She squeezed her eyes shut. “My stomach doesn’t like the twisting roads.”
“You get carsick?”
The car took another turn, the driver slowing down substantially to handle the curve at a more careful rate. Rosabel winced and gripped the door’s handle. “Apparently.”
“Here.” Duncan set his tablet aside and dug through his bag, retrieving a bottle of rattling pills. He shook two free and passed them to her, their skin brushing just enough to make her notice.
“Thanks,” she said, surprised by his unexpected kindness. Rosabel muscled the medicine down and rested her head on the back of the seat, closing her eyes and attempting to be content with the silence until the meds kicked in.
“Anything else?”
She cracked an eye open. He asked if he could help her? Rosabel swallowed. She wouldn’t mind a drink of water, but that was her own fault for not planning ahead. “Um, music helps. Could your driver put some on?”
“Clive?” Duncan called.
The driver’s dark brows were visible in the rearview mirror. “Anything in particular you’d like to listen to?” he asked from the front seat.
That was a no-brainer. “The Beatles.”
Duncan snorted. “Seriously?”
She cracked her eye open again and found him goggling at her. “What?” she said. “The Beatles are classic.”
Duncan continued studying her as “Eight Days a Week” began strumming through the car’s sound system. The familiar guitar worked like a lubricant to her joints. She settled a little deeper into her seat.
“I never pictured you as a golden oldies type,” Duncan said.
Rosabel stopped herself from singing the lyrics, instead settling for nodding her head. “I love oldies. Honestly, I think I was born in the wrong time period.” A few lyrics leaked out as she finished. She didn’t care if Duncan minded. This was who she was. It was time he found that out.
Wonder of wonders, he lowered his tablet and gave her his full attention. “What do you mean by that?”
Rosabel shifted, eagerly swallowing the distraction he provided. “Everything, I guess. My favorite books are classics. Jane Eyre. Pride and Prejudice. Dracula. I adore period movies too, and even old shows—like The Dick van Dyke Show? He was hilarious! Granted, society was more sexist back then, but still. You don’t find that wholesome humor in shows today.”
“So you wish you were born in the 1950s?” Duncan asked.
She thought the question over, humming in time to the song. “Hmm. If I could pick any time period, it would have to be 1837.”
This amused him. He fought back a smile, which hinted at a dimple in his cheek. “So specific?”
“Sure. That was the start of the Victorian Era. I would have one of those delectable Victorian homes with their decorative roofs and gingerbread-house gables that have those really ornate ridge tiles, you know? And the bay windows with their own roof. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the stained-glass mosaics.” She sighed before finishing, “They’re exquisite.”
“Sounds like it,” he said pensively.
“I love the clothing, the dresses, the men’s attire, the manners …”
“The social classes,” he went on, “female oppression, lack of sufficient medical care …”
“Hey,” Rosabel pouted. “The time period sounds horrible if that’s all you focus on.” The car took a sharp turn, and she tightened her fists in her lap, pressing her head to the back of the seat and praying the meds kicked in soon.
“They’re arguable detriments to the time period,” Duncan argued. “A woman had very little rights, and her best chance at success was to get married, but even then, everything she owned belonged to her husband.”
Rosabel sat up. This was no new dispute to her, and for some reason, arguing with him was invigorating. “I like the romance of the time period. If you were to look at today, you’d find our own flaws as well, despite all the amazing medical advances and women’s rights.”
“Point taken. And this?” He pointed upward to the invisible speaker as the song shifted to a Creedence Clearwater Revival hit. If Rosabel didn’t know any better, she’d say their driver started humming under his breath.
“The Beatles are my childhood. My dad loved this music, and I grew up listening to it.”
“And still continue to torture yourself with it.”
She smiled at his playful hint of hopelessness. “Who said it was torture? This music is where it’s at. Are you a fan of rock and roll?”
“Maybe,” he hedged, not giving a definitive answer.
“Then you owe your allegiance to the Beatles. They’re the instigators of rock. And Elvis.”
“Absolutely not,” Duncan snapped. “We’re not listening to Elvis.”
Rosabel laughed, grateful to realize her motion sickness had abated. The driver slowed, readying for another turn. She chanced a glimpse out her window and caught her breath. They’d left paved roads behind and now journeyed along a single-lane path lined by trees on either side. The occasional cabin came into view before the driver took another rather sharp turn and headed toward what appeared to be a community of its own caliber.
As far as homes went, this area was a gold mine. The houses stuck their noses out at the other cabins she and Duncan had passed. These were upscale log cabins that were more akin to ski lodges than a place any single person—or any single family—should live.
“When you said ‘lake house,’ I was thinking a little cozy log cabin with maybe a cuddle-worthy fireplace and some flannel curtains.”
The driver slowed along the street, and she gaped at the massive, beautiful mansions clustered with a shimmering lake as their backdrop. These homes were enormous and probably hosted every possible extravagance within their walls. Some were constructed of logs, while others were covered with stones. They featured every architectural style anyone could wish for: short porches, sweeping stairs, enormous entryways and glittering windows set off with shutters and stone.
And then there was the landscaping. Each house’s design fit perfectly with the rustic mountainous surroundings. There were gravel gardens, oaks and pines, small shrubs, and personal ponds that were undoubtedly stocked with fish.
“These are huge,” Rosabel said. She imagined every home they passed had sky-high ceilings and over-the-top embellishments. Not to mention the lake’s jaw-dropping view.
“This neighborhood is exclusive,” Duncan agreed. “A billionaire’s mountain cove. Not Victorian, but still …”
“Stunning,” Rosabel amended. “I’ve never seen one house this huge, let alone an entire community of them. People actually live here?”
Duncan returned his attention to his device, but he peered over his tablet just enough to grunt in agreement.
Rosabel nudged his shoulder. “Come on, you haven’t even looked yet.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“But …” Thanks to the paper copies of his personal investments she’d kept on hand, she was privy to more information than she probably should have been. However, she had no recollection of this particular investment, which meant it must have been extremely recent. “But you just bought this place.”