“Thanks. I think.”
“You look great!” Tory nodded her head toward a set of tall polished double doors that led into James’s office. “In case you’re wondering, he really is on a conference call. He shouldn’t be much longer. In the meantime, tell me what’s new with you.”
Ivy perched on the edge of Tory’s desk as they chatted, offering Tory one of the homemade chocolate chip cookies she’d brought with her.
That’s how James found them ten minutes later, laughing and chatting, cookie crumbs littering a small napkin placed in the center of Tory’s desk. “Ivy, I didn’t know you were here.”
She shifted her hip and smiled at him. “Oh, I’m just stopping by. If you’re horribly busy, I can leave.”
He frowned, looked down at the file folder in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. “I am busy, yes. But not so busy I can’t spare a few minutes. No calls, Tory,” he ordered, handing her the file.
He escorted Ivy into his office.
“Is something wrong?” He motioned her toward a comfortable side chair, then took a seat himself.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just felt like a visit.”
“A visit?”
“Exactly. Thought I’d stop in to say hello and bring you a treat.” She reached into her shoulder bag.
“A treat?” he repeated warily.
“The baking bug bit me this afternoon—chocolate chip cookies. I had so many by the time I finished, I decided I should give some of them to you rather than eat them all myself. Tory and I split a couple while I was waiting. Hope you don’t mind.” She grinned impishly at him.
His eyes widened in amazement. “You came fifty blocks to bring me cookies?”
“Is it that far?”
“Why didn’t you just leave them for me at the penthouse?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I thought you might enjoy an afternoon snack. Here.” She passed him a well-burped Tupperware container. He took it without a word.
“Besides,” she continued, “it gave me a good excuse to leave the apartment. I painted all morning; then I started baking. An outdoor excursion seemed perfect. Aren’t you going to have one?” She pointed to the unopened container. “Or are you afraid to try my cooking?”
James pried off the plastic lid, the scent of freshly baked goods drifting up. Ever polite, he offered her one first. She refused. He chose a cookie and bit in. His eyes closed in an instant of bliss.
Pleased, Ivy watched him polish off the first cookie, then dive in for two more. “These are fantastic,” he declared between bites.
She waved off his remark, glowing inside at the compliment. “They’re pretty simple to make.”
“Simple or not, they’re great. I can’t remember the last time I had chocolate chip cookies.”
She imagined that when he ate dessert, it was usually something elaborate and complex, the inspiration of some classically trained chef striving to outdo his competition. She was glad he was so thoroughly enjoying her plebian offering.
“You said you were painting,” he asked. “How is it going?”
“Not bad. I’m making steady progress, although it never seems fast enough. When I’m out and about here in the city and something snags my attention, I make time to do a sketch, which of course sets me back on my canvas time. It’ll all come together though, I’m sure,” she declared with more confidence than she actually felt.
He nodded. “Give yourself time.” He palmed one more cookie, then closed the box. “I’ll have to drop by to see your work.”
“Anytime. Why don’t you stop over tonight?”
“Tonight?” He froze, looking abruptly uneasy once again. “Oh, I can’t tonight.”
She did her best not to look crestfallen, forcing a smile. “I understand, short notice and all. Another date?”
“No. Business dinner.”
Relieved, she tried again. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Friday night? You must have plans of your own.”
“Not this Friday. Look, come over and I’ll make dinner. Something else simple like hamburgers or spaghetti. Even I can’t ruin those.”
James hesitated, shifting in his chair.
The past few minutes with her had been so natural. Easy. Familiar. The Ivy of old looking like a kid again, dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt.
He had been neglecting her, he realized, avoiding her because of the other evening by the pool. She didn’t even know she’d done anything to unsettle him. Why should she be punished because he had issues? Besides, he was over that now. The whole event—like the other one that first day in her apartment—firmly in the past.
And she’d brought him cookies. No one, to his recollection, had ever brought him cookies.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there. But right now I have another meeting”—he broke off, glanced at his watch—“that I’m already late for. What do you say to seven thirty on Friday?”
“I’ll have dinner waiting.”
“Great.” He picked up the Tupperware, held it out to her.
She refused it. “No. Those are for you.”
“The cookies are delicious, pumpkin,” he said, using his old nickname for her. “Thanks for a nice surprise.”
“My pleasure.”
* * *
At 7:25 Friday evening, Ivy flung aside another outfit, the seven earlier ones she’d rejected heaped on her bed. Make up your mind, she thought, her stomach jittery as a handful of Mexican jumping beans. It wasn’t even a date, she reminded herself, not an official date anyway, since James had no clue that’s what it really was.
Oh jeez, what should she wear? Cutoffs and a T-shirt were too casual—she didn’t want him thinking of her as a fourteen-year-old kid. And all the dresses she’d tried on were way too formal, like the green silk cocktail dress she’d just decided against. If he saw her in something like that, he’d probably make a sprint for the elevator.
She glanced again at her bedside clock: 7:27.
Decide, decide, she chanted to herself.
If she didn’t, James would arrive and she’d be left standing in her underwear. She grinned at the idea, imagining his expression if she opened the door wearing nothing but lacy pink panties and a bra. Ah, well, she mused. She’d have to save that one for later.
She was rifling through her wardrobe for the fifteenth time, when the doorbell rang.
She jumped, then cursed as she stubbed her toe against the closet door.
Why, of all nights, did he have to be so prompt?
Ignoring her throbbing toe, she flew into action, grabbing what came most easily and most comfortably to hand—a pair of slim-fitting white chinos and a short-sleeved blouse dyed the color of newly mown grass. She yanked on the clothes, then, careful of her toe, thrust her feet into chunky sandals. Running a quick brush through her long hair, she raced from the bedroom as the doorbell rang for a second time.
Hand to her chest, she willed her heart to stop pounding. Inhaling deeply, she opened the door.
Breath rushed from her lungs at the sight of him. Gorgeous—it was the only word that did him justice. He was dressed in crisp camel trousers and a white Cuban-style shirt with intricate white stitching on the single breast pocket and front placket. His short hair gleamed, rich and golden as a roman coin. The firm, clean line of his jaw smooth shaven, smelling faintly of soap, a temptation that called out for her touch.
She curled her fingers into a loose fist instead and greeted him with an easy smile. “Right on time,” she chimed.
“You okay? You seem winded.”
“Just running late. Come in. Come in.” She held the door wide.
He strolled in, looked around. “You’ve definitely been busy since I was here last. I seem to remember lots and lots of boxes.”
“Gone, each and every one of them, thank the Lord.”
They moved into the living room. She waited while his eyes roved over the space, taking in the wall she’d daring
ly painted sunshine yellow and the huge, framed fine-arts posters from exhibits of Gauguin and van Gogh that she’d arranged on the walls.
“The place has your touch,” he commented.
“Loads of garish color and bric-a-brac, you mean?” she teased.
“No, lots of atmosphere and style. The space suits you. Everything looks great, Ivy. Really great.”
She let his compliment wash over her, pleased.
He held out a box wrapped in pretty pink checkered paper. “Here. For you. A belated housewarming gift. Or should I say apartment-warming gift?”
Ivy accepted the present with a smile and took a seat on the sofa. She gave the box a gentle, experimental shake. “Not much rattle. A vase maybe?”
He stood over her. “Not even close. Try again.”
It was a game they played whenever he brought her a gift. Per the rules, she had three guesses.
She sniffed at the box. “No scent. Hmm, not chocolate or perfume.” She shook the package again, then raised her eyes to his.
They offered her no clues; he had a killer poker face when he wanted.
“You may have me stumped,” she admitted.
“I double-boxed it to give you a real challenge.” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“Book ends?”
“Nope. One guess left.”
She stroked her palm over the polished surface of the paper. “Hmm, something for the apartment maybe? From Germany since you were there only a few days ago. A cuckoo clock? No, too noisy. Mosel wineglasses?” She shook her head. “No, too touristy.” She worried a fingernail between her front teeth as she considered. “Candlesticks. Aha, it’s candlesticks!”
His expression remained neutral. “Is that your final guess?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Nanh,” he mimicked, making a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong again. You lose.”
“Damn it. I thought I had it with that last one.”
“Why would I get you candlesticks? You’ve already got half a dozen pairs.”
“’Cause I like them.”
“You like a great many things. Maybe next time.” He slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “Well, open it up. We haven’t got all night.”
“You know I have to take my time. These things can’t be rushed.” She was notoriously slow at unwrapping presents despite the fact that it drove everyone she knew crazy, including James.
“You have two minutes,” he warned, “or I’ll tear the paper off for you.”
She hugged the gift protectively. “Don’t you dare.”
James tapped his toe while she made a production of removing the wrapping, both sets of it. Eventually she revealed the gift.
“Blu-rays.” She examined the titles. “Old Cary Grant movies.”
“I know they’re nothing extraordinary, but—”
“No, they’re wonderful. I love them,” she said with a grin.
He returned her smile. “You don’t have any of them already, do you? I know you’ve always enjoyed his movies, so—”
She put the DVDs aside and leaped up from the couch. “I have a couple I’m always trying not to erase on my DVR, that’s all. Now I can quit worrying. These are so cool. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more thoughtful gift. Thank you.” She reached out and hugged him.
He quietly accepted her embrace before giving her a quick, avuncular pat on the back and inserting a reasonable distance between them again. Not exactly the response she was looking for. She sighed to herself. Then again, he’d never been standoffish about her hugging him before.
Am I unsettling him?
Hmm, maybe she was making progress, after all.
“So where are these paintings I came to see?” he asked abruptly. “In your studio?” Without waiting for her response, he strode down the hall.
She smiled to herself, her spirits lighter as she trailed after him.
“Ignore the one on the easel,” she warned as she walked into her studio. “It’s only half finished, not much more than blocked in. I should have thrown a sheet over it before you arrived.”
Hands on his hips, he studied the piece, a cityscape depicting a street vendor and a line of customers—a range of people from ordinary businessmen to a fully costumed mime having a smoke. “I don’t see why,” he said. “Looks like it’s coming along well to me.”
“Most people have trouble visualizing what a piece will look like before it’s completed. Like showing someone a skeleton and expecting them to see Robert Pattinson.”
“Good thing, then, that I’m not most people.”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
“Even half finished,” he went on, “there’s no question it’s going to be terrific. As the rest already are.” He gestured to the other paintings on the walls.
She held her clasped hands beneath her chin. “You really think so?”
He nodded. “When I heard you’d quit school to paint full-time, I had my doubts. I thought you should have stayed in school, stuck it out for another year.”
The inner glow she’d been feeling began to fade. “Is that why you came here tonight? To convince me to give up and go back?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to see your paintings. You always were a competent artist, Ivy. I knew you had talent, but I didn’t know if you had more. And it takes more. Art’s a rough field, fine arts one of the roughest. As you know, I invest in a wide variety of endeavors, art included, so I’m not a complete novice in the field. I’ve seen a lot of highly talented artists toil away in obscurity.”
“And poverty,” she added, crossing her arms defensively over her breasts.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And poverty. But looking at what you’ve accomplished here, what you are accomplishing here, I think you have that extra something special. You’ve come a long way with your art. If you can do this at twenty, I can’t wait to see what you’ll be creating a decade from now and beyond. Your paintings are beautiful. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Shock warred with delight as his words sank in. Of course she shouldn’t care what he thought, shouldn’t let his opinion—good or bad—affect her self-esteem, her determination and belief in her own talent. Yet she couldn’t contain the prideful flush of joy that washed through her at his approval.
She wanted to toss her arms around his shoulders, wanted to pull his head down to hers and plant a long, exuberant kiss on his lips. But before she could do either, James moved away.
“I have a number of good contacts,” he continued. “Why don’t I make a couple calls, put a few words in the right ears? Even with the limited number of finished pieces you have, I think you could sell—”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow at her clipped refusal.
“It’s lovely of you to offer,” she hurried to explain, “but I wouldn’t feel right having you help me.”
“Why not? Part of success is luck, and if I can help you get lucky by putting you in touch with the right people, then why turn it down?”
“Because I’d never know,” she said in a soft, clear voice.
He frowned, crossed his arms. “Know what?”
“Whether I succeeded on my own or simply because of you. Assuming one of your art contacts did offer me a showing, I’d always wonder why. Does the gallery owner really like my paintings? Or is he just doing a favor for a friend? You’re a wealthy, powerful man, James, and wealthy, powerful men wield a great deal of influence even in the narrow confines of the art world.”
He waved away her words. “My influence might get you into a gallery, yes, but it won’t sell your paintings. Succeed or fail, it’ll be on your own.”
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve said it yourself—the right whispers in the right ears can make all the difference.”
“What I’m offering isn’t a cheat,” he shot back, “only a leg up, one you deserve. I meant it about your art. It’s wonderful. Believe me, any success
you achieve will be honestly earned.”
“And knowing you think so is enough for me.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please, James, don’t imagine I’m ungrateful. I know you’re only trying to make things easier for me and I thank you. But sometimes I think things are already a little too easy for me. I need to do this on my own—”
He opened his mouth.
She cut him off before he could speak. “All on my own. Promise you won’t interfere.”
“I think you’re letting foolish pride stand in the way of a good opportunity. But fine. If you don’t want my help, I won’t give it. With this stubborn streak, I’m surprised you didn’t move into that rat-infested dive in Bushwick like you’d planned, so you could starve like a proper little artist.”
She cocked her head, surprised. “What do you know about that?”
It took him a moment to respond. “Your mother mentioned something or other about it. You know she calls me from time to time.”
“What else did she happen to mention?”
She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head before his face cleared of expression. “Nothing of any significance.”
For a moment she considered pursuing the topic, then decided there was little purpose. Her mother had told him her original plans. So what? Surely there couldn’t be anything more to it than that. What else could there be? She decided it best to change the entire subject.
He obviously decided the same thing. “So when’s dinner?”
“Anytime.” She smiled. “I just have to toss the salad and put the spaghetti noodles on to boil and we’ll be ready to eat.”
“Lead on, then, Macduff. I’m starved.”
* * *
The end credits of To Catch a Thief rolled across the television screen, the elegant, unforgettable faces of Grace Kelly and Cary Grant consigned to memory once more. With a quick touch to the remote, Ivy stopped the movie.
From her spot on the large L-shaped sofa, she leaned up on a single elbow and looked over to ask James if he had the energy to watch another film. Seeing him was all the answer she needed.
He was asleep.
Hair ruffled, limbs loosened in a relaxed sprawl across the plush sofa cushions and flowered throw pillows, he was breathing slowly and rhythmically, which indicated a deep sleep. His skin radiated warmth, bathed in a buttery glow of lamplight. His eyelashes lay straight against cheeks grown rough with stubble, pale as wheat chaff after a harvest cutting.
The Man Plan Page 5