He bit into one. The roll was hot, the frosting thick and not too sweet. The combination of flavors, the way the dough nearly melted on his tongue, was perfection. Mason had never been all that interested in food, except as fuel, but lately that was changing.
“Delicious,” he said when he’d swallowed. “If I eat as many as I want, I’m going to have to up my run for the next few days.”
“Every fine chef wants her food to be enjoyed. I’m afraid I’m not very fun for Salvia. I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.” She sliced off a tiny piece of cinnamon roll before popping it in her mouth. “As wonderful as I remember. So, Mason, how are you settling into the house?”
“Still finding my way around,” he admitted.
“You should explore. There are many surprises.”
“I have a door in my room that opens onto a wall.”
She laughed. “There are several of those, along with staircases that go nowhere and a few secret rooms.” She picked up her coffee. “You spoke with Gregory.”
“As you suggested.”
“Yes. It went well?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer. “There was a lot of information.”
She looked at him. “Selling makes the most sense. The upkeep on a house like this is very expensive, and what use would you have for it?” She looked around. “Robyn and I have talked about what it would take to convert it to a hotel, but I’m not sure that’s even feasible.”
“Robyn?”
“My great-niece.”
The woman getting the contents and the cats. He hoped Robyn had a big enough place to hold all the furniture, knickknacks and critters.
“Will you sell?” she asked.
He wasn’t comfortable with the line of questioning. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”
“Because you selling the house means I’m dead?” The smile returned. “Mason, I’m ninety-four. I’ve long made peace with my passing. You should as well. As to the house, the local historical society is very interested in buying. They’re already raising money. You’d get more from some developer, but I hope you’ll consider the historical people. They have big plans for the building.”
He had no idea what to say. “Thank you for the information.”
“You’re welcome. Gregory has all the details, and with a little luck, none of this will be an issue for years to come.”
“That’s my hope as well.”
“You’re very kind.” Her gaze turned speculative. “Did you leave anyone special back in Texas?”
“I don’t have any family.”
“I was thinking more of a significant other.”
“No.”
“Then I must try harder to get Robyn to visit. She’s divorced with two wonderful children. Harlow is twenty-two, and Austin is eighteen.”
He reached for another cinnamon roll. “Don’t go there, Lillian. I’m a bad bet when it comes to women.”
“How interesting. Why is that?”
“I’ve been divorced twice. I’m good at a lot of things, but relationships aren’t one of them.”
“What did you do wrong?”
“More things than we have time to talk about.”
She laughed. “A very polite way to tell me to mind my own business. All right. I’ll stop questioning you, but I’ll continue to wonder.”
“Works for me.”
Salvia returned with a serving bowl in the same pattern as the dishes. She set the scramble between them and handed the serving spoon to Mason. He offered it to Lillian, but she shook her head.
“Help yourself. I’m not going to have eggs this morning.”
Mason eyed the combination of egg, sausage, cheese, onions and green peppers. How could she pass this up?
He put a large serving onto his plate.
“Twenty-five acres of land come with the house,” Lillian said as he ate. “When I’m gone, you should have a survey done and hold back a few acres for yourself. Something with a nice view of the ocean. You’ll have plenty of money to build a house. Unless you plan to move back to Texas.”
He hadn’t known there was land. No way he could afford a house on the ocean, but if he got the land for free and some money from the sale of the house, maybe he could swing it.
“I would probably stay here,” he said. “There’s nothing for me back in Texas.”
“Santa Barbara is a beautiful little town. You must go see the mission and do some wine tasting. There’s also great shopping, but I suspect that’s not your thing.”
He chuckled. “I’m not a shopper.”
They talked through breakfast. When they were finished, Lillian insisted he take a couple of cinnamon rolls up to his room. He ate one as his laptop booted. He glanced at his screen, but had no interest in his book. Instead he stared out at the view of the Pacific.
The water was a deep blue today, with a few whitecaps from the breeze. As he watched, a seagull landed on his balcony’s railing. Out of nowhere, a white cat raced to the closed French door and stared out, making a cacking sound in the back of his throat.
“You think you could catch that?” Mason asked the cat. “Or is this just wishful thinking?”
The cat ignored the question. When the seagull flew away, the cat jumped onto the desk and gave Mason a headbutt. Mason turned over its tag.
“Hello, Charles II,” he said, rubbing under the cat’s chin. “Are you a mighty hunter?”
Charles II began to purr.
“I think you’re happy being taken care of. It’s a whole lot better than fighting for every meal.”
Mason knew that from personal experience. While he’d never had to hunt for his food, he’d been on a couple of tours that had been intense. Facing death on a daily basis had a way of changing a man, and not always for the better.
Like Charles, he was living a different kind of life—lately a very surreal one, in a house on a hill.
“With a strange old lady and too many damned cats.”
Charles II leaned against him and continued to purr.
eight
ROBYN STOOD IN the far bay of her four-car garage. Three dressers and a dining room table filled the space. Estate sale finds she’d bought over the last couple of years with the idea she would refinish and sell them. She’d made a nice profit that way a few times. She’d played with the idea of starting a business, only somehow she’d never gotten past the buying-a-few-pieces stage.