Jane Austen Made Me Do It (13 page)

Uncle Julius petted Nora on his lap, and leaned back in a kind of reverie, remembering something beautiful.

“He's a Picasso. His special gift was the autograph. Churchill, Roosevelt. Jefferson was real special to him. And, yeah, he did English writers too; he did that fella, what was his name, Oliver Twist. Jeez, they oughta cost a million. The guy's a genius.”

Nicola sat wide-eyed. Nora heard Charles arriving. A squealing, squirming sausage, she wriggled out of Julius's embrace, dropped like a pod from a tree and skidded across the black and white marble floor. She tried to jump into Charles's arms, but once again, not a chance. He bent to pick her up.

“Ooooh, you think you're a Jack Russell, don't you? But you are a hotdog, you little frankfurter. Yes—you're a leetle hot dog, aren't you? You weren't meant to jump in the air—you were meant to be tucked into a lovely, cozy bun. And. Just. Eaten. Up.”

Charles held Nora close and tickled her pink dog tummy with his free hand, his face awash with her kisses.

Nicola called out, “I was telling Uncle Julius about the Jane Austen. And he's been telling me about his friend Prickles, the best forger—”

“Spoofer,” corrected Uncle Julius. “I told her your dad knew him.”

In a chopped voice, Charles said, “Is he still out?”

“Don't know,” shrugged Uncle Julius. “Your father'll know—”

Charles interrupted with a curt question, “Anyone want food?”

A plate of crisped bacon sat next to the stove near a bowl of waiting eggs.

“I still can't get over how nice she is,” said Nicola.

“Nic, this is none of our business,” said Charlie, tying his apron with vicious knots. “There's no thanks in this. Let Miz Elliott pursue her lord.”

“Elliott? Anne Elliott?” asked Uncle Julius. “Wowee zowee. That's some tomato.”

Charles, clearly annoyed that he had to explain, said, “She's being conned. Nic wants us to step in and save the day—and we're not going to lift a finger. End of story.”

Too little too late, because Uncle Julius said, gleaming with interest, “I wonder who the con is?”

“Julius—no!” said Charles.

And Nicola said, “Come on, Charlie, we can't just do nothing, can we?”

“No?” asked Charles. “Watch me.” He fed Nora some defiant bacon.

On Friday, with the ASTA phone ringing off the hook, Nicola's assistant called from the studio to hold a table for eight o'clock. Number 42, the round table in the far right corner, was held for VIPs—socialites and pop stars, who rarely called ahead of time, assuming that there would always be room for them. Charles Scott turned them away if he didn't like them, thereby rendering ASTA even more desirable.

Anne Elliott arrived first, fresh from the set, still in Elizabeth Arden's hair and makeup. The glamorous Jackie O dark glasses, worn even at night, made her even more recognizable. In a world where celebrity had been reduced to the fodder of smartphones, she was holding up well. Oklahoma trailer trash she might have been, but she now had an image as powerful and fragile as the anklebone of a thoroughbred. And protected accordingly; many futures depended on that image's ability to win, place, or show.

Charles watched as she slipped off her glasses and eyed the banquette and then went arrow-straight for the spot where the light fell. When she sat down, she seemed to collect all the wattage in the room, and when she laughed, it cut like a diamond through the creamy din.

The restaurant began to behave as it always did when a star alit. No one wanted to talk or laugh too loud. No one wanted to miss a thing. Every moment was harvested, to be fed to the world as a personal trophy.

Like most movie stars, she had a large face on a head fractionally too big for her long, thin body. Her neck, though, worked as perfectly as a swan's; the shoulders were small and delicate; the ivory hands beautifully groomed. Teeth large and unnaturally white, lips plumped and rosy, nose sculpted to a perfect little point—Charles's surprise hit him with a sudden intake of breath.

Nicola, arriving minutes later, sat down and gasped—for a different reason:
Charlie's sitting at the table
, she thought.
My God! She's nailed him. He's smitten
. Eyelashes fluttering in the breeze, the actress was touching Charlie's arm, making eye contact closer than an oculist.

“Why is it so difficult to find great bread? I mean, it's just flour and water. And—yeast, isn't it? I mean, where is the magic that happens in France? Is it the water? I hear it's the water, Mr.
Scott—but of course, you must have these gorgeous little rolls flown in from—where? Dijon? I bet I know just the
boulangerie
.”

“Please. It's Charles.”

Of course it is, and you're dead, sister
. Out loud, though, Nicola said with a clip, “They're made downstairs. In the basement. The cellar, actually.” Her previous sympathy for the star of the show vanished like a wrinkle under an airbrush.

The diva barely acknowledged Nicola's presence; she didn't need the photographer's attention this evening. They'd had a good day. The pictures would be glorious; even the clients said so. Science and surgery, diet and pampering—and great good fortune—had given Anne Elliott, at forty-three, a face any twenty-something might have envied. If the world believed that Elizabeth Arden's products played a part in all that, then Ms. Elliott had earned her two million. Making forty look twenty—Nicola had thought about spoofers more than once through the day.

Nicola's irritation surged. She could foresee difficulties in bringing up the subject of “the book.” The waitstaff were waiting in groups. Diners who had never spoken to him before began stopping by to greet Charles, so they could say tomorrow, “Guess who I met last night?”

Anne reclaimed his attention. She flicked the pouf of silk foaming from Charles's jacket.

“Tell me about your pocket square.”

Nicola watched him blush:
He never blushes. Never. Only around his mother
. Charles, usually silvery of speech, stumbled and coughed. “It's, ah'm, you know, evening. The restaurant, I mean. Well, if not quite tuxedo, then—well, you have to put on a show. You know about these things.”

Nicola watched:
What's the matter with him? Oh, brother!
But she chipped in, “Charlie's worn pocket squares since he was eighteen.
But I've been collecting vintage squares for him for a few years now, and they've really become
fun
.” The word “fun” sounded hollow, and anything but fun, as it came through her lips.

Anne Elliott turned slowly and reluctantly away from Charles, and looked at Nicola.

“How sweet,” she said. “Aren't you just so—creative?”

“Charlie,” Nicola started, “we wanted to say something to Anne about the book—”

Charlie said, “We don't want to talk about that now. Let's enjoy ourselves! You girls have had a hard day.”

Nicola bridled but hid it:
You girls. He better not say that again
.

“Yes, let's enjoy ourselves. And each other,” said the actress.

The sommelier hovered like a hummingbird. Charles inspected the bottle.

“Now, here's some true fun,” he said. Nicola rolled her eyes.

A waiter began to set out a little forest of glasses. At which precise moment, as though called by a bell, Uncle Julius arrived at the table and pulled up a chair. Charles looked less than charmed, but Nicola thought of Pavlov's dogs and began to laugh.
He heard the damn cork pop. Five blocks away, he heard it. Perfect, Uncle Julius
.

Anne Elliott wore a pavé diamond airplane pendant suspended above her cleavage, toward which Uncle Julius thrust his finger, pointing none too subtly.

“From Marty,” she said, a polished hand to her throat, nearly appearing to blush. “He tried to get me for the Ava Gardner part in
The Aviator
. He sent this as a lure. I didn't take the part, but I did keep the plane.”

Uncle Julius said, “I like the landing field.”

“This,” said Charles, in a voice as dull as dust, “is Uncle Julius. He helps us.”

To which Nicola, delighted to have the distraction, added, “Uncle Julius is our most indispensable person.”

The food came and, unexpected by all, the actress chose a robust selection—crab cakes, followed by short ribs Roquefort; Uncle Julius had the same, and some calamari. Nicola ordered a salad, and Charles chose nothing.

“Oh, Mr. Scott! Won't you be so very hungry?”

At which Nicola thought:
He might, my dear, but not for you
.

Charles replied, “Really, call me Charles.… I'm sort of ‘on,' if you know what I mean.”

On? Excuse me? He's here every night
. The voice in Nicola's head was so loud she feared it might be heard at the table.

Throughout the meal, when no one could speak for long to either the
patron
or his new admirer, Charles kept up a stream of whispers to the maître d', who brought tasting after tasting to the table, offering them first to Anne.

He's feeding her the way he feeds Nora
, Nicola thought, but said out loud, “Anne, how on earth do you keep your figure? Every woman here tonight will want to know.” To herself she remarked,
They've already read about the bulimia
.

“Sweet of you, Nikki.”

Nikki? Euuuwww
. Nicola thought that she saw Charles wrestle back a smile. When the chef appeared with his signature key lime sundae, the actress squealed in delight.

“How did you know?”

Charles smiled his Cheshire-cat, all-powerful smile. Nicola kicked Uncle Julius, now cutting a road through a second bottle of wine.

“Do something,” she hissed.

Quick as a starter's pistol, Uncle Julius said, “Tell us about the book.”

“I'm in love,” said the actress, who turned to Charles as she answered Uncle Julius, and said, “It's all about timing, isn't it?”

Julius asked, “Was your dealer in New York?” He didn't wait for a reply. “I used to deal in antique books,” and Charles Scott was far too much of a gentleman to add, “Yes, you and my father once tried to fence a Kelmscott Chaucer lifted from the Morgan.”

“Boston,” said Anne Elliott with huge eyes. “But—shhhh. I'm not supposed to tell where it's from. The war and all that?”

Uncle Julius nodded and murmured, “Nazi loot. Gotcha.”

“Exactly,” said the actress. “Tim, my new best boyfriend—it's for his mother. Restore the family library,” and she put a finger to her lips. “Dignity. Their great name. I am so glad to help. He's just so wonderful.”

“I used to deal in Boston,” said Uncle Julius (not caring to add that he went to jail there too). “Who exackly d'ja work with there?” but Anne Elliott gracefully sidestepped his questions and, minutes later, made her exit, pleading early morning hair and makeup for a television appearance on
Today
. She nodded to those diners who stood in light applause, kissed Charles on both cheeks at the doorstep, and again as he handed her into her limo—and she was gone.

When he came back to the table, Nicola said, “We have news for you, don't we, Uncle Julius?”

“Manny Walsh,” crowed Uncle Julius. “He's in Boston!”

Minutes later, a young man, tall as a tree, walked into ASTA, dropped his long leather duffel bag at the desk, and the maître d' led him to their table. Dark, immaculate, and lithe as a dancer, he looked like central casting's idea of the Handsome Prince. His hair was long and romantic; his clothes were graceful and romantic; his eyes were heavy-lidded, black-fringed, and definitely romantic. He wore his shirt open a few buttons deep, his collar up,
with a long lavender scarf looped around his neck a few times. On his left hand he wore a large gold signet ring.

“Charles Scott?” He held out his hand. “Tim Pemberley. A friend of Anne Elliott.”

Charles stood, and even at six foot two, was inches shorter than his guest.

“You've just missed her.”

“Damn.”

“I believe she's gone straight home. She has an early television call.”

“Then she's also gone straight to bed and I shan't disturb her.”

“Sit down,” Nicola insisted, patting the place on the banquette next to her, and nurturing already. “Have you eaten?”

Uncle Julius decided to eat again, pasta this time, a pesto tagliatelle, and a second dessert. Charles glared at Nicola's encouraging: “You should both try the
pot de crème
. Shouldn't they, Charlie?”

“Where did you go to school?” asked Charles, the irony in his voice acknowledging the English discovery route.

“We're Bedfordshire. Did I read that you were Cambridge or something?”

“Balliol,” said Charles.

Uncle Julius interrupted. “Whassa lord do, anyway?”

“I hear that Anne's found quite a surprise for your mother,” said Nicola, testing the waters.

“Oh, the damned book,” said the young dream, who ate as though he'd been fasting a week.

“Didn't
you
want it?” Nicola shifted to get his eyeline.

Charles watched:
Is she going to drool from her mouth over this guy
?—but he asked, “Where are you staying?”

“I'm here for the Sotheby's bash tomorrow. Do either of you go for antique porcelain?”

Uncle Julius apparently disapproved. “Breakage,” was all he said. “Hard to shift.”

“You've just landed, have you?” said Nicola, moving a bit closer.

Charles eyed his wife.
Yes, that's drooling, that's definitely drooling, that isn't eye contact, that's invasion
.

“Second time in a week,” Lord P. said. “My jet lag has jet lag.”

“Why don't you stay with us tonight?” said Nicola. “We have plenty of room”—which is how they came to be sitting in the kitchen at the townhouse until half past two in the morning, with Charles now trying to get the full story.