The Brontë Plot (36 page)

“He's out of town until next week, so this time I'll keep my word.” Helen smiled and lifted her cheek for a kiss. Lucy obliged.

After shutting the door, Lucy leaned against it, looking back into the now bright gallery. Only eight o'clock and the sun had already lit the room, and while it was still two hours until she would unlock the door again, the day had begun.

Sid was late. Lucy noted the time again in his red leather appointment calendar and paced back to the front of the gallery. She knew Sid no longer kept her fully informed of his schedule. The easy communion they had shared over the years was fractured. There were no jokes, no foreign language endearments, and no sandwiches left on the corner of her desk when she became so engrossed in her work that she forgot to eat. There was formality and quiet. If it was possible for antiques and books to become any more quiet in their inanimate natures, those at Sid's gallery accomplished it.

Lucy shook off the regret and focused on the tasks before her. Even though she no longer worked for Sid, she listened when he made appointments and scheduled meetings so she could help him stay on task; she laid out sample books she heard him mention; she kept the gallery spotless, organized his desk while he was out, checked his billing and inventory for mistakes, and did everything she could behind the scenes to make sure he was on time and tracking everything correctly. They weren't her responsibilities, but they weren't Sid's strengths and helping him mattered.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Lucy found him standing at the doorjamb to the workroom. “You're late for a meeting with the Bewigs.”

“They canceled. I have a surprise for you.” He tilted his head back into the workroom.

Lucy smoothed her dress and followed him.

He stood at his worktable with his hand resting on a small wooden crate. “Open it.”

“I've never been good with these.” Lucy picked up the drill and popped off one screw, two screws . . .

“Hand that thing back,” Sid huffed. “We'll be here all day.” He popped off at least fifteen screws in less time than it had taken her to do two.

Lucy pulled off the top. “What is it?”

“Find out.” Sid pulled off a layer of packing straw.

Lucy moved aside a last layer of stuffing and pulled out a brown-wrapped package, immediately recognizing the shape and the weight. “This can't be . . .” She pushed the crate aside to rest the package on the worktable and slowly unwrapped it. The gold cascading over the vase's rim was the first feature exposed; it opened further to reveal the blues, the greens . . . All of it. “How is this possible? I e-mailed them three times. They never replied.”

“I called them.”

“Why?” Lucy crossed her arms, not in frustration but in protection. “I told them you weren't involved, that you knew nothing. They believed me.”

“I know they did. Jemima said that immediately. But I needed to check on you, Lucy, even protect you if I could.” He propped himself against his drafting table and mirrored Lucy's crossed-arm pose. “And yes, I was involved. It's my name on the door and, in the end, I'm accountable. I feel in some ways my expectations set you up, that I wasn't a good role model.”

“That's not true. I made my own choices, Sid.” She ran a finger over the vase's rim. “How'd you get this?”

“Jemima and Duncan were very impressed that you came in. She offered to let us keep all three vases, but I refused.” He chuckled. “I gather the other galleries were more than eager to do so, but . . .”

“It didn't feel right.”

“It didn't. But she did insist I keep one, and I knew which one.” Sid pointed to the crate lid. “I had to call Jones and Jones after they collected them and have them bring that one back. I was glad I labeled all three.”

Lucy reached for the crate's lid. In small letters in the corner, she read
Hope.

“Isn't that what you named it?”

“I did.” Lucy blinked. “I'm so sorry, Sid.”

Sid stepped toward her and held her by the shoulders. “No more of that.”

“What do I do with it? I'm in the book business now.”

He retreated a couple steps. “I've been thinking about that and I propose that someday, after your book business is established and in the clear to your satisfaction, I could hire you on a freelance basis.”

“Really?” Lucy heard the wonder in her voice and sputtered out a laugh. “Can you tell I'd like that?”

“So would I.” He cradled the vase and carried it into the gallery. Lucy followed. “And until that day, or a time when we decide together there is a client worthy of this gem, we will enjoy it.” With that, he rested the vase back on the George III chest.

Lucy reached over and spun it carefully to display her favorite side. “Thank you, Sid.”

Chapter 33

L
ucy threw her sandwich wrapper in the trash can next to the bench and closed her book, dropping it into her lap. She sighed and recounted the story thus far. It was not what she expected, but she had to admit, it was beautiful. She also had to admit that her original assessment was correct: the Russians left her vaguely uncomfortable. She huffed, but it caught in her throat and ended up a snort.

“That's attractive.”

Recognizing the voice, Lucy slapped her hand over her eyes. “Of course you had to hear that,” she called to James who was still a few steps away.

He stopped in front of her. “What are you reading? Some great Victorian romance?”

“You'd think, but no.” She held up the book. “Your grandmother has inspired an expansion within my literary diet.”

“It's certainly gotten verbose.”

“That's Dostoevsky's fault.”

“
Crime and Punishment
?” James took the book and fanned
its pages. Lucy caught the motion, but knew he'd find no fore-edge painting there. It was the library's copy. “That's rough going.”

“It's not the slog I thought it'd be at all. I'm kinda enjoying it so far.” Lucy laughed. She had meant the laughter as a gesture of camaraderie, an icebreaker of sorts, but it escaped as a nervous twitter that emphasized the moment's awkwardness. She straightened. “Were you looking for me?”

“Not really.” James looked back across the park. At her soft “Oh . . .” he added, “I knew exactly where you'd be.”

“How's that?”

“Remember that time you lost your phone?” He dropped onto the bench next to her.

“You did not!”

“Yes, it was very bad and I've never done it before, but your number and password were still logged into my account.”

“Hand it over.” Lucy held out her palm and James slapped his phone into it. She flipped it over and tapped in his password.

“How is that any better?” He leaned over her.

“It's not my fault you haven't changed your password. And you're sitting right here. There's no comparison.”

Lucy tapped on the
Find My iPhone
app and deleted her information. “James Carmichael, what's become of you?” she teased and handed him back the phone.

A soft expression settled in his face as he reached for it, his fingers brushing hers. Rather than reply, he leaned back on the bench and tilted his head back. He appeared to be watching the clouds drift by.

Lucy did the same for a few minutes before asking, “So
what has become of you? Helen mentioned you had a couple weeks off work and tripped the light fantastic with her.”

“Nah, and I think those days are behind her.”

“She mentioned that too. I'm sorry,” Lucy said. “She said she'd be in again this week, but I haven't seen her.”

“She's slowing down.” She caught James glance at her in her periphery. “I think when Dad and the rest of us learned there were no viable treatment options, she quit putting on the brave front and deflated. I'm not saying that she isn't living well right now—she is; she's just living more quietly. ”

“I can understand that. And I'm not upset she hasn't been by. She has her priorities; that's you all.” Lucy didn't turn to him. “Will you do me a favor, though? Next time you see her, give her a kiss from me. Don't tell her. Don't say anything because I really do understand. Just give her a kiss.”

“I will, and I promise, I'll say nothing.”

“Thank you.” Lucy ran out of words.

There were none left between them, and she suspected, there was no happy ending. Simply an ending.

As if agreeing with her assessment, James stood and stepped away. He turned back. “Were you heading back to work when I came up?”

“I was.” Lucy drew herself straight and collected the mess around her: her book, her water bottle, and various papers that had fallen from her handbag. “Sid's got a two o'clock. I have to get back and man the store.”

“I was surprised when Grams told me you still worked for him.”

“I don't. I bought the book business, just like you
suggested, and he lets me watch the store for a cut off the rent. I have to tell you, it's been a lifesaver. The books don't make a whole lot and I want to stay near Sid. Someday, he said we could work together again.”

James started walking. Lucy stepped beside him. “That's great, Lucy. What do you call this new business?”

“Lucy Alling Books.” She dropped her hands. “I didn't want to make anything up, even a name. So there you have it.”

“I like it.”

“What else did Helen tell you?”

“That you're decorating your apartment; you've purchased bookshelves; and you're a collector—no, a hoarder—of every tchotchke that falls your way.”

Lucy's laugh was loud and genuine this time. “That's so not true. Not entirely. I have been adding pieces to my apartment and I've got the most wonderful coffee table. There was a mistake at the fabricator's and the birds resting on the cross-legs look more like ducks. The client didn't want it, so I got it for the cost of hauling it away. I named the table ‘Jemima' and it looks wonderful. Other than that, there's a woven cotton rug that a client of Sid's was throwing out, with every color under the sun in it, and there are three bookshelves, low ones, I found at Goodwill for thirty-nine bucks. But as for tchotchkes, there is only one collection, my British key chains, hanging from a corkboard in my kitchen.”

“And your drapery panels? Are they up?”

“No.” Lucy studied the path in front of them. “I sold those.”

James stopped and grabbed her arm. “You what?”

“I needed money for the book business. I brought them
to Sid's finisher and he went nuts. He had three designers in a bidding war over them and I got almost enough to cover the book business. I needed a little from my savings, but not much.”

“I had no idea.” James dropped his hand.

“Why should you?” Lucy walked on. “About that, James . . . I have your chair and your bookcases. I don't use them and they're sitting there. I didn't have the courage to call and then Helen said you were away, but you're back now and I want to send them over. I can hire a moving company so you don't need to be there, but . . .”

Lucy caught James's grin. “What?”

“When you're nervous, everything becomes one long sentence. I think we've had a two-sentence conversation.”

“Probably.” Lucy felt her face redden. “When can I return them?”

“How about Saturday? I'll bring a van by and we can load them together.”

Lucy dug her heel into the path. Even though she feared her face still matched her hair, she needed clarity. “What's going on here, James? Because I don't think I can do this.” She waved her hand between them.

When he made no reply, she laid it out plainly. “I don't want to move furniture with you. I can't be your friend.”

“I don't need any more friends.” James stopped as well, but he continued to stare straight ahead.

“Then what?”

James slowly turned. “Would you have dinner with me sometime?”

It took Lucy a heartbeat to remember the question. Said in
the same tone, the same manner, and with the same inflection. And just as on that first day, it took only another heartbeat to reply.

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” He beamed. “Tonight?”