The Brontë Plot (7 page)
Although it wasn't Sid's style, she learned if she could contact a dealer in Atlanta, another in San Francisco, and yet another in Dallas, all selling the same case good or holding certain bolts of fabric on reserve, then she was fairly certain that she could convince at least one of them to drop the price, ship it for free, or pay Sid McKenna Antiques and Design a finder's fee for bringing a client directly to themâespecially
if she told them a good story. Then everyone won, or so she had thought.
As Lucy withdrew the gallery's interest with the two dealers, her conscience pricked her again with regard to her latest literary acquisitions. The books weren't rare or exceptional and she knew some of her own sellers were questionable. They dumped volumes on the market at irregular times and with a veil of “no questions asked.”
It takes a long time to build a reputation, Lucy, and only one faulty sale to topple it.
But it wasn't her reputation at risk with each manipulation, book purchase, or fabricated inscription. It was Sid's.
Lucy closed her laptop and peered into the galleryâa straight line of sight to the George III chest and the MacMillan vase standing proud with its gold and yellow cascading over the side. As she stared, the hope that had glowed within the colors moments before faded into shadow.
S
pring was still moving too quickly. Lucy found herself behind on ordering, billing, designing, filing . . . Clients wanted items yesterday, her go-to installer was overbooked, Sid's favorite fine arts painters were out with a spring flu, and several pages of her beloved books were sticking. She was gently pulling apart
Wives and Daughters
with her last whisper of patience when a knock startled her. Helen Carmichael pressed her hands against the glass door, her light blonde wool coat creating a monotone beige blob from top to toe.
Lucy laid down the book and approached the door, smoothing her skirt with the first few steps. She gestured the older woman inside. “Mrs. Carmichael? How are you?”
“Helen, please, and I'm fine. I simply couldn't push the door open.”
Lucy reached to the top hinge. “This probably needs oiling again.” She shut the door. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see the shop again. I wasn't able to last time and I barely got to talk with you at dinner the other night.”
“That was nice of James's parents to invite me.”
“Leslie is a wonderful hostess.” Helen looked around and raised her hand to her forehead.
“Are you feeling well?”
“I am, but it's warm in here.” She started to shrug off her coat. Lucy reached over to help, catching a whiff of a delicate floral, and most likely French, scent.
Lucy pulled the heavy coat from the older woman's shoulders to find her dressed in a pale blue cashmere sweater set and a thick wool blazer. “You have on a few layers. Do you want me to help you out of your blazer as well?”
“I'm much better now. I've been so cold. Spring is late this year.”
“April's not for another week so there's probably a little more winter ahead of us.”
“Are you busy?” Helen sat in a chair as if settling in for a long chat.
Lucy dropped into the chair beside her. “Not at all. Sid volunteers on Wednesday mornings so he's never here and the shop doesn't open for another half hour. I call it Book Day because it's the morning I take care of the books and catch up on everything for that part of the business.” She spread her hands across her lap. “So you've caught me at my very favorite time of the week.” Helen didn't reply so she searched for a new topic. “How do you like your
Jane Eyre
?”
“Such a beauty, but I'm not pleased James spent so much on me.”
“I did try to dissuade him. He was determined.”
“Once we met, I better understood.” Helen reached into her bag. “I brought it with me.”
“You did?”
Helen handed the book to Lucy. “When James gave it to me he showed me a picture, but I don't know where it's gone.”
Lucy held it between her palms. “This is a favorite of mine. An early edition bought at auction by a collector in London.” She gently laid it in her lap. “I believe it came originally from an estate sale in Yorkshire and I don't think he would've let it go, but he was forced to liquidate his library . . . Just think, a copy that hasn't traveled far from its home since written and published over one hundred and fifty years ago.” She opened the cover and fanned the pages on their edges, sliding them minutely apart. The picture of Jane and Rochester reappeared. “Here is what you're after . . .”
“There it is. It's absolutely lovely.”
“It is, isn't it?” Lucy handed the book back. “Some say they're tacky because they weren't originally printed with the book, but I love them. They're special, like secret treasures, and always make me smile.”
“I agree with you.” Helen glanced past Lucy's shoulder to the bookshelves. “You have quite a focused selection here.”
“Victorian. I try to buy for value, but it happens to align with my interests at present so I've probably gone overboard. My budget won't let me near Austen and Regency or even twentieth century right now, except for a few Russian novels, and they leave me vaguely uncomfortable.”
“Good fiction can do that. Dostoyevsky's
Crime and Punishment
is a favorite of mine.” Helen stood and moved to examine a small sculpture sitting on a nearby chest. “Tell me more about your family. I find your accent fascinating.”
“Ah . . . my South Side meets the West End?” Lucy joined
her. The bronze sculpture was about the width of a hand and twice as tall, an abstract interpretation of an elephant. “It's from my father. I don't think of myself as having an accent, but some words come out a little more rounded and my intonation sweeps up at times. And I've never even been to England.”
“At dinner you said your grandmother was from London.”
“My grandfather moved over there in '57, I gather, and met and married her. She died in '75 and my grandfather brought my dad, their only child, back to his home. He was something like third generation Chicago and missed it a lot.” Lucy shrugged. “But my dad never thought like that. He tenaciously held on to his accent and moved us everywhere when I was a kid. Then when he left us, Mom came back home to Chicago too. She grew up on the north sideâthough she moved out to Rockford when I went to college, almost a decade ago.”
“Well, it's a lovely accent.”
“Thank you. I got my love for books from my dad too.” Lucy pointed across to the shelves. “He used to read to me all the time and his accent was strongest when he read English authors or children's books. I think that was because he always chose his favorites, books his mum read to him.”
“ '57? I imagine things were still quite unsettled over there after the war.”
“Dad didn't talk about his childhood much. But, working in arts and antiques, I've learned you're right.”
Helen stayed a few more minutes, falling into a fairly easy conversation on books, antiques, and life. As she left and Lucy locked the door behind her, Lucy felt a soft questioning as to whether the visit had been a social call or an interview.
S
id pushed through the door long after the gallery closed. Well beyond when Lucy should've shut off the lights, locked the door, and headed home.
“Why are you here? It's too late.” He moaned and dropped three fabric books and two bags onto his desk.
“I'm still behind, Sid. We've been busy, too busy. I don't know how you do it.”
“I've been thinking about that and it's only April. We may need more help when fall ramps up again.”
“I agree. Walk-ins are up and that's telling, right there. I sold the Louis XV wedding armoire today. Fifteen minutes and . . .” Lucy briefly searched her screen. “A Lila Jenson plopped down twenty-two grand. The guys will deliver it tomorrow.”
She watched Sid rub his eyes, noting the circles beneath.
“I'm glad that piece found a home. Good job.” Sid stretched his back. “Spring is always like this. I love it, but I'm getting older too. And you? Go home, call your friends. You should be out. Antiques, by definition, cannot be urgent. The air is soft
tonight, highly unusual, and it won't last. Go have fun.” He waved his hands toward the door. “Go. Go. Call James.”
“It's the last week before the partners meet. I wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't been home all week. I've barely heard from him.”
“You're no better. Are you sharing in the crazy?”
“I'm catching up. We've got our own crazy.”
“Well, I give up.” Sid palmed his car keys and waved. “See you tomorrow,
mon coeur
.”
Lucy finished the billing then strolled through the gallery, making sure everything was in place for the next day. A few items had to be tilted this way or that and the work was done within minutes. She ran her finger over the chests and tables and recalled her parched nineteenth-century American one at home.
Must remember the furniture oil.
She lit a gardenia candle and it reminded her of the day James first asked her out. She breathed deep, waiting for the scent to give her a lift before she grasped the linen cloth from her desk drawer and headed to the books.
Sid's warning about
one faulty sale
had stung for two weeks. And like a child, fearful of fire, she'd stayed away from the sellers she knew posed a risk. The books she'd already purchased from them gently condemned her and pricked her conscience every time she dusted, sold, or even touched one. Sid trusted her judgment and had even handed over the gallery's small but growing antique book business completely to her care. She knew she had violated that trust, but was unsure how to fix it.
Lucy reached up and pulled down an early edition of
Wuthering Heights
and carefully spanned the pages to see the
portrait of Cathy emerge from the edge, with Heathcliff standing guard behind her. She sighed and let the pages rustle into place as she settled behind a small writing desk. “Just a moment, then home.” She gently opened the book and started to read.
A perfect misanthropist's Heavenâand Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us . . .
The door grated as someone pushed it open. Lucy jumped up, realizing she'd forgotten to lock it.
James walked in.
“I didn't think I'd see you tonight.” She laid the book down and reached out her arms. She pulled away as she absorbed his expression. “What's wrong?”
James approached her, pulling his bag strap from his shoulder. “Remember how you told me inscriptions, the provenance, increase the value of a book? Tell the story behind the story?”
“Yes . . .”
“I was at Grams's last night and she thanked me again for that
Jane Eyre
.” James reached into his bag and pulled it out. “This
Jane Eyre
. And I looked at it, really looked at it, and I noticed something. Then I went and got
Kidnapped
.” He reached back in and pulled out
Kidnapped
. He laid both books on her desk and crossed to her bookshelves. He pulled out several volumes and slapped them down on the ledge.
“James, I . . .” Lucy's voice died as he opened one, two, three . . .
“All different names, I'll give you that. But the same handwriting. Lucy? Why?” He turned back to her.
“I . . . I wanted them to be valued.”
“They're stories, Lucy. They aren't people. They aren't real. They are valued for what they are, nothing more. And thisâwhat you've doneâ
devalues
them. And you.” Lucy opened her mouth, but he went on. “I trusted you. I thought you trusted me enough to be honest with me.”
“This was different . . . It was meant to create a sense of connectionâto tell a good story.”
“I had to tell Grams and my dad.”
“What did you say?” Lucy stilled.
“I took their books, Lucy. I had to explain. Everything.”
“What exactly does that mean, everything?” Lucy held her gaze steady. “You told them about my father?” Her voice ended in a whisper.
James didn't reply.
“I see . . . We're lumped together now, aren't we?”
“That's not fair. Iâ”
“No. I get it.” Lucy felt tears prick her eyes as she cut him off. “I wasn't criticizing; I wouldn't want to disappoint them either.” She held both hands in front of her. “You say they're tough and have expectations, but they're good people and . . .”
“Just tell me you didn't do it. That it was a mistake.”
“You want me to lie to you?”
“
Now
you stop lying?” James snapped back.
“Jamesâ”
“I have to go.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles. “We can't keep those. I'll e-mail you after I sort out what to do.”
Lucy heard the “we” and knew lines had been drawn and doors shut. “I'll refund your money.”
“I don't care about the money right now!”
“I know.” Lucy nodded.
He grabbed his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I've got to get back to work.”
“This late?”
His shoulders slumped. “I've got only a few hours left and it's too hard, Lucy. This is too hard. Last week, I worked one hundred and twenty hours. This week will top it. And Dawkins, that partner I pointed out at the restaurant, gets this gleam in his eye every time he sees me, because he knows he owns me. I'm so tired of being used. Maybe if I wasn't in this place, I'd have a better sense of humor about this, I could fight for . . . I don't even know what. But I can't.” He pulled open the door and walked out without another word or look back.