Finders Keepers (19 page)

“That’s Limoges. It’s very expensive. You might prefer one of these over here.”

“What’s the matter? You think I can’t afford an expensive teacup?” He set the cup down and leaned across the counter. “Or do you just want to foist one of those ugly ones on me?”

“No, of course I don’t—”

“You think I have bad taste, don’t you?”

She looked into his eyes and saw the teasing sparkle. “Not where teacups are concerned.”

“Just churches?”

“Oh, Zachary, I’m sorry I insulted your design.” She pushed the cup at him. “Here, take this. My apology gift.”

“You can’t buy your way out of this one, Elizabeth, my dear. You’re sunk deeper than the
Titanic.”

“I told you how I felt about that church, and I’m sticking to my guns. I’m just sorry I was so blunt in front of you.”

“Better to criticize me behind my back?”

“Oh, take your cup and go!”

“No way. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You criticized my handiwork. My opus. My masterpiece.”

“That church is your masterpiece?”

“As a matter of fact, the design won me a couple of awards and moved me into big-time contracts.”

She shook her head. “Why? It’s so … so …”

“Ugly, was the word I think you used. But let’s not forget that ugly is in the eye of the beholder. You see, I’m a businessman, and I listen to my clients. When I drew up my proposed designs, I knew the congregation of that church had a certain image they wanted to project. They didn’t want to blend in with all the quaint old buildings downtown. They wanted to tell people that their faith wasn’t something antiquated and passé. Instead, they hoped people would see them as modern, cutting edge,
relevant.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said softly. “I didn’t realize …”

“If your building looks old, they reasoned, then folks will think you stand for the old-time religion. Old hymns, old traditions, and lots of old people in your congregation. Nothing wrong with that in my opinion, but this church wanted to reach people of all ages with the new life, new hope, and new promises of Christ’s salvation. And they wanted their church building to reflect their aims.”

“Well, I didn’t think about it that way.”

“So why would I design some ancient-looking brick facade that blended right into the background? They wanted to stand out, make a statement.”

“They certainly accomplished that.”

“I’ve learned to design what my clients want—even if that isn’t necessarily my personal taste.”

Elizabeth glanced around at her shop. “All right, I concede your point. I don’t always stock antiques I’m crazy about either. Early primitive furnishings aren’t my cup of tea, but I know there’s a market for them. I have a whole room full of primitives through that door over there. I’m not particularly fond of ornate, dark Victorian furniture, either. And I’m filling three buildings in Jefferson City with it.”

“Aha! You’re a mercenary.”

“I’m a businesswoman.”

“And I’m a businessman, which is how that ugly church in Jeff City came to be.”

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t like the looks of that building any more than I do?”

“Actually, it’s a shining example of its style. But personally I prefer designs that fit their surroundings more closely, and I’m something of a traditionalist. On the other hand, the office I’m planning to build next door has the latest in modern conveniences.”

His eyes pinned her, willing her to argue. Elizabeth opened her mouth to do just that—and then she shut it again. How could she defy this man any longer? She had insulted and contradicted and fought with him ever since he set foot in Ambleside, and he hadn’t backed away one inch from his determination to raze the mansion. Or from his persistent pursuit of her.

If Zachary could surrender, so could she.

“I’d like to see your blueprints sometime,” she said.

“Good. Then why don’t you and Nick come over to my apartment this evening? We’ll have dinner and tea.” He grabbed another cup, this one an even more expensive Wedgwood. “Wrap these up for me, would you? You can bring them with you when you come to dinner. I’ve got to run by the Corner Market and see if Boompah has any fresh asparagus. Wait till you taste my pasta primavera.”

Giving her a wink, he breezed out of the shop. As the brass bells ceased their jingling, Elizabeth sank onto the stool behind the counter and shook her head in dismay.

“Boompah?” Elizabeth spotted her elderly friend on the sofa as Zachary opened the apartment door. “Did you come for dinner, too?”

“It looks that way, Elizabeth.”

The old man started to rise, but Nick skipped over and gently lowered him back to the couch. “Don’t get up, Boompah,” Nick said. “It’s just mom and me. We’ve come to eat dinner with Zachary, but we’re not going to talk about Zachary being my daddy. That’s off lemons.”

“Off-limits,” Elizabeth said, giving Zachary a sheepish glance. Her son had no filter between his brain and his mouth. If something was on his mind, the whole world soon would know about it. “Nick, why don’t you sit down by Boompah and tell him about summer school? You’ve been doing so well with your reading.”

“Oh, yes,” Nick said. “I’m a very good reader. I read to Mrs. Wrinkles all the time.”

Zachary motioned from the kitchen area of his small apartment. “Come taste this. Tell me if it needs more salt.”

Feeling awkward and uncertain, Elizabeth approached the narrow galley kitchen. Though the alcove was open to the living area, it felt somehow intimate to step into Zachary’s private realm. But as he lifted a wooden spoon draped with noodles, she pinpointed the right word the moment inspired. It was
homey.
Homey to stand with a man in his kitchen. Homey to lean close to him and sample from the spoon in his hand. Homey to smell the spice bottles open on his counters and to see the suit coat he had casually tossed over the back of a chair.

“I had one foster mom who could cook like nobody’s business,” Zachary said after Elizabeth had properly oohed and aahed over the pasta. “This lady would have put me into the grave with a blocked artery if I’d stayed with her very long. Everything was butter. Butter, butter, butter. And eggs, too. For breakfast we’d eat sausages, bacon, a couple of eggs fried in butter, and a stack of toast slathered with more butter. At lunch I was on the free-meal program at school. But dinner would be fried pork chops or chickenfried steak.”

Elizabeth watched him stir the saucepan. “How long were you with her?”

“A few months, I guess. About average. Not long enough to form any real attachments. If you want to know the truth, I can’t even remember her name. But I did love to eat her cooking.”

He opened a narrow pantry and began rooting around in a basketful of linens. Elizabeth felt her heart contract in sorrow. Zachary had been ejected from his birth family and passed through so many foster homes he couldn’t even recall the families’ names. It was no wonder he had never married or formed any close relationships. It also helped explain his driving determination to possess the legacy of his Aunt Grace. Even though he wasn’t aware of his own need for connectedness, he wanted roots.

“Aha. Napkins.” He emerged from the pantry and held up a handful of mismatched cloths. “No paper towels for this dinner party.”

“Here, let me set up.” She took the napkins to the nearby table. “I’m so glad you invited Boompah.”

“I thought I might as well make it a foursome.”

“This is a lot more comfortable for me. People won’t do much speculating about us if Boompah and Nick are here.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Ruby McCann was at the market when I went in for the asparagus.”

“Uh-oh.”

He laughed. “I ran into Phil Fox, too. He was buying the
Kansas City Star
and the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
A good city councilman has to keep up with the current news, don’t you know.”

“Well, I’ll swan.”

Chuckling, she caught his eye and realized that for the second time, they were united. “Phil and Pearlene ambushed us last night,” she said. “There’s no question about that.”

“I think Pearlene’s innocent except for her matchmaking. It’s Phil who’s got the agenda.”

“What do you think he’s up to?”

Zachary passed her a handful of silverware. “It’s pretty clear. He wants the mansion.”

“But why? He’s never said a positive word about it. In fact, he was originally on your side.”

“My side, your side, Phil’s side.” He set the pasta bowl in the center of the table. “You want to know the truth? I’m tired of playing these games. If Phil tries to hold up the probate proceedings by using that town charter against me, I’m going to take him to court.”

Elizabeth straightened. “Are you serious?”

“Why not?”

“Well, people in Ambleside just don’t … we don’t really solve problems that way.”

“No wonder Sawyer-the-lawyer spends most of his afternoons asleep on his desk.”

“On
his desk?”

“Stretched out right across the top, napping like a baby.” He leaned toward the living area. “Come on, Boompah, Nick. Soup’s on.”

“I thought we were having spaghetti,” Nick said.

“Pasta,” Elizabeth said. “It’s kind of like spaghetti, only different.”

“But Zachary said
soup.”

“It’s one of those American idioms,” Boompah explained. “Soup’s on. You’ve got a bee in your bucket. Early bird catches the worm. Deaf as a doorknob. Ach, my little Nikolai, these idioms go on and on, and usually they make no sense. No sense at all.”

“Oh, bother,” Nick said.

“In Germany we have such sayings:
Der Apfel fällt nicht weit vom Stamm
—the apple does not fall far from the tree. Means, the son is like the father, you see?”

“But I don’t have a father,” Nick said. His big green eyes turned imploringly to Zachary. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Yeah, well … uh …” Zachary cleared his throat. “Here in America, the idiom is He’s a chip off the old block.”

Elizabeth pulled back the chair next to hers. “Sit down, Nikolai Hayes, and we’ll have no more talk of fathers tonight. I’ve warned you once, and this is the last time. You’ll lose cartoons tomorrow if you can’t obey me.”

“Cartoons?” He hopped into the chair and folded his hands. “Not that! Let’s pray. Dear God, please help me to be a good boy and not talk about fathers, even if I wish I could be a chip off somebody’s old block. Amen.”

Elizabeth stared at her son in dismay as Zachary and Boompah broke into laughter. “Nick, did you realize that the grown-ups haven’t even had a chance to sit down?”

“But I needed to talk to God right then.”

“He’s got a point, Elizabeth,” Zachary said, taking the chair across from hers. “When you gotta pray, you gotta pray.”

“Amen,” Boompah said. “Pass the pasta. I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.”

“How many children do you have, Boompah?” Nick asked as they sat on Zachary’s balcony watching a pink-and-gold sunset filter across the waters of the Missouri River. “You’re so old, you could be a grandfather.”

“Ach, ja, I am very old man,” Boompah said. “But I was never married in all my life. I have not even one child.”

Zachary carried his teacup to the green iron bench and sat down beside Elizabeth. Perfect. For once in Nick’s young life, the little boy had thought ahead. Leaving the seat beside his mother empty was a stroke of genius, and Zachary would have to give the child a high five for it.

“I wrote your name on my family tree for the grandfather, Boompah,” Nick said, “but I’m not telling who I put in the father’s place, because I don’t want to lose cartoons and be off lemons.”

“Well, I can be like a grandfather,” Boompah said, taking a sip of tea. “Among the Roma, the old people are respected very much. Not like here in America where the young laugh at an old man and steal gumballs from his machines when he’s not looking. Old people have lived many years, and we Gypsies know this means they can be very wise.”

“I was a wise man in the Christmas play last year,” Nick informed him. “I was supposed to say, ‘Mary, the mother of Jesus, I bring frankincense to honor the king.’ But I said it all backwards and upside down, and I put in fathers and queens, and everybody laughed.”

“Even wise men sometimes make mistakes, Nikolai. Is not a problem, because God always knows what we are trying to say to him.”