The Brontë Plot (4 page)

“You rarely mention him, except tonight.”

“Not much to say.” Lucy heard her tight voice and lightened it. “All my memories of him are wrapped up in reading and stories. He told stories all the time, lived them really. That's
what I meant, James, when I said I was acting like him earlier. He made up stories, told lies. He was a grifter.”

“A con man? A real one?”

“Not glamorous. Not like TV.” Lucy arched a brow. “He was always looking for the ‘coming thing,' something really big, but he never worked for it and it never arrived. It usually involved some scam and because he had this beautiful English accent people innately trusted, he was able to pull off the initial steps. Then when the plan flopped or he got scared, we moved—until he left for good.”

Lucy leaned against the worktable and gestured toward the book. “I call that my Birthday Book. Each and every year, I get a book—haven't seen or heard from him in twenty years, but he keeps track of me because there's this year's book.”

“When was your birthday?”

“A couple months ago. This one's a little late.”

“No communication? There's no note? Nothing?” James opened the book and leafed through the pages.

“Never. But it
is
his first nonfiction selection and it's used. I'm assuming it was his, and maybe there's some meaning in that.” Lucy pushed off the table and came to stand beside him. “I looked up John Ruskin. He was the Victorian era's most renowned art critic. That's new and intriguing. Or perhaps it means nothing at all and that's my own bit of fiction.”

“Considering he's sent a book every birthday for the last twenty years, I think you can read meaning and significance into that.”

“Perhaps.” Lucy laid the book on her desk.

“You all set?”

James grabbed his coat and Lucy set the alarm.

As he walked out, she said, “You want to really earn sainthood? A bunch of friends are meeting at the Girl and the Goat tonight and they'd love to meet you.”

James winked. “I'm all in.”

Chapter 3

F
our Book Days passed and Lucy barely noticed. Spring had hit Chicago, trees blossomed, and as the populace emerged from hibernation, clients clamored to “freshen” their homes. Sid ran himself ragged meeting the demand and Lucy struggled to keep only two steps behind.

“I've got two new client meetings today.” Sid drummed his fingers on his red leather appointment book.

“Anything I can pull for them?”

“I don't know enough yet. The Ryans saw that magazine shoot of the Cramer home and they've decided taxicab-yellow walls are the way to go.”

“Aren't they? Always?” Lucy checked off the last of the samples she was cataloging and placing in bags.

“If you're bold enough, yes. Nothing sets off art so well, but I'll have to see. There's no greater mistake than giving a client what she thinks she wants rather than something reflective of who she is. Do that and you're simply teeing up the next decorator.”

Critics and clients believed Sid's genius came effortlessly, but he worked. He listened, he watched, and he strived to understand people at their very core. And in the end, he mixed textures, fabrics, case goods, and smalls in creative ways that delighted and amazed clients, critics, everyone he met. Taxicab-yellow walls, dining room table chairs upholstered in a rainbow of colors set against stark glass, weathered wood, lacquered trim, and doors in shocking colors . . . Lucy particularly liked his scandalous belief that the Europeans had it right, “A little lead in the paint makes the color pop.” But it was these quiet moments that Lucy valued, when she observed Sid pondering what made clients tick, who they were, and what brought them joy.

Lucy's desk phone rang. “Sid McKenna Antiques and Design.”

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey, yourself. What's up?” Lucy caught Sid glancing her way and reddened. He knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.

“I scored two tickets to
Pippin
tonight. You free?” James whispered in an
I sit in a cubical surrounded by ears
fashion.

Lucy closed her eyes and pictured his face. She imagined that his dark brown hair, brushed back this morning, had already lopped forward and poked into one eye. “I need to cancel a girls' night out, but I think you're worth it.”

“If I'm not,
Pippin
is. The reviews are great, but it's up to you. This is last minute.”

“They won't mind. We tend to be very forgiving about dates. What time?”

“Show's at seven thirty. Do you want dinner before or after?”

“After, and I'll get the reservations. I've got just the place.” Lucy laid down the phone and noted the absence of movement. She glanced up to find Sid staring at her. “No comment from you.”

“You've been seeing him for well over a month. You're going to have to let me comment soon.”

“Not yet.” She rolled back in her desk chair. “What was the name of that restaurant you took the Corlings to last week? The one that—”

“Domestique?”

“That's it.” Lucy rolled back to her computer.

“You're going to have to impress your boyfriend another way,
mon petit
. Domestique books months in advance.” Sid chuckled again and resumed his pondering.

James's eyes widened as the waiter set a broad ramekin of crème caramel in front of him. He lifted the lavender sprig from the top and eyed it warily. “This reminds me of Grams. It should not be on a dessert.”

Lucy laughed and reached for the sprig. “It's one of my favorite smells.” She sat back, holding the lavender beneath her nose. “You know,
Pippin
was really a search for identity . . . That surprised me. I thought it was just a bawdy vaudeville romp—all show, no substance.”

“I didn't know even that much.
Les Mis
was the last show I
saw, and that was years ago.” James took a bite and scanned the restaurant. “And look at you . . . How'd you swing this?”

“I . . .” Lucy threw up her hands. “Why do I look at you and feel this compulsion to get all honest?” James widened his eyes and put another bite of crème caramel in his mouth. He didn't answer. “I was going to tell you that I've been here, but only Sid has.”

“And?”

“And I basically bullied my way into a reservation. I wanted you to see it. It's
the
place right now.”

“But, Lucy, I don't need
the
place. Please don't do stuff like that for me, because it only tells me that you're not comfortable with me.”

“But look at your family, James. They're pretty perfect. And I noticed you didn't tell your dad about my dad at dinner last week.” James's lips parted, but Lucy waved her hand. “I'm not blaming you. When he asked, I was right there with you. You didn't see me offering up family details. But you can see why I'd want to impress you, can't you?”

James leaned over and laid a light kiss on her lips. “No more, okay? It doesn't matter where we eat or what we do. I just like spending time with you, and I'm sorry I waffled when my dad asked, but it wasn't my story to share and I didn't want to put you on the spot.”

“I know, and I appreciate that.”

James waggled the spoon at her. She leaned over and tasted the offered dessert. It melted in her mouth, slowly, allowing her to sit in silence and watch the room while she digested the conversation.
Why do I look at you and feel this compulsion to
get all honest?
It was true and the question poked—had started poking some time ago. At first, it was a niggling feeling, a pebble in her shoe, and one she could easily remove and forget. But that time passed and the pebble had left a blister that wasn't so easily dismissed.

She focused on Domestique's sleek décor: high cream glazed walls, modernist art, and highly polished wooden tables.

“What do you think the designer meant by that?” Lucy asked, titling her head to an alcove. It was an oddity that had bothered her throughout dinner. It featured a ten-top table, knotted wood and weathered, surrounded by vinyl chairs and low faux walls, papered in a 1950s kitschy style with cherry baskets.

James followed her gaze. “That's your field. Maybe it's the chef's childhood kitchen? I got it—it's a rail against the rest of the place's postmodern sterility, a call to family values. Or—”

“Enough!”

“You asked.” James grinned.

“It must mean something. I feel like it's taunting me with its secret.”

James considered the alcove again. “It kinda reminds me of Gram's kitchen growing up, warm and simple. To me, it feels like the opposite of a secret. It's the heart hidden within all this show.”

“I like that.” Lucy leaned back in her chair. “I guess I find it hard to differentiate sometimes.”

“But speaking of show with no heart . . .” James turned and poked a finger across the dining room.

Lucy trailed his gaze to a four-top near a front window. Bespoke-suited men and resplendent women sat straight yet
relaxed; their very posture had the waitstaff snapping. “Who are they?”

“The two partners who define my firm. Talk about blurry lines. Dawkins, the one in the black glasses, practically called me a liar when I mentioned we were coming here after the show. He said it was impossible and that it took him months to get a table. Tonight, too, of all nights.” James took a scoop of his crème caramel, chewing more intentionally than the custard warranted.

“See, and if I hadn't—”

“I wasn't saying that.” James covered his mouth with his hand as he spoke. He swallowed and continued, looking back to the table. “He runs the case I'm on and he flirts with that line . . . Always legal, but sooooo close.” James rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, denoting a minute distance, before twisting his wrist and changing the gesture to mimic rubbing dollar bills between his fingers. “Associates usually work two cases at a time, but he's got me exclusively on his because a senior one allows him to charge double. So I get everything, down to the filing and coffee.”

“That's terrible.”

“But I've got a way out,” James chirped.

“How?”

“I'm going to win that trip to Hawaii.” James waved his spoon.

“How does a trip to Hawaii give you a way out?”

“The trip's the icing on the cake. Top associate goes with all the partners to Hawaii for vacation and he picks his own cases once he gets back.”

“He?” Lucy arched her voice.

“This time. Hendricks and I are the only ones in the running and there are only two weeks left until the partners meet to decide. So yes, ‘he.' ” James tapped her nose with the final three words. “And this ‘he' ”—he flattened his palm on his chest—“will pick a pro bono case without having to leave the partner track. Problem solved.”

“And if you don't win it?”

James looked back to the table. “Then it gets a bit more complicated. I want to do pro bono work, Lucy, but leaving the partner track is a big deal. There are . . . expectations in my family. You've met my dad. This is what I've been trained to do. Told to do.” He furrowed his brow. “Forget it. I'll win the trip, and that'll fix all of it.”

“No more shows or dinners for two weeks then. All guns point to Hawaii. Got it.” Lucy snagged James's spoon and licked the custard from its bowl.

James recovered his spoon and quietly attacked his dessert.

The remainder of the meal and the car ride to Lucy's apartment passed quietly. Lucy assumed James was lost in Hawaii.

“Here you are, Sleeping Beauty.” James pulled his car into a vacant parking spot near her brownstone.

Lucy stifled another yawn. “I'm so sorry. This week has caught up with me.” She rolled her head on the headrest to face him. “This spring has been too packed.”

“Will it let up?”

“It naturally turns in summer when clients go on vacation. We'll be there soon.”

James looked around. “This is a sign, by the way.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I don't think I've ever found a parking spot so fast. Can I come up?”

“Tonight?” Lucy gulped.

“I want to see your home, Lucy. You've been to my place plenty of times.” James twisted; the seat belt pulled at his shoulder. “Don't you want me to see it? Again, you don't need to impress me.”

“It's not that . . .”

“I won't stay long.” His tone made it clear that he was clarifying his intentions.

“I wasn't thinking that.” She smiled.

“I am . . . Why aren't you?” he lightly teased before his eyes flickered concern. “Then, what?”

Lucy weighed her options and her reply. She came to a conclusion and gave a slow nod. “All right, you asked. Come on.”