Free The House of Wood by Anthony Price Page A

Main Street. More familiar sights streamed past her
vision, just like the night she and Becky arrived in town. Fred's
Milkshake Bar, where they used to hang out as teenagers, sipping on
thick chocolate shakes, or root beer floats; the Fifties style
diner, where she had her tenth birthday; Annette’s Boudoir. Her
prom dress came from there. All the memories flooded her mind. It
was as if she had stepped back in time. The time before everything
changed.
    An unfamiliar sensation came
over her. Deep down, she missed this place. The sleepy little town
of Willows Peak was her home. She had grown up here. She belonged
here.
    Just before they broke through
the outskirts of town, David turned into the car park adjacent to
Costello’s Authentic Italian Bistro. He brought the car to a
halt.
    “Well, here we are. Have you
eaten here before?"
    “No, I haven't,” Rachel
replied, looking around at the squat brick building. “I don't think
it was here when I left.”
    “Shall we go in?”
    “Let’s.”
    The two of them got out of the
car, a small beep announced it was locked. The chilled drops of
rain washed away Rachel's sleepiness, as she walked towards the
entrance of the restaurant. David offered her his arm and she
gladly took it. He's such a gentleman, she realised, a small smile
pulling back the corners of her lips. He had even offered to give
Becky a lift, but she insisted on getting a cab. Rachel hoped that
her friend had found Logan’s and not got lost. The thought of her
out on the streets late at night, was worrying. Especially in this
town. No, she thought. Becky would be fine.
    As they walked through the
entrance, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was
it, she thought. There was no going back now.
    The interior of the restaurant
had a rustic Italian feel to it, with lots of wooden beams and
stonework around the walls. Deep green velvet cushions covered the
chairs. Across the back of the wall was a perfectly polished bar;
the barman was rushing from one end to the other, intent on keeping
up with the drink orders. Next to that, was the open kitchen
dominated by its huge clay oven; the chef hollering instructions to
the other kitchen staff. Candle flames swayed in the subdued
atmosphere like a hypnotist’s pendant. A rotund maître d' greeted
them, looking down his nose.
    “Good evening, may I help
you?”
    “Yes, table for two,” David
replied. “Under the name of Cochrane.”
    Rachel watched, as the dumpy
little man took his time looking through his reservation book. She
hated snobbery with a passion.
    “Ah yes, this way please.”
    The maître d' led them to a
secluded table at one of the windows looking out over the car park.
Perfect for a quiet chat, she realised, butterflies swarming in her
stomach again. It was never easy to face the past.
    “A waitress will be along
shortly to take your orders. Can I get you any drinks whilst you
wait?”
    “A bottle of red wine would be
fantastic,” David answered for the both of them.
    And with that the maître d' was
gone, leaving the two of them alone to look over the dinner menu.
Rachel had started chewing her bottom lip.
    “Nervous?” David asked.
    She looked up at him.
“Pardon?”
    “You were chewing your bottom
lip. I wondered if you were nervous?”
    “Oh.” It was all she could
think of to say. Her cheeks had turned the colour of beetroot.
“Maybe a little.”
    “Please don’t be,” he replied,
adding his usual clean white smile. “I don't bite.”
    Rachel wondered if he used the
same smile on his patients. She smiled back. “I’ll try not to.”
    A tall, wispy haired waitress
returned with their wine. She poured each of them a glass, before
taking out her crisp white pad. “Are you ready to order?”
    David ordered first and then
Rachel followed. The waitress dashed off in the direction of the
kitchen.
    “So, you mentioned a chat?” He
looked at her over the soft flame of the candle. His voice calm.
Seductive. His eyes