Manolos in Manhattan (14 page)

But Natalie, shocked to her core and unable to speak, couldn’t form a reply. She couldn’t find words to tell Holly or Rhys that the man who’d once blackmailed and abducted her was here in Manhattan, just across the street.

Ian Clarkson stood beneath the awning of the Metropolitan Club. And he was smiling at her.

“Nat?” Holly demanded, and leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

Natalie dragged her attention back to Holly and Izzy. “I’m fine.” But her gaze darted back across the street again, to the entrance of the Metropolitan Club, and her heart raced.

There was nothing. All was exactly as it should be.

Just throngs of shoppers and tourists, and office workers taking a break to talk on their phones or grab a quick coffee.

Relief washed over her. Of course she’d imagined seeing Ian. It was impossible. He was across the ocean and safely locked away in Broadmoor, after all; she’d never see his face again.

“I’m fine,” Nat said once more, firmly. She apologized to Rhys, promised to call him when she got home, and rang off. She took Izzy’s hand in hers. “Now, Isabel – let’s get you home before your Aunt Catherine gets back, shall we?”

Twenty minutes later, Holly set her carrier bags down outside of Catherine’s apartment door and groped in her purse in search of the key the sous chef had given her. “I know it’s in here somewhere,” she muttered as the little girl, tired from the day’s adventures, sighed and looked on.

But a key proved unnecessary when Catherine flung the apartment door open. “Where the hell have you
been
?” she snapped. “I was just about to call the police!”

Holly stared at her. “The police? Whatever for?”

“Do you know how worried I was when I popped in to check on Izzy, and you weren’t here?” Catherine demanded as she glared, first at Izzy, then Holly. “No, of course not – you were too busy running around town. Without my permission, I might add.”

“I’m sorry,” Holly stammered, “I should’ve called to let you know—”

“Yes, you should have.”

“But you were at work, and I didn’t want to bother you. Jamie
hates
when I call him at work. We went shopping with my friend Natalie. Izzy wanted to go, she practically begged me. And she swore she felt better.”

“I did,” the girl agreed. “And I do. So don’t get mad at Holly. Please?” She regarded her aunt with an imploring look, and there was a trace of anxiety on her face, too. “We had
so
much fun. Can Holly stay with me again, next time?”

Catherine’s anger deflated. She stood aside and glanced at Holly as they came inside. “Well, I suppose that’s up to Holly.”

“Of course I will, Iz,” Holly said, and bent down to tug on one of the girl’s braided pigtails. “At least, until your aunt finds someone else.”

“Run along, Isabel,” Catherine said briskly. “You’re obviously recovered. You’re going back to school tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

As the girl turned and went down the hallway to her room, Holly looked over at Catherine. “I’m sorry I didn’t call or text you. I should have.”

“Never mind, it’s okay. Come in.” Catherine led the way to the living room and gestured at the sofa. “I’m the one who should apologize, since you did me a huge favor by staying with Izzy. And I really appreciate it.”

“I don’t mind; she’s a great kid. It must be hard, juggling a job as demanding as yours and taking care of her at the same time.”

Catherine shot her a look. “Oh, Jamie filled you in on my personal situation, did he?”

“Only a bit. I’m sorry about your sister.”

“The doctors don’t hold out much hope, but who knows?” She sank down on the sofa. “I have to stay positive. Izzy knows her mother’s sick, but I don’t think she realizes
how
sick Leigh really is.”

“Doctors are wrong, sometimes,” Holly ventured, and sat down.

“Not this time.” Catherine shoved a hand through her hair. “I’m coping as well as I can, but I always seem to fall short. I’ve bought Izzy books about horses, and dolls, and I even signed her up for ballet lessons. Nothing works. She doesn’t like the food I cook or the clothes I buy her or the way I braid her hair. I try to be understanding, but, frankly, I’m losing my mind.”

“Izzy’s very opinionated.” Holly smiled. “I know she likes The Clash more than One Direction; she loves pizza; and she wants a football to throw around in the park.”

“A football?” Catherine regarded her in surprise. “Sounds like you know more about my niece than I do.”

“Not really. We just talked a bit, that’s all.” Holly hesitated. “She’s lonely. She told me she doesn’t have any friends at her new school yet, and she feels left out.”

“Poor kid...of course she does. I’ve been so wrapped up with the restaurant, getting ready for the launch – I forgot what it’s like to move to a new place at that age...leaving your friends behind, not knowing anyone.”

“I can talk to Jamie if you like,” Holly offered. “Maybe he can...oh, I don’t know – throw a ball around with Izzy in the park on Sunday afternoon, or something.”

“She’d love that. And don’t worry about asking him – I will. Speaking of which,” Catherine added as she thrust herself to her feet, “he’ll fire me if I don’t get back to the restaurant. Can you stay, just for a few more hours? I hate to ask, but we’ve got one more seating to get through.”

“Sure.”
It wasn’t as if she had anything – or any
one ‒
to rush home to, at any rate.

“Thanks. I owe you.” She disappeared down the hallway to grab her handbag. “I’ve arranged for before and after school care starting tomorrow,” she called out, “so this’ll be the last time I impose on you.”

“I don’t mind. If you need someone to take care of Iz in a pinch, I’m happy to do it.”

Catherine paused as she unearthed her keys. “Thanks. Have you girls had dinner? There’s homemade soup in the fridge, and haricots verts in the vegetable bin ‒ oh, and I made veal Marsala with mushrooms yesterday. Help yourself.”

“That sounds great, thanks.” And although veal Marsala did sound delicious, Izzy’s words echoed in Holly’s head.
She’s good at what she does...if you like weird stuff, like snails, or miso soup
.

Or veal Marsala with mushrooms.

On her way home, Holly decided, she’d stop at the corner bodega and buy Isabel some chicken nuggets and a bag of frozen French fries.

There wasn’t a little girl in the world that wouldn’t love to have
those
for dinner.

Chapter Twenty-Three

That night, over a shared dinner of takeaway pizza, salad, and a bottle of red wine, Holly perched next to Jamie on the sofa and told him about the letters she’d found in the attic.

“They were love letters, Jamie, tied up with ribbon and stuffed in an old silver urn. It’s so romantic.” She sighed and popped a cherry tomato from her salad in her mouth. “And a bit odd,” she added.

“Which part? Finding a painting of a flapper under the eaves, or finding her letters?”

“Both, I suppose. Someone must’ve stuck the painting and the letters up there and forgot about it. Although why they’d hide that stuff away in the brownstone’s attic, I don’t know. Her name was Daisy.”

“Who?”

“The flapper,” she said with a trace of impatience, and put her plate aside. “Daisy Drayer. From what little I’ve read, she came to Manhattan from Omaha in 1927. She was seventeen, with nothing to her name but a cheap pasteboard suitcase and dreams of a better life. Can you imagine, all alone in New York City? She must’ve been scared to death.”

“Sounds like something out of a Horatio Alger novel,” Jamie remarked. “So what happened to her?”

“Well, at first she stayed with her sister Dora. But they fell out after she got a job as a nightclub singer – ‘Moxie, the Singing Rose of Omaha’ – speakeasies, mostly, like the one in the brownstone’s basement.”

“There was a
speakeasy
down there?” he asked, surprised. “Crikey.”

She nodded. “It was run by a local gangster named Clyde Caruso. He made Daisy a star. She was good, and really popular...and she caught Mr Caruso’s eye.”

She frowned, recalling Daisy’s letter to her boyfriend.
I owe Mr C. for launching my singing career, no question. He’s been real good to me. But it’s plain as day he’s sweet on me, too, and it gives me the heebie-jeebies. I love you, Bix, and only you. I can’t wait until I can leave this job – and Clyde Caruso - behind, and we can get married.”

“So this Caruso bloke fancied Daisy,” Jamie said, and topped up their cups of wine. “Did they have an affair?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only read a few of the letters. I don’t think so, though. She was in love with someone else.”

“Ah. Who was the lucky guy?”

“A businessman, Brayden Averell. His family was wealthy. But Daisy didn’t care about that; she loved Bix. That’s what she called him,” Holly added. “His family didn’t approve of their relationship.”

Jamie finished his second slice of pizza and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I guess not. Their rich, well-educated son was seeing a nightclub singer without two cents to her name instead of a nice, proper New York debutante. They probably thought she was after his money.” He set his plate on the coffee table. “And maybe she was.”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully, “but I don’t think so. I think she really loved him.”

As she helped Jamie clear away the pizza box, half-empty wine bottle, and took their plates into the kitchen, Holly’s thoughts drifted once again to Daisy. She couldn’t wait to carry on reading the flapper’s letters.

She wanted to know more. How had Daisy and Bix met? Why did Clyde Caruso give her the “heebie-jeebies”? Had the gangster resented her affection for the wealthy Brayden Averell?

Holly didn’t know. But she looked forward to finding out the answers.

On Friday morning, Gavin Williams and his assistant Suki arrived at the Dunleigh to begin work on the nursery.

“We’re here to take measurements,” Gavin said as Natalie let him in. “It shouldn’t take long. Getting the dimensions of the room right is imperative, you know.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Please, come in.”

Today, along with his signature scarf, Gavin wore a navy-blue blazer and khakis. With his ever-so-slight five o’clock shadow and slim but muscular build, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of
Esquire
.

“These are for you,” he added, and handed over the books under his arm with a flourish. “They’re sample books for your nursery. I’ve flagged some things, but they’re only suggestions.”

“Wonderful, thank you. Can I get either of you a coffee?” Nat offered. “Or tea?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Suki said. “I’ve already drunk my weight in caffeine this morning.”

With her short, sleek blonde hair and tall, willowy figure, Natalie noted, Suki was striking – like Uma Thurman in
Pulp Fiction
, only blonde ‒ and she was more than a bit intimidating.

“Gorgeous place,” Gavin called out as he wandered into the living room. “What a view.”

Suki withdrew a tape measure and glanced at the bombe chest in the hallway, painted an untraditional but cheery shade of turquoise. “Nice piece,” she said admiringly as she studied it. “I like the mix of antiques and funky vintage stuff. You and Rhys have great taste.”

“Oh, we had nothing to do with it,” Nat hastened to tell her. “A team of decorators took care of everything.”

“Well, it’s very striking. Can you show me to the nursery, please?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, what a lovely room,” Gavin’s assistant purred as she brushed past Natalie and took in the tall windows and high, carved ceiling. “We’ll have fun with this project.”

“How long will it take?” Natalie inquired.

“Not long.” Suki began to measure the far wall. “Once you decide on a color scheme and pick out paint and wallpaper, we’ll get started. Did you want carpet?” Her eyes swept over the polished oak floor. “It’d be a shame to cover this up.”

“I agree. I thought perhaps a nice area rug…”

“Yes,” Gavin said as he joined them. He cupped his elbow in one hand and rested his chin on the other. “A rug, twelve by ten, pale gray, with yellow and dark-gray swirls...I know just the one. I saw it in a wholesale showroom in midtown only yesterday.” He lifted a brow and turned to Natalie. “I presume money is no object?”

“Well...no. Within reason, of course,” Natalie added. Rhys would’ve been proud of her.

He took out his mobile phone and began to take photographs of the nursery’s interior, his face set in concentration. “You’re lucky to live here, you know. The Dunleigh is incredibly difficult to get into.”

“So Rhys tells me.” She took her phone out to check her messages. “My grandfather, Sir Richard, purchased it recently.”

“Ah. A title,” Gavin murmured, and snapped another photo. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Natalie asked in puzzlement.

“It explains how your grandfather got vetted by the co-op board. The board members are notoriously rich, older than dirt, and incredibly snobbish. Old New York money, you know.”

Natalie shrugged. “Old English money’s no different, I’m afraid. In fact, it’s worse. The British aristocracy’s had a much longer time to accumulate their wealth...and a much longer time to feel superior.”

Gavin laughed. “I expect you’re right.” He dropped the mobile phone in his pocket. “Well, Natalie – I think we’ve got everything we need. Take a look at the sample books I brought along. When we meet again – hopefully sometime next week – we’ll discuss your preferences, and I’ll bring a presentation board, and with your approval, we can get started. Just call Suki and she’ll book you an appointment.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled and took her hand. “The pleasure’s mine. Until next week.”

As he and Suki gathered up their things and left, Natalie closed the door after them and retrieved the stack of sample books from atop the bombe chest.

She lugged them into the kitchen – blimey, but they were heavy! ‒ and dumped them on the table, then made herself a cup of decaf. Her head already danced with ideas.

She settled down at the table and reached for the first book, and happily spent the rest of the afternoon studying swatches of carpeting, paint, and wallpaper.