The Brontë Plot (26 page)

He threw Lucy a grin and scooted forward as Bette set to work on his shoulder.

“You're going to spoil him,” Lucy remarked. “He's not worth it.”

“Quiet down over there,” Dillon tried to bark, but a moan escaped. “Right there. Do you feel that knot?”

“Turn a little more.” Bette pushed harder until Dillon closed his eyes and visibly melted under her hands.

Lucy waited a beat before asking, “What are we moving tomorrow?”

Dillon's eyes flew open. “We're done.” He twisted to face Bette. “Please tell me we're done.”

She pursed her lips. “If you don't leave, two more rooms open up tomorrow and Lucy said we could work on hers too.”

“I'll let you in mine as well.” Dillon moaned. “Four rooms left.”

Bette squeaked and threw her arms around him in a hug.

Lucy grinned. Whether Bette knew it or not, her pursed lips did the trick. There was no way Dillon was going to turn her down when the slightest hint of a kiss was presented.

Lucy chatted a few minutes more then decided to give them a little privacy. After all, the distinct possibility remained that
there would be no four rooms and no reward kiss, because Dillon would be driving them to London in the morning.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she decided to check on Helen. It felt odd, after all their time together, not to know how her day had gone . . . how she felt . . . what she and James had laughed about . . . She knocked on the door. When no one answered, she twisted the knob and opened it a crack into darkness. She heard Helen's soft breathing. Every other inhale caught on a light snore. Lucy shut the door.

At her own room, she flipped on the light and took in the space. They could move the dresser, find another armchair, and maybe use a paler covering on the bed. And once the bed curtains came down—it'd be lovely.

Lucy lay back against her pillows and tapped Sid's number.

He answered at the first ring. “Hello. I got your e-mail. You must be loving Yorkshire.”

“Helen fainted yesterday and fell down the stairs, so our trip has taken a turn.” Lucy noted that she was rubbing her own shoulder just had Dillon had done minutes before. “The doctor said she's suffering exhaustion and dehydration. I think we'll head back to London tomorrow or the day after and catch a flight straight home.”

“I'm sorry . . . How is she now?”

“She rested all day yesterday and today. Well, I haven't seen her since this morning. James arrived.”

“Your James?”

“No, Sid, her James.”

“You really must write all this down someday. How is
that
going?”

Lucy snuggled deeper into the pillows, recalling her conversation with James. It was similar to a conversation she'd need to have with Sid soon. But not now . . . “It's okay. He's been with her all afternoon. I've barely seen him.”

“This means no Lake District.”

“You're right. I'd forgotten that . . .” Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose.

Sid continued, “A couple books arrived today. Two Thomas Hardy's.”

“Could you put them in my drawer and not in the case? I don't want to keep them.”

“Why?”

“I . . . I thought hard about what you said. About questionable buyers? Right now I need to manage what we have and reassess my priorities for the business. I don't want to add any more books for a while.”

“I thought it was doing well.”

“It is. It's just that . . .”

“It's your business and you've managed it well, Lucy.”

Lucy shook her head, rejecting the compliment. “I don't know—I can't believe I'd forgotten about the Lake District.” As soon as the words escaped, she recognized how desperate and nonsensical they sounded. She rushed on. “Speaking of business, guess what I did today?”

“I'd say romped on the moors, but I'm not sure that relates to business.”

“I spent the afternoon doing a little decorating here at the inn. It was amazing, Sid. Bette, the manager, and I updated the rooms by moving furniture, removing old, heavy curtains,
and generally clearing out the clutter. I also made her a list of what I thought she needed to freshen the spaces and it was all stuff that'll fit in her budget: a few throw pillows, repainting some end tables and chairs in bright colors, small stuff. She was thrilled and it led me to an idea . . . Remember how you told me it was time to develop my own clientele?”

“Go on.”

She heard Sid's enthusiasm and pushed up on the pillows. “What about attracting young urban professionals on a budget and not ready to pay your prices, but still looking for great stuff? Clients for you someday, but for me today?”

“I'm not following you.”

“I was thinking about offering something like a ‘Design Session' or a full plan in which I set up the vision up front, with visuals, numbers, sourcing, and the budget—all within a computer file. My age group works much more comfortably in that format and I can add pictures and links to a lot of the stuff I recommend so they can execute the plan whenever they're able—in the middle of the night on their laptop or when a bonus comes in. And the budget is also set up so when they input the price, it all trickles in real time to the bottom line.”

“My first thought is that you've put a lot of power in your client's hands. After the first meeting, they don't need you. You've given them the access points, everything.”

“Is that wrong?”

“It's simply a different model. I love the idea, but it takes you out of the equation.”

“Often people like that control. They're busy and they need time to let ideas sit without pressure.” She frowned. “But you're
right, I'd need to bill up front and it'd be good to track loyalty somehow and see how often they re-engage . . . Is it too weird? Unworkable?”

“It's client focused and that's what matters. It's new and different and very you. I like it a lot. Keep developing it and we'll talk about it when you get back.”

“Thank you, Sid. And thanks also for not putting those books out.”

“They are already in your desk drawer. Sleep well,
um pouco
.”

“You've lost me. Back to Spanish?”

“I took your advice and am sticking with the romance languages. That's ‘little one' in Portuguese.”

“Sid, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.” She heard him chuckle before he tapped off his phone.

Lucy did the same then sat listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Chapter 24

L
ucy approached Helen's room, wondering if she was awake but still unwilling to intrude—or encounter James. She walked softly past it and down the stairs in search of Bette and breakfast.

James was leaving the dining room just as she rounded the corner.

“How's Helen?” Lucy blurted.

“You haven't seen her?”

“You're here.” She scrunched her nose, realizing how immature she sounded. “I didn't want to intrude.”

“Oh . . . Well, I'm heading there now.” James looked as if he was about to invite her to join him. Instead he said, “You two have had an interesting time.”

Lucy started to nod then fully realized what that meant and why his tone had dipped with such weight.

He knows.

He knew about Helen's summer and the watch . . . He knew of Helen's health . . . He knew of Lucy's grandfather . . .
He knew more about Lucy's family . . . What else did he know about her?

“Are you okay?” She tried to keep her tone light as if quantity of information was the only issue in question.

“Are you?” He studied her.

Lucy pursed her lips, unable to discern if she caught condescension or simply expected it to be there. Either way, she felt the hair at the base of her skull prick her.

“I'm fine.” She turned her head toward the doorway. “You should go on up and say good morning.” She passed him then spun back. “Since you told Dillon that we're leaving tomorrow, he and I are helping Bette today. Please find me if Helen needs anything.” She heard a soft “Fine” drift toward her as she walked away.

Lucy noticed Bette standing in the kitchen doorway, watching.

She tilted her head up, as if looking over Lucy's shoulder, before facing her. “You don't look at all like I expected.”

Lucy slapped her hands to her cheeks. “Please tell me I'm not red like yesterday.”

“You're not red at all, but I kinda thought you'd look happier somehow. I don't think all that fire yesterday was just embarrassment and annoyance.”

“Whatever it was, it's gone now.”

“Mmm-hmm . . .” Bette smiled and put her basket of baked goods on the buffet.

“What?”

“Nothing. Come grab some breakfast. Dillon said you two are all mine.”

“So we are.” Lucy grabbed a delicate china plate and a scone. “Did he say why James chose to stay? Is Helen not doing well?”

Bette flicked a finger toward the door to the Great Room. “He was just here. Why didn't you ask him?”

“He'd have told me if it was something serious. I suspect he wants to give Helen another day of rest.”

Bette shook her head and passed through the swinging door to the kitchen. She returned five minutes later as Lucy was eating the last of her scone and a small fruit salad. “Are you ready?”

Lucy stood and fell into step behind her. “Where to today?”

“Two rooms at the back of the house are empty. The first is the Markham Room. Do you like it? It overlooks the yard and he was a farmer.”

Lucy nodded. “I like that name a lot.”

“Then come on; it's one we haven't tackled yet.” Bette looped her arm through Lucy's and pulled her along. “I felt a little guilty about yesterday. You can't do all the rooms, okay? Help me with a couple then head to the Parsonage. What if you'd left today without seeing it?”

“I would've survived. Helen is more important, and somehow, seeing it without her felt like a betrayal.”

“And yet you haven't seen her since James arrived.”

Lucy didn't reply, knowing that all excuses sounded small and selfish—because they were. She'd avoided Helen because of James. At first, because looking at him hurt. Now, looking at him was impossible. He knew everything about her family now. Everything.

They headed to the Markham Room in silence and started
pushing and pulling at the furniture. Within minutes, Dillon joined them and the work moved faster. Another hour and they moved to the third room and Lucy felt herself unwind.

At the two-hour mark, as Dillon carried an unwanted chair to an outside building, Bette threw up her hands. “Enough. Why don't you go next door, look around, and tell me your ideas? You can't stay here doing all the work. My dad and I can get it done while you go to lunch and the Parsonage.”

“Alone?”

“Take Dillon.” Bette stood straight. “You've got to get out.”

“Dillon won't leave you, not if you're still working.” Lucy raised her eyebrows.

“He won't, will he?” Bette's cheeks blossomed.

Lucy picked up the end of an early-twentieth-century desk and scooted it to the other side of the window. She pulled the brown cushion from its chair. “Let's put a new turquoise velvet cushion on your seamstress list.” She glanced up. Bette stared into space. “Bette?”

Bette blushed deeper. “Got it. Cushion.” She pulled out her pad and wrote down the new addition.

Lucy laughed and stepped back to the desk, polishing rag in hand.

“What happened between you and James? Can I ask?” Bette softly called from across the room.

Lucy stilled and mentally calculated the distance—one floor and five rooms—between her and James. Something in Bette called out an honesty in her and she wanted to respect that. She moved closer, too embarrassed to say the words above a whisper.

She picked up the fitted sheet laying folded on the bed and motioned to Bette to grab a corner. “I did something wrong and he took it as a betrayal.” She tugged her corner. “I forged inscriptions in some books. They sell for a little more that way and I . . . He found out and that was it. It's not quite that simple, but that's what it boils down to.”

Lucy pulled her end of the top sheet, tucked it under, and made a hospital corner. She ran her hand across the smooth bed. “Before that, I was all smooth and perfect and then I wasn't. I'm not.”

Bette tossed her an edge of the comforter. “No one is smooth and perfect. You made a mistake.”

“It wasn't just that. It's a life of mistakes—three lives of mistakes.”

“I don't follow you.”

Lucy positioned the pillows and peered out the window. The sun was now high in the sky. “Do you want to know why Helen brought me along—?”

“Hello?” A soft tap on the open door preceded James's head poking in. “I've been looking for you.”

They both froze.

Bette spoke first. “How's your grandmother this morning?”

“She's doing great. She kicked me out for a nap and she asked about you.” James addressed Lucy. “What are you two doing?”

“Lucy's helping me freshen the rooms.” Bette's expression asked if she used the word correctly. Lucy blinked as if to say
I'm impressed
and she continued. “We're updating their looks.”

James's eyes flickered to Lucy's then away. “She's good at that.”

“Will you help us move something?” Bette motioned toward the bed.

James stepped into the room and pushed up his sleeves.

“You don't have to do that. Let me go find Dillon.” Lucy rushed out of the room and down the hallway.

Within minutes, she'd hurried Dillon from a storage shed and was back outside the room. James and Bette were laughing within.