The Mistletoe Promise (13 page)

CHAPTER

Twenty-two

Tonight Nicholas took me to his home. I would have liked to stay longer. Much longer. Like forever.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

Nicholas and I skipped lunch the next Friday because he had too much to do before leaving town. Instead I spent my lunch break with Zoey, who used the time to fix my hair for Nicholas’s partners’ party.

“You better take a lot of pictures tonight,” she said. “I  want to see you in that dress. Do you remember which earrings we picked out?”

“We put them in a Ziploc bag and wrote the date on it with a Sharpie.”

She laughed. “Oh, yeah. No margin for error.”

“I’m a little nervous,” I said. “That first party was so fancy, but I’m afraid this one is going to be more so.”

“Just have fun. You’re going to be great.”

“I just don’t want to embarrass Nicholas in front of his partners.”

“The only problem you’ll have is all their wives will hate  you.”

“Why would they hate me?”

“Because all their husbands will be ogling you.”

I smiled. I was sure Zoey had had more than her share of wife-hate.

“Speaking of ogling,” she said, “have you noticed how Mark looks at you these days?”

The comment caught me off guard. “He’s married.”

“Yes, but he’s not blind.”

“Why would he suddenly notice me?”

“Probably because someone else did,” she replied.

When I got home from work I took a quick shower, then put on
the dress
—the silk masterpiece Zoey and I had chosen for tonight. I had never worn anything so elegant. It hung from one shoulder, and the beads sewn into the fabric shimmered as I moved. Then I put on the jewelry that we had picked out. The earrings were larger than I was used to, but they matched the elegance of the dress. The heels I’d chosen were also taller than I usually wore, but they made a statement as well. I felt gorgeous.

Nicholas shook his head when he saw me. “Wow,” he said. “Just wow.”

The party was held at the founder’s home on Walker Lane. It was only twenty minutes from my apartment but a world away.

The house was a mansion. Or, more accurately, a villa, since it was Italian in design with rock and stucco exterior, a large, pillared portico, and beautiful wrought-iron front
doors. Gas lights highlighted the brick-lined arched portals of the four-car garage. The yard was lit like a resort with lush landscaping and statuary.

Nicholas took my arm, and we walked up to the front door. A man standing in the lit portico opened the door for us. As we stepped inside the foyer we were embraced by a rush of light, smells, and music. The floor was polished wood, covered in places with lush area rugs. A brass chandelier, at least eight feet in diameter, hung above us from the high, domed ceiling.

In the sitting room across from the front door, a young woman was playing a harp next to a group I assumed, from the instruments around them, were members of a string quartet taking a break. I had never been inside such a luxurious home. I felt even more out of place than I had at La Caille. As usual, Nicholas was in his element.

“I don’t think they’ll be serving jalapeño poppers and Budweiser,” I said.

“And the party will be the worse for it,” he replied.

“May I take your coat?” a young man asked.

“Yes, please,” Nicholas said. He helped me off with the stole Zoey had also brought me and handed it to the man.

Just then a mature, silver-haired man wearing a beautiful burgundy suit walked up to us. He was accompanied by an elegant woman I guessed to be his wife. “Nicholas,” he said. “You made it.”

“And this time you brought someone,” the woman said. “And she’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Elise, this is Alan McKay, our senior partner, and his better half, Careen.”

“Thank you for having us,” I said. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you, dear. We enjoy it.”

“Food and drink is that way,” Alan said, pointing to a side room. “Please, enjoy yourselves.”

“Thanks, Alan,” Nicholas said. “Careen.”

Our hosts flitted away like butterflies.

“They were nice,” I said.

“They’re good people,” Nicholas said. “Alan is the firm’s founder and senior partner. He’s also the one who brought me over from the prosecutor’s office.”

The party was considerably smaller than the one at La Caille, with maybe thirty guests in all. As we walked around I recognized some of the lawyers from a couple weeks earlier.

“Will Scott and Sharon be here?” I asked.

“No. Scott’s not a partner. At least not yet.”

“How many partners are there?”

“Eleven.”

“And how many lawyers does your firm have?”

“Ninety-seven.”

“How come you’re the one with your name on the door?”

“They like me.”

There were two food tables in the dining room, one savory, one sweet. At the head of the savory table was a man in a white chef’s coat and hat, carving roast beef. There were
also various hors d’oeuvres: bacon-wrapped scallops, crab puffs, jumbo prawns, caviar, carpaccio, and sushi.

The sweet table had three chocolate fountains with dark, white, and milk chocolates, the bases of the fountains surrounded by fruit. There were miniature key lime pies and cheesecakes, sweet croissants, puff pastries, baklava, millefoglie, and dipped chocolates.

“This is amazing,” I said. “I think I’m going to gain weight.”

“I’ll help,” Nicholas said.

We filled up our plates and sat down near the musicians. A few people came by to talk to Nicholas. They were all very warm and welcoming.

When I had finished my plate, Nicholas said, “Would you like to see the house?”

“I’d love to. Will they mind?”

“No,” Nicholas said. “Alan loves to show it off.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” I said.

Nicholas led me up the circular stairs to a long hallway, both sides of which were lined with doors. The hallway led to another hallway and ended at a loft and another set of stairs.

“I could get lost in here,” I said.

“Lots of people do,” he said. “Come look at this.” We walked into a spacious room lined with bookshelves, many filled with leather books. It had a fireplace with an antique model of a ship on its mantel, and in the center of the room was a beautiful antique desk. The ceiling was high and multifaceted with a wooden beam stretching the length of the room.

“This is Alan’s den,” Nicholas said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Alan likes nice things.”

I turned back to him. “Are Alan and Careen happy?”

Nicholas pondered the question. “They’ve been married almost forty years, so I hope so. Alan’s not an especially affectionate man, so their relationship is very partner-like, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“But he’s not cheating on her.”

Nicholas shook his head. “Oh no. He’s a man of strong ethics and a very conservative Catholic. He once told one of the lawyers, ‘If you’re going through a midlife crisis, don’t cheat. Buy yourself a Ferrari instead. It’s cheaper.’ ” Nicholas smiled. “Want to see something cool?”

“Yes.”

He pushed on one of the shelves, and it opened into a room. I clapped. “That’s like in the movies.”

“Every man wants a bookshelf that opens into a secret room.”

“Where does it go?”

“Come inside,” he said.

We stepped into the room. Like the outer room it had bookshelves, though the books weren’t legal tomes but novels and personal reading, including a few Grisham, Patterson, and Vince Flynn thrillers. There were also several framed photographs of Alan with famous people, including President Bill Clinton, Bob Hope, and Maureen O’Hara.

“Actually, it’s a safe room,” Nicholas said. “In case terror
ists or someone crazy breaks into his house. They can hide in here until the police arrive.”

“Sometimes I’d like a safe room to hide in,” I said.

“To hide from what?” Nicholas asked.

“Life.”

Nicholas looked at me, then nodded as if he understood. “My father served in Vietnam. When I was young he told me that everyone needs an emotional foxhole. A place to hide when life’s storms hit.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” he said. “There’s a quote widely misattributed to Plato that says, ‘Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.’ It’s true. Everyone has struggles. Everyone has suffered more than you know. That includes you and me.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

We walked back downstairs. The string quartet had resumed playing. Nicholas introduced me to a few more people, and then we went back and sat down next to the musicians.

As I looked around the ornately furnished room, I wondered what Nicholas’s house must be like. “Where do
you
live?” I asked.

“Not far from here, actually.” He suddenly smiled. “Would you like to see my house?”

“Yes.”

His smile turned to a conspicuous grin.

“What?” I asked.

“When I first offered the contract you asked if this ended
up back at my place. I bet you didn’t think you’d be asking me to go.”

I grinned back. “A lot has changed since then,” I said.

Nicholas lived less than ten minutes away. His home was new, a Cape Cod–style house with shutters and a large front porch. He pulled his car into the garage. The door from the garage opened into the kitchen, where he flipped on the lights. The room was bright and immaculate, with not even a dish in the sink.

“This is really cute,” I said.

“Wasn’t really going for
cute,
” he replied.

“It’s big,” I said.

“For one person it is.”

“It’s big for a lot of people,” I said.

“Hopefully I won’t always be living here alone,” he replied.

There were pictures on the wall. “Is this your family?” I asked.

He nodded.

“This is you with the long hair?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How old were you?”

He leaned forward for a closer look. “I think I was fifteen in that one.” In none of the pictures was Nicholas older than fifteen or sixteen.

“These are your parents?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Have they ever been here?”

“No. My mother died before I built the home. My father wouldn’t come.”

“You know, you might be the cleanest bachelor in the country. You must have a cleaner.”

“Rosa,” he said. “She comes once a week. But actually, I’m pretty OCD. I don’t like a messy house.”

“I would drive you crazy.”

I looked over a long row of porcelain figurines he had displayed on a shelf. He had three female nudes with angel wings, a larger piece of a mother breast-feeding her baby, and a glossy figurine of Don Quixote sitting in a chair holding an open book on his lap and a sword in his hand. “Tell me about these,” I said.

“I collect Lladró. I just think they’re beautiful. There’s one piece I’m coveting, but I haven’t gotten up the nerve to buy it yet. It’s Cinderella in her pumpkin carriage with her horses and groomsmen. It’s more than thirty thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine spending that much on art. Do you think you’ll buy it?”

“I’ll buy it someday,” he said.

“I hope you let me see it when you do.”

“Of course. You like Cinderella?”

“Who doesn’t like Cinderella?”

He just looked at me thoughtfully, then changed the subject. “So are you ready for New York?”