The Brontë Plot (8 page)

Lucy followed him and locked the door. Through the glass, she watched him cross the street and turn at the corner. Part of her wanted to run after him, but most of her knew to stay. James was tired, strung-out, and he was right. What could she say to change that?

She stepped back to her desk and picked up the books.
Kidnapped
and
Jane Eyre
. They were there when she met James and now they'd witnessed the end. She carried them to the bookcase and carefully restacked each of the books James had slapped down—
Oliver Twist
,
North and South
,
The Tenet of Wildfell Hall
, Dickens's
Christmas Books,
and a copy of Charles Lamb's
Adventures of Ulysses
signed by Mary Shelley. Genuinely signed by Mary Shelley.

Lucy gripped the last one tight.
What were you thinking? What more did this or any of them need?
She placed it on the shelf, running her finger across the stack of spines. All the books,
with their worn warm covers, were special, in and of themselves, and James was right; they needed nothing from her. Lucy slowly shook her head as she finally tucked
Kidnapped
and
Jane Eyre
beside them.

Locking the glass door, she took in the gallery. It looked exactly as it had fifteen minutes earlier. Yet now every book felt tainted, the antiques clouded and cold. The spectacular MacMillan vase mocked her, and the oversweet scent of the gardenia candle cloyed in her nose. Lucy clamped her fingers over its wick. It burned her and sputtered out.

Chapter 7

L
ucy straightened from filing as the front doorbell chimed. She smoothed her long ponytail and rushed to the front, hoping to find James. Three days and he hadn't answered her texts or calls.

Her smile faltered. “Helen, how are you? James mentioned you'd caught a cold.”

“The cough is still there. Doctors say it could take several more weeks to clear. I'm on more antibiotics than I can count.” Helen huffed and laid her handbag on a small Queen Anne chest, leaning over the upright handles. “This getting old is not for the old.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“My grandson tells me you have my
Jane Eyre
. I'd like it back.”

“I have his father's
Kidnapped
too.” Lucy pulled them down. “Here they are. Did he tell you why I have them?”

“He did, but it's still mine and I love it. He had no right to take
Jane Eyre
without my permission.”

“I'm sorry . . . I can reprice them. There are algorithms for calculating valuations. Or I can refund his money.” Lucy dropped her hands to her sides. “I don't have any excuse to give you, Helen. Sid doesn't know, so please don't think he—”

“Hush.” Helen held up a hand. “A little ink on the title page didn't affect my enjoyment of the book before I knew you were the author of that ink. Why should it bother me now?”

“It should,” Lucy declared.

“Perhaps, but it doesn't. You and I aren't going to discuss this anymore.” Helen waved the two books in her hands and gently placed them in her bag. With the same motion, she retrieved a slim silver case. “I have something else I want to discuss, but not now either.” She took a deep breath. It rattled in her lungs and emerged on a soft cough.

Lucy watched as she slowly worked the case's small latch.

Helen's fingers fumbled a few times before the case popped open on a tiny spring. She handed Lucy a stiff white calling card. “My address is on the back. Will you come to my apartment tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Lucy wondered if Helen was waiting to canvas the issue with Sid then.

“Don't look as if I'm going to eat you.”

“Do you want me to bring Sid?” Lucy ventured.

“I want to talk to you and there's nothing you need to bring. Well, your laptop might help. Let's say ten o'clock?”

“Okay.” Lucy fingered the embossed card. “Did James say anything . . .”

“This has nothing to do with James.”

“Is he okay?” Lucy asked the question softly.

Helen's eyes softened. “He seems to be doing about as well as you are. But James doesn't bend easily, dear.”

“I wouldn't want him to, really . . . Except in this case.” Lucy rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Why do you want me to come tomorrow?”

“I have a favor to ask.” Helen lifted the black Hermes bag and draped it over her arm. “And tomorrow is Wednesday. You said it was your favorite day, so it's the perfect day to discuss things.”

Sid was twenty minutes late. But what an entrance! Lucy recognized him from his highly buffed cap-toed oxfords and his rich brown wool pant legs. And if his clothes hadn't provided enough clues, the bag of fabric remnants hanging from his wrist gave him away. The rest of him, however, was lost somewhere behind the largest bouquet of flowers she'd ever seen. She hurried across the floor to help.

“I'm simply speechless,” Lucy simpered. “You shouldn't have.”

“Cute. They're for Bitsy Milner. A final flourish to finish the house.”

“You're late.”

“I called her and told her to expect me at three o'clock. Gerald took longer to build this than he anticipated.” He rested the broad crystal vase on the worktable. It was filled over two feet high with layers of tight roses, peonies, tulips, and other bright, strong flowers, artfully cloistered between and around paler, softer buds, dense and precise.

“There are over a hundred flowers in here and the vase is stunning. This must've cost a fortune.”

“It's heavy enough.”

“Thank goodness I didn't handle the order. I wouldn't have imagined anything like this.”

Sid dropped into his desk chair and rolled back a few feet to see the flowers from a distance. “What would you have chosen?”

“I guess looser, wilder ones in softer tones. Like a garden all mixed together with greens and grasses, maybe in a silver vase.”

“It sounds beautiful and just like you. That's the secret of design, you know, to listen and to look. You have to find what excites a person, brings her alive, and lets her feel safe and yet . . . exotic. It's easy to build a showpiece. Harder to create a home.” He rolled himself toward her, dangling the bag from his fingers. “And here you go for your own home, the remnants from the Saltner job. There are some gorgeous ones in there. You'll need to show me your project soon.”

“I will.” Lucy smiled warmly. She knew Sid would appreciate her panels and understand them. “When it's finished, you'll be the first.”

Sid studied her. “I've got another surprise for you too.”

Lucy looked down at herself, following his line of sight. She was wearing black heels, buffed and polished. Black tights. Pale lavender velvet skirt, circa 1960s, but perfectly tailored and ending precisely midknee. Thin, black cashmere sweater, sleek and tucked in. The straightened blunt ends of her ever-present low ponytail lying over her shoulder. “What?”

“It's like the flowers. You've found what suits you. Four years ago, you interviewed in jeans, gray wool Converse, and a sweatshirt. Now I find a poised woman before me, dressed with the quality and understated elegance of an antique, and I know she's ready for this surprise. Ready for her first consulting trip.”

“A trip?”

“Helen Carmichael called my cell about half an hour ago. She's planning a shopping excursion to London and needs a consultant.” Sid squeezed her hand. “You're up.”

“London? She was here this morning; I'm meeting her at her apartment tomorrow. She said nothing about a trip.”

“She mentioned that. She wanted to clear it with me, as your boss, first.”

“I don't know, Sid.” Lucy took a step back and felt her hand reach up and circle her neck. “She's James's grandmother.”

“What?” Sid's eyebrows shot up toward his forehead. “How could you not tell me this? Really, Lucy, you've been holding out on me.”

“I did tell you; you've forgotten.”

“Good thing, too, because now I get to enjoy it all over again.” Sid rubbed his hands together. “This
is
getting interesting. Better than one of your novels, I think.”

“Call her and tell her you can't spare me.”

“Why? You and James are adorable.”

“And he's not speaking to me. We broke up.” Sid opened his mouth, but Lucy cut him off. “Please don't make me talk about it.”

Sid watched her for a moment before replying. “What happened?”

Lucy gripped her shoulders tight. “Will you call her?”

Sid rolled away again and crossed his arms over his chest as well. Lucy knew he was considering the situation, considering her.

“Sid?”

“I wondered what was different. You've been so happy and open. So very creative lately. Haven't you felt it?” He circled a finger as if drawing on her face. He rolled a few feet closer. “Is it more than James?”

“Why would you ask that?”

Sid flicked his head like he was trying to catch a fleeting thought or a burst of light. “I don't know . . . but this feels like mooore.” He drew out the last word, dragging the
o
across forever.

“It's not just about James, it's a lot of stuff . . . It's me too.” Lucy felt her eyes sting. She willed them to stay dry. “And I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

Lucy wanted to tell Sid everything—about the vases and the books—but she knew she couldn't say another word. Not now. She didn't know where or how she could possibly begin, or what to say if she did. A small voice inside asked,
If Helen hasn't told Sid about the books, should I?
She simply lifted a shoulder and let it fall, hoping the defeated gesture would end Sid's questions.

Sid stood. “I won't make the call.”

“But—”

“As strange a scenario as this is, it's here and it's yours. Time to step up,
mia cara ragazza
.” At her frown, he raised a hand and continued. “You're a good worker, Lucy, and I love you, but
you”—he spread his arms around the room—“need more than this right now. You need an adventure. Your father's family is British. Go visit the family manor. Experience something new.”

“I don't need new. And my family—”

“Lucy, if anyone needs new, you need new.” Sid hoisted the vase of flowers. “And that's the end of our discussion, because I'm officially running late. Will you please grab some packing material to help secure this in my car?”

Lucy grabbed a box and a handful of raffia stuffing and opened the alley door for Sid. “You'll never survive without me,” she mumbled. “You should make the call.”

He only chuckled.

Chapter 8

T
he crisp spring weather carried a strong wind that cut into Lucy's thin coat and smacked her hair across her face. She craned her neck to watch the clouds' shadows dance across the upward stretch of The Four Seasons Hotel and Residences. She could feel Sid's
You're up
as she pushed through the revolving door.

Standing in the lobby, she assessed the damage. She no longer embodied Sid's sense of “antique chic,” as he'd dubbed it yesterday, but instead evoked comparisons to another Muppet. Dressed in a cream-colored shift dress and matching coat, Lucy deemed the red-mopped Beaker the most accurate. Her hair, smoothed by a straightening iron only hours before, puffed and curled around her at least three times its usual volume. She flattened it as best she could and pulled it into a ponytail as the elevator zoomed her upward.

Seconds later she stood on the thirty-sixth floor in a small hallway with few doors—denoting the sheer size of the units. The elevator closing behind her compelled her to step
forward, shake out her coat once more, and ring the bell for number 3400.

James's grandmother, dressed in soft cream slacks and a periwinkle-blue cardigan, answered immediately.

“You're here.” She stepped back, inviting Lucy inside. “Come in.”

From the entry Lucy could see a full window overlooking Lake Michigan blocks away. “Your view is exquisite.” Lucy felt her breath release. She glanced to a table on her left. “These flowers . . . I was describing something very similar to Sid yesterday.” She reached out to touch a fully bloomed peony amid a loose arrangement of grasses and irises. “Who arranges your flowers?”

“I do. I find it relaxing.” Helen held up her right hand. A Band-Aid wrapped her pointer finger. “One of the roses bit me yesterday.” Her hand dipped toward the living room. “Come sit. Your dress and coat are lovely, by the way. I used to own something like them. Escada? Early 1980s?”

“I bought them at Kate's Closet on Ontario. Who knows, they might have been yours?”

“If they were, I never carried them so well.”

Lucy followed Helen in where the view spread farther east and south, encompassing Chicago's Magnificent Mile. Art covered the room's interior walls, salon style, and reached two floors high.