“It lands at ten past nine in the morning,” she said.

“I’ll have a staff car waiting at the gate,” I said.

Clare stepped closer and pressed her forehead against my shoulder, holding me tightly around the waist while the night wind moved through the pine trees behind the club.

By seven thirty on Sunday morning, the low fog had lifted off the damp grass along Main Street.

The Main Street Diner was quiet when we walked through the front doors at eight o’clock.

Three older men in green canvas hunting coats sat at the laminate counter reading the Sunday paper, and the sharp smell of bacon and fresh coffee filled the narrow room.