Free Intrusion: A Novel by Mary McCluskey

the glimmer of a lake. The driveway was edged with a series of silver birch and beech trees with leaves that shimmered in the breeze. Far in the distance, a grayish-blue line, the ocean, was just visible.
    “Lord, will you look at this,” she said.
    Scott glanced sideways.
    “Pretty yard,” he said.
    It was all Sarah dreamed of and more, Kat was quite certain. The intense young girl with her patched-up sweaters who wanted so badly to be rich. This was about as rich as any reasonable person needed to be. As they turned a corner, she saw the house: a mansion in the Georgian style, silvery-white in the misty light, with graceful long lines and elegant frontage.
    “Wow, it’s beautiful,” Kat said. “It’s just like Lansdowne, the house in Sussex her aunt had. Except newer. And maybe bigger. And in much better shape.”
    “It’s certainly big,” said Scott.
    A sweeping gravel driveway curved in front of the house, and a uniformed attendant waited for them.
    “And valet parking, too,” said Scott. “Miyamoto will be a happy camper. He loves this stuff.”
    As they climbed out of the car, Scott studied the house.
    “Make a good country hotel,” he said.
    Kat smiled, just as Sarah appeared at the top of the front steps.
    “At last! Come in.”
    She hurried forward to hug Kat and shake hands with Scott, then ushered them into her house. Both Scott and Kat paused in the hallway. The house was furnished with French and English antiques, and yet it was a light and airy home with high ceilings and French doors that stretched the entire length of the living areas, showing off the acres of wide green lawn and rose gardens. To the south, a paved path of pastel slate led to tennis courts and a pool.
    “Come on, come see your room,” Sarah said, leading them upstairs. “It’s one of the nicest, I think.”
    Scott stood at the bedroom door as Sarah held Kat by the arm and led her into the room.
    Kat gazed at the four-poster with drifting cream lace and chiffon, the window seat with tapestry cushions, a French writing desk. Casement windows opened to the gardens below.
    “It’s beautiful, Sarah. It reminds me of Lansdowne.”
    Kat moved to the writing desk, stroked the smooth wood. A silver bowl containing white roses and gardenias had been placed on it. She could smell their sweet scent.
    “Remember the desk in Aunt Helen’s bedroom?” Sarah asked. “Took me ages to find one just like it. That beauty had to be shipped from France.”
    “It’s lovely.”
    “I knew you’d like it. I remember how you just flipped when you saw Lansdowne. And remember . . . remember Aunt Helen’s bathroom? The big, grotty old tub with the claw feet? I’ve tried to reproduce it. See?”
    Sarah opened the door to the bathroom and Kat felt disoriented for a moment. It looked just like the old bathroom in the Sussex mansion. But there the paint had been peeling, the tub old and stained. Here, the textured walls were carefully decorated with an expensive color wash.
    “It’s exactly right,” said Kat. She turned to Sarah. “You loved that house.”
    “Yes. I did. I suppose I cared for Helen, prickly old gal though she was.”
    “She was a character,” Kat said, recalling the patrician Englishwoman, in her pearls and shabby tweeds, pouring tea into porcelain cups. “You couldn’t keep the house after she died?”
    “No. I really, really wanted to buy it, but Sam said absolutely not. It was triple-mortgaged and had been so badly maintained. It needed everything replaced or repaired. So someone else bought the land, demolished Lansdowne, and built a hideous modern structure. I kept the gatehouse, though, at the edge of the estate. Remember that? Overlooking the water?”
    “The little cottage with the view?” asked Kat. “Yes. Of course I remember it. How lovely. Do you visit it?”
    “I do. Once in a while I go back and hike the cliffs. It refreshes me.”
    Sarah laughed, amused at herself, and then turned to