Manolos in Manhattan (18 page)

Jamie sat on the stool at the breakfast bar next to her and reached for a slice of toast. “You could always wait tables again,” he suggested. “If money’s tight, I could get you an evening shift at Gordon Scots. Or you could help prep veggies in the kitchen before you go to work.”

“No thanks.” She brushed toast crumbs from her fingers. “I’d never get up early enough, and I hate chopping onions and peeling carrots. Besides, we’d kill each other in two seconds flat. You’re far too exacting, and all that ‘
mise en place
’ stuff drives me mad.”

“A little organization never hurt anyone. You could do with a bit of order in your life.”

“I’m sure I could,” Holly retorted. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

He grinned and leaned over to give her a sticky, toast-and-orange-marmalade kiss. “I love you, Hols, despite your chronic disorganization. I can think of worse things.”

“And I love you too,” she murmured, “even though your lips are sticky and I hardly ever see you.”

“Sorry, babes, but it can’t be helped.”

Chaz’s words at Friday lunch came back to haunt her.
How does Jamie feel about this...thing, with Ciaran? Isn’t he a tad jealous?

Holly finished her omelet and stood up to carry the plate to the sink. She had to tell Jamie about the film première with Ciaran, there was no putting it off. She had to make him see that it was strictly for publicity, and that she owed Ciaran after all he’d done to help the store.

“And speaking of spending more time together,” he added, “I’ve arranged to take the Saturday after next off. Catherine’s covering for me.”

Her hands stilled on the tap as she ran water over her plate. “Saturday?”

He nodded. “In two weeks, for the whole day. I thought I’d take you to dinner, someplace special, to celebrate. I know your birthday isn’t officially until the Friday after, but—” he got up and came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, “I’ll wine you and dine you on my night off,” he murmured in her ear, “and then I’ll—”

“I can’t, Jamie.” She drew away and turned to face him. “I have something on that night.”

“You do?” he asked. “What? Are your parents taking you out somewhere?”

“No.” She paused. “I’ve promised to do a publicity thing with Ciaran, for his new film. He’s taking me to the première.”

Jamie was silent.

“It’ll be great publicity for Dashwood and James,” she rushed on, as the silence grew uncomfortable. “And we can always do something afterwards,” she added.

“Do what, exactly?” he bit off. “Dish about which celebs you saw at the première, tell me how much you like being with Mr Film Star and how dazzling it is to hang with a guy who makes more on one film than I make in two years?”

Holly refused to rise to the bait. “We can have a late dinner, somewhere quiet. Just you and me. Maybe that place in Little Italy, the one with the red-and-white checked tablecloths and the autographed photo of Robert de Niro on the wall? I’d love that.”

“No, sorry. I don’t want to spoil your plans with
Ciaran
.” He turned away. “I’ll tell Catherine to put me back on the schedule, since my fiancée’s got a date that night – with another guy.”

“Jamie, you’re being ridiculous. So...what’s the plan today?” Holly asked, desperate to smooth his ruffled feathers. “It’s your day off, so we should make the most of it. I thought we could go to a museum, or maybe go on a thrift-store hunt.”

He brushed past her to pick up his plate and dump it atop hers in the sink. “I can’t, sorry. I promised to hang out with Izzy today, remember? We’re throwing a football around in the park this afternoon. It was your idea,” he reminded her as he saw her expression.

She could barely hide her dismay. Hanging out with Izzy meant that Jamie would spend time with her Aunt Catherine as well. And the thought didn’t exactly fill her with joy.

“Right. I’d forgotten.” Holly rinsed his plate and stuck it in the dish rack. “Thanks, by the way. Izzy really loves spending time with you.” She wiped her hands. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I’ll cancel the thing with Ciaran, it’s not worth upsetting you.”

“No, forget it. I really should work, anyway. Saturdays are far too busy for Catherine to handle alone.” He slanted her a glance. “Why don’t you come along with us today? You and I can go somewhere and have dinner afterwards.”

“No, you go ahead. It’s you Izzy wants, not me.”
And it’s you Catherine wants, as well
... “Besides,” she added, “I really want to read some more of Daisy’s letters.”

“Suit yourself. Maybe we can meet up for dinner when I’m done.”

“I’d love that,” she agreed, and smiled. “Six?”

“Yeah. You pick somewhere. Well, I’m off to take a shower and make myself presentable.” He kissed her.

She slipped her arms around his neck and searched his eyes. “Jamie, you know I love you, don’t you? I don’t care a fig about Ciaran Duncan.”

He studied her face. “I do know that. I just worry sometimes that you’re falling for him and his limos and film premières and all of that posh bullshit.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, and kissed him again. “I love you. Now go take your shower, and get ready. I’m sure Izzy’s beyond anxious to see you.”

He turned away to strip off his T-shirt and left, and Holly was relieved they’d avoided a row. She was glad Jamie was willing to spend some time with Izzy. It was kind and generous of him, especially on his only day off.

Her smile faded. She just wished it didn’t mean he’d be spending the afternoon with Izzy’s gorgeous aunt, Catherine, as well...

Chapter Thirty

“Throw it harder. Harder!” Jamie shouted across the field. “You throw like a girl.”

Izzy retrieved the ball and glared at him. “I
am
a girl. And I can throw as good as any boy. Better!”

“Prove it, then,” he challenged.

Catherine, sitting cross-legged on the quilt she’d spread out in the grass, cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kick his butt, Iz!” she called out.

“Hey, whose side are you on?” Jamie demanded.

“I’m Team Izzy, of course.” She adjusted the brim of her baseball cap. “You know the rules. It’s the girls against the boys.”

“Not fair,” he groused. “I’m outnumbered.”

“Cry me a river,” Catherine retorted, and grinned. She leaned back on her palms and tilted her face up to bask in the sun’s delicious warmth.

She and Izzy had agreed to meet Jamie in Central Park West, and they’d claimed this grassy spot near Strawberry Fields for the afternoon. It was the first day in weeks that she and Jamie hadn’t been at the restaurant, prepping from early morning until late at night, getting ready for Gordon Scots’ grand opening.

That morning Catherine took down a wicker hamper from the hallway closet and packed a picnic – chilled pasta salad with artichoke hearts, English water biscuits for Jamie, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps for Izzy. For dessert, she’d made blondies, her golden brownies studded not with chocolate chips, but dark chocolate chunks, and drizzled liberally with melted caramel and a sprinkling of Maldon sea salt. For Izzy, she played it safe and threw in a package of store-bought chocolate chip cookies.

She leaned forward now and wrapped her arms around her knees, her eyes on Jamie. He ran across the field with the football, Izzy shrieking with laughter and giving chase as he zigged and zagged through the grass, and as she watched, her smile was tinged with regret.

This
was what Izzy needed in her life...someone to toss a ball with her, hang out with her, tell her she was wonderful and beautiful and give her unqualified attention.

God knows, Catherine thought darkly, she’d never get that from Jake. Izzy’s father was a father only in the biological sense, and that’s all he’d ever be. His disinterest in his own daughter mystified and infuriated her. How could you have so little interest in your own child?

She couldn’t help but notice, as Jamie drew his arm back and threw the ball, how good he looked in jeans and a T-shirt, minus his usual chef’s whites. He was a guy’s guy and he could cook like a dream. And he was great to work with – professional, organized...

Sexy.

And he’s also engaged to Holly
, she reminded herself with a sigh.
So don’t even
go
there
.

Jamie came up with Isabel and the two of them collapsed, laughing and out of breath, on the blanket next to Catherine.

“Jamie cheats,” Izzy declared. “He pretends to throw the ball and then he doesn’t.”

“In American football, it’s called a trick play.” He raised his brow. “It’s when you expect one thing to happen – a forward pass, for instance ‒ and then the exact opposite happens...something you weren’t expecting.”

He glanced at Catherine, and their gazes collided. It was the first time he’d seen her in jeans and a T-shirt, and she looked amazing. She’d pulled her ponytail through the back of her baseball cap, and it gave her a relaxed, girlish vibe...

...quite different to the professional, all-business-all-the-time sous chef he knew so well in the kitchen. Why had he never noticed before how attractive she was?

Now, mate
, he warned himself as he leaned forward to help Catherine unpack the picnic basket,
none of that. You’re engaged to Holly, who you love, very much.

“Who’s for pasta salad?” Catherine inquired as she paused, spoon in hand, to dish it out.

“I am,” Jamie said promptly. “And lots of it.”

“What’s in it?” Izzy asked doubtfully. “More weird stuff?”

“Artichoke hearts,” Catherine answered, “and roasted red peppers and cherry tomatoes, tossed in my own Balsamic vinaigrette. Oh ‒ and pasta, of course. Tagliatelle.”

“Weird stuff,” Izzy sighed.

“Then it’s a very good thing,” Jamie announced as he withdrew a waxed-paper wrapped sandwich and handed it over, “that your auntie thought ahead and made you PB and J, isn’t it?”

Izzy grabbed it. “Yes! Thanks.”

“You can thank Holly,” Catherine told her. “It was her suggestion.”

And as she and Jamie dug into their pasta salads, the mention of Holly cast a damper, however slight, on the flicker of attraction between them.

“Wine?” Catherine asked him, and held a chilled bottle of Sancerre aloft. “As long as you don’t mind a paper cup, that is...”

“I don’t mind.” He took the cup and had a sip, then smiled at her over the rim. “Besides,” he added, his voice husky, “everyone knows that wine always tastes better in a paper cup.”

Chapter Thirty-One

As soon as Jamie left, Holly went to the closet and took down Daisy’s letters from the shelf, and settled herself on the sofa. She was beyond anxious to get back to the flapper’s story and find out what had happened to her.

Dear Bix,
Holly read,
Dora hates my new bob. ‘Barely a month in New York, and you’ve already shortened your skirts and cut your beautiful long hair.”

I told her it’s the fashion, and I told her about you, and that you liked it well enough.

Then she asked me why I hadn’t told her about you sooner, and I said we’d only just met. She says “Bix” sounds like a jazz musician. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?

I told her your given’s Braydon Averell III, and that you’re the bee’s knees, and that you’re smart as heck. And I told her you’re a writer. When she opened the door last night and saw you, believe me – my sister fell harder than a ton of bricks!

Speaking of last night ‒ I had a really swell time, Bixie...

Holly put the letter aside and picked up another.

It was late when you left. But I didn’t care. I drifted back inside Dora’s apartment on a heady cloud of love and Shalimar.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she asked when I came in.

I told her it was time for bed, and I was tired. Then I brushed past her to go to my room.

But she grabbed my arm – real hard – and said I was a disgrace, dancing and drinking and staying out till all hours. She said real hurtful things, Bix. She even asked if you and I had slept together, and accused me of being a floozy. A floozy!

I told her it was none of her beeswax, and that she was just jealous. I told her that maybe if she put on some lipstick or shortened her skirts, she might get a man, too.

She slapped me then, and called me a tramp, so I told her I was moving out. I marched into my room and got my old suitcase and started flinging my clothes inside.

She asked me where I was going in the middle of the night in the pouring rain. I told her one of the girls in the typing pool had a room for rent, and that with my raise I could just about afford it.

‘But who’ll look after you? Who’ll make sure you take your umbrella when it rains, or give you money for taxi fare, or warn you if you’re about to make a big mistake?’

And you know what I told her? I told her you’ll look after me, Bix, once we get married.

Then I grabbed my umbrella and my suitcase, and took a taxi from Murray Hill to Washington Heights. The girls were thrilled silly to see me. They’re throwing a bash this weekend, with bathtub gin and dancing and jazz on the Victrola, and we’re invited. Living here’s gonna be SO much fun...

So, Holly mused as she put the letters aside, Daisy had defied her sister Dora and moved out. The girl certainly had pluck. She’d been on her own in 1920s Manhattan, a time of newfound freedom for women, without a care in the world and plans to marry the man she loved.

Why, then, hadn’t it happened? Holly wondered. Why hadn’t Daisy and Bix gotten married? Why did she disappear, and where did she go?

And why, she wondered, were her letters stashed in the brownstone? Surely they would’ve been posted to Bix and been stored amongst his most treasured possessions.

How did they end up in the attic of Clyde Caruso’s brownstone instead?

On impulse, Holly flicked through the letters, searching for an envelope. She was about to give up when she found one.

It was addressed to Braydon Averell III in Daisy’s scrawling, loopy handwriting. And it didn’t have a postmark.