The Brontë Plot (5 page)

Lucy got out of the car and when she looked back at him, she almost cringed at the hope and gentle excitement that danced in his eyes.

She unlocked the door and James held it for her. She then crossed the lobby and led him up two more flights. He remained silent as she unlocked her front door and pushed it hard, past its sticking point. “The humidity swells it each spring. Now . . . It isn't much . . . I haven't done much decorating.”

“I'm sure your place is perfect.” He kissed her cheek and pressed his palm against the door, holding it open for her to enter first. Her thoughts flew to James's apartment, which though masculine in aesthetic, was still lively with its framed concert posters and signed baseball jerseys; its wool rug,
thrown down by his mother; and its cacophony of comfortable furniture. Images of a much starker nature arose when she imagined what he'd see in hers—an
inhospitable hearth
more fitting for Heathcliff than the young Mr. Lockwood, who kept calling at Wuthering Heights. Would James, too, remember that
only four miles distant lay
his
delightful home
and want to run straight back?

James passed into her two-step hallway and stopped.

Lucy dropped her bag by the door and laid her keys on the American chest Sid had given her as a Christmas bonus the year before. She ran her fingers over its parched rough top as she watched James take a slow survey of her one-bedroom apartment. She followed the trail, trying to discern the thoughts chasing each other round and round in his mind. His expression revealed nothing.

He turned his head from her living room, past her single armchair and solitary table, to the naked front bay window. He continued to the left and took in the small kitchen with its single stool at the counter. He then gazed across to her bedroom door. From this vantage point, she knew he could see her queen-size bed resting on its metal frame, and one corner of a mid-nineteenth-century French dresser. What had once felt like an evolving creation was, in its bald reality, an empty apartment.

“Not what you expected?”

He stepped into the living room, loafers tapping on the bare wood floor. Something caught his eye and his hand darted to the mantel. “You framed it?” He picked up the lone picture frame featuring an index card written in a precise hand.

Roses are Red.

Violets are Blue.

You've stolen my heart.

I'm in love with you.

“I liked it.” Lucy lifted a shoulder.

“I'm pleased my little note warrants such a place of honor.”

She waited and he said nothing more, so she repeated her question in the form of a statement. “It's not what you expected.”

James didn't answer. Instead he asked a question of his own. “Where are the curtains you always talk about?”

“I don't always . . . Here.” Lucy crossed to the bay window. Her high heels clicked like bullet fire echoing off the empty surfaces. She tiptoed to stop the sound and picked up one of the two panels lying on the floor. She whipped it out like a blanket, spreading it broad and smooth across the floor. “This one's finished. It's amazingly heavy.” She grabbed the other one and spread it out next to its twin and knelt down to flatten its edges. “This is the second one, and I need only a few more remnant squares to complete it.”

She studied the intricate pattern created by hundreds of five-inch squares of fabric—deep, bold colors moving across the panel to soft pastels with threads of gold and silver squares stitched in the center as if pouring down like a waterfall. “When pulled, they'll be large enough to cover the entire window.”

“They're beautiful, Lucy.” James squatted beside her and ran his hand over a square of royal velvet, basted between a silk brocade and heavy jade linen. “There's a design in here.”

Lucy ran her hand across the first. “It starts here with the dark tones of winter then travels through spring to the high summer and closes in the bottom corner in fall. It's not linear. I tried to capture the movement of the seasons and where they cross through texture more than through color.” She pulled the second panel toward her. “This one is a life. You start innocent and young and fresh and then the colors change—”

“They get pretty dark here. What's this?”

“I'm not sure. I made that section last year, but I think I was envisioning that questioning time, kinda like Jane Eyre's time on the moors or Helen Graham's months back with her abusive husband or Molly's time when Roger is engaged to Cynthia. All the books have it . . . That time when you don't know where you'll be, but you can't stay as you are. In life or in literature, that time rarely feels good.” She peeked at James, thinking perhaps sharing her panels was not her best idea. “It gets lighter here with more texture as one comes to truly understand oneself and can answer those big questions with some certainty. I have this vision of completeness and that's this gold through the orange.” She ran her hand along the curving gold path.

“And that leaves what? Death?”

“I haven't found the right fabrics yet.” She sat back on her heels. “I hope you don't think it's morbid. It's more of a journey than a real life. Think of it as a book, not as me. I'm not trying to find the right fabrics for my own death.”

“I didn't think that.” James stood. “I think it's spectacular, beyond brilliant.” He reached down and pulled her to stand beside him. “When you talked about them, I couldn't envision them and certainly never got close to this.”

“Sid's clients have good taste. It wouldn't be so pretty with felts and cotton twill. But beyond that, I choose each because of a memory or a texture that speaks to me. Some are simply my favorite colors. Like that orange with the gold fiber? The midlife? That's a sunset to me.” She pulled, first at one panel then the other, and folded them under the window. “It's probably taken too long to finish it, though. Four years borders on strange.”

“How much is left?”

“Fourteen squares. Some of the fabrics Sid's clients have chosen this spring are extraordinary; I expect I'll find the perfect pieces and have it ready for the finisher by summer.”

James raised his eyes and looked back across the apartment. “And your table? It's not what I imagined either.”

“I thought I described that pretty well—books stacked for the legs and glass on top.”

James walked to it and squatted again. “It's a little more than that. You've got an order down here, don't you? Americans in this leg . . .” He twisted to the right. “And English here. Victorian mostly.” He leaned farther. “But also here. What's the difference between these two legs?”

“Both English. These are the love stories, though not all romantic. Austen, Brontës, a couple Dickens, Hardy, Gaskell, and these . . .”

“Mystery, deception . . . That's why Shakespeare's in both.” He walked around to the fourth leg. “Whoa . . . Childhood.” He crouched again. “
The Velveteen Rabbit
. I loved that book. And Beatrix Potter. And
Frog and Toad
. These are fantastic. Do you read any of these?”

Lucy picked up the inch-thick glass top. “I just pull off the top, and
voila
. But I have to put them back before I can replace the glass or it's not even—so, no, I don't read any of them very often. They're best under here. Maybe someday I'll get some bookshelves—and a real table.”

“Don't you miss reading them? You of all people.”

Lucy stared at the table, pondering it. “Yes, some are my favorite stories, but they aren't particularly my favorite books.” James shot her a questioning glance. “Many of those are Birthday Books and, while I love them, I don't mind seeing them squished a little.”

James turned away, scanning the apartment again.

“You expected more . . . Stuff that reflects me, who I am, collections, something . . .” Lucy slowly spun around in the empty room as well. “But I wanted to bring in things that have meaning, objects that I truly love, and it's so hard to find—”

“Hey, hey.” James caught and tugged her arm until she was folded into his embrace. “Stop. What you have here is gorgeous, creative, and thoughtful.” He whispered into her hair and pulled her closer until her entire body pressed against his. “So you put too much pressure on case goods. There's no shame in that. Home doesn't always come easily.”

She laughed into his shoulder. “Case goods?”

She could feel his lips pressing against her hair. They moved from her crown, to her forehead, to her cheek. “And you thought I don't listen.”

“I never said that,” she whispered.

“I can tell.” He pushed her hair back from the sides of her face and kissed her. Firmly. Completely. Lucy ran her hands up
his back and held tight. After a few silent delicious moments, he whispered softly, not breaking contact. “And you've won. I'll lend you that leather armchair you love so much and maybe a bookcase or two—not all of those are Birthday Books. Some need a breather.”

“Ah . . . My master plan.” She kissed him. Once. Twice. “You're so easy.”

“Always.” James quit talking.

Chapter 4

T
he next morning found Lucy dwelling on the evening's more exquisite moments and dreaming up ways to congratulate James once he won his trip.
A book? A pen? A print?
Nothing felt right. She had poured her second cup of coffee and curled into her armchair when her phone rang.

“Look outside,” James ordered.

“No ‘Good morning'?”

“Good morning. Look outside.”

Lucy uncurled and walked to the window. It took a moment to drop her eyes to street level and comprehend the sight below her. James stood next to a small U-Haul truck and waved up at her. “You did not!” she squealed.

“I did. Brad helped me load them, but it's you and me now.”

“I'll be right down. Stay there.” Lucy ran to her room. Throwing on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt—pausing only for a quick swipe with her toothbrush—she hit the front stoop in under three minutes and launched herself into James's arms. “You brought me furniture!”

“Do they have enough meaning to make the cut?”

“They're from you. That's all the meaning they need.” She climbed into the back of the truck. “And I love this chair. You can tell how good it is . . .” She ran her fingernail across the armrest, making a scratch.

James launched in after her. “What are you doing? That's still
my
chair.”

“Watch.” She rubbed at the spot and it disappeared. “Good leather does that. It can absorb a little abuse. Cheap, thin leather holds the scratches. It's very sad.”

“You're lucky I own a happy chair.”

“I knew it the first moment I laid eyes on it.” Lucy turned to the bookcases. “And both? You only have these two.” She traced a finger along the scalloped trim at the top. “These had to have come from your mother.”

“Grandmother. She had them in storage for half a century.”

“Helen? They're lovely.” Lucy ran her hand along one broad shelf. “What about all your books? You can't stack them around your apartment. That'll drive you nuts.”

“I already ordered two new ones from Crate and Barrel.” At her shocked expression, he continued, “My standards aren't as high as yours. I require shelves for my books; they don't have to have decades of experience to prove they're qualified for the job.”

“My books are fine, though. Don't bring these in.” Lucy hopped out of the truck. “They're your grandmother's. That's special.”

“They're mine and you're special. Besides, smashed books are hardly books at all.”

“Okay. I've done my best.” Lucy clapped her hands together. “I accept.”

“That's my girl. Hop back up and take this end and I'll step down first. It'll be easier for you.” James stepped off the back of the truck and shouldered a majority of the chair's weight.

In the end, Lucy provided minimal load but maximum navigational support. Three trips, one scuffed doorjamb, and two hours later, they flopped into her two armchairs and faced her bookcases. One entire shelf remained empty.

“I need more books.”

“Not today.” James groaned.

“Not today, but soon. I'm going to visit that secondhand bookstore in Hyde Park, the one where you found that old
Catcher in the Rye
.”

“I'll go with you . . . Next weekend.”

“Fine.” She drew the word out with as much drama as her sore muscles allowed.

“Borrow some from your gallery. Or get them at auctions. You always say you know how to get the best prices.”

Lucy considered a moment. “No . . . Not those. Not here.” She recognized the oddity of her comment. “Besides, I'm not trying to collect books, per se. I like copies I can read and fold and wrestle around with. The ones at the shop are too delicate to really dig into.”

James stared at her. “I've never heard anyone talk about books like you do. It's like they're your friends.”

“Aren't they yours?”

James raised his eyebrow.

Lucy laughed. “Don't even. They're as much your friends
as they are mine. I don't mean it in some strange or creepy antisocial way. I mean that reading forms your opinions, your worldview, especially childhood reading, and anything that does that has an impact. So call them friends, call some stories enemies if you want, but don't deny their influence.” She popped up straight. “You learn drama from the Brontës; sense from Austen; social justice from Dickens; beauty from Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron; patience and perseverance from Gaskell; and don't even get me started on exercising your imagination with Carroll, Doyle, Wells, Wilde, Stoker—”

“Fine,” James cut in, mimicking her tone.