members of the royal family. At the far vanishing point end, he stopped in front of a new style vibrant painting. It was a long full-length portrait of a beautiful woman in a magnificent blue ball gown. The background was of the lake and the house from the point where she had been sitting with him. She was young, about her own age with a haughty elegance which made Shannon feel like a fast-food waitress at the end of a shift. The woman’s long dark lustrous hair fell around her shoulders.
    “Saskia, Ben’s