Will set down his glass. “I can’t offer you the kind of work you’re used to—”
Keith held up his palms, clearly embarrassed. “Listen, man, Mick shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t expect—”
“Now, hold on. I’m shorthanded at the moment.” Will glanced at the last family member he’d tried to hire; Mick was shaking the champagne bottle over his flute to dislodge every last drop. “My number-two man is out of town for who knows how long, and I could use someone with your skills.” Keith’s physical prowess was only part of the picture; more important, the guy had a level head. Even so, Will wouldn’t have been so quick to make the offer if there hadn’t been such a strong family resemblance.
Keith appeared uncertain.
“I can offer you temporary work until Fergus returns.” Privately Will predicted he’d end up offering Keith a permanent position. And it was Mick, of all people, who’d discovered him. Go figure. “How does two hundred bucks a day sound?”
Keith smiled knowingly. “It sounds overly generous, Cuz.”
“You have a place to stay?” Before Keith could answer, Will added, “We’ve got plenty of room in the house.” He stuck out his hand.
After a moment, and with a nod of gratitude, Keith clasped it. “I don’t know what to say, man. Thanks.”
“Hey, way I figure it, I’m getting a bargain. Taking advantage of family.”
“Très bien. It is settled.” Gabby hauled another bottle of champagne out of the fridge. “We will celebrate.”
Chapter 15
SHE SHOULD’VE CALLED ahead. Lucy stared through the driver’s-side window at Will Kitchen’s big old Victorian home, looking like a Christmas card through the veil of a light snowfall. The T-shirt temperatures of the past few days had given way to dismal skies and snot-freezing cold. And now it had started snowing, of all things. What had happened to spring? Why couldn’t April just be April?
And why hadn’t she called ahead? He might not even be home.
So? Lucy chided herself. She wasn’t there to see him. What did it matter if he wasn’t home? Or if no one at all was home? There was always the mailbox she’d just passed, standing sentry at the curb. She could leave the gift in there with a little note.
A week ago she would have done just that, crammed her offering in the mailbox without hesitation and burned rubber out of there. But the past few days had taught her something about the real Lucy, the proactive Lucy, the Lucy who’d been grinding down her molars for twenty years watching the Stepford Lucy fluff pillows and perfect her handmade ravioli stuffed with lobster and ricotta in a brandy cream sauce. Frank’s favorite dish.
Squinting through the flurries, she spied threads of smoke curling from two of the house’s four chimneys. Someone was home.
She pulled her Volvo in to the driveway, parked behind the Goo between a purple Viper and Will’s Camry, and tramped toward the house. Her toes had barely brushed the first porch step when she remembered her reason for going there—or her excuse for going there if she was being honest with herself. Now, there was a worthy goal for the new, improved Lucy: self-honesty. By the time she’d retraced her steps and trudged back to the house with the gift, Will was waiting for her in the open doorway, wearing a thick cable-knit sweater and faded jeans, his fingers wrapped around a steaming stoneware mug.
“You look like a Maxwell House ad,” she said.
“It’s not coffee.” He offered the mug and she took it. Hot cocoa.
A sexy man offering her chocolate. That was worth an hour and a half behind the wheel any day.
He said, “To what do we owe this—”
She held up the autographed copy of Johnny Sherlock and the Cracked Clock. She’d gotten to know his son, Tom, before returning home last Sunday, and discovered the boy was a fan of the Johnny Sherlock series. That had been three days ago. Between lawyering up for the divorce, compiling the necessary financial documents, and struggling to meet her writing deadline for Painted Poodle—which, miracle of miracles, she’d manage to accomplish—those three days had passed in about forty-seven minutes.
A surge of welcome warmth greeted Lucy as she stepped over the threshold, carrying with it the humid perfume of simmering soup—chicken, if her nose could be trusted—along with hot chocolate and woodsmoke, and the merest hint of birdcage: Quint’s lavishly furnished abode dominated the foyer. It was a gargantuan aviary from another century, a marvel of delicate Victorian ironwork. Quint was perched on the domed top, running feathers through his blue-gray beak.
The interior of Will’s house existed in the same time warp as the exterior. From the solid mahogany door to the elaborate crown molding kissing the high, high ceiling, the century-old woodwork appeared intact if a tad exhausted. The clang of cooking utensils drifted from the rear of the house. A stereo somewhere belted out high-energy jazz dominated by fancy piano work.
Quint paused in his preening to offer Lucy a greeting—“I’m having conniptions!”—followed by one of his signature hair-raising screams. Will draped her snow-flecked coat and scarf over the monolithic newel post.
From the kitchen Ming-hua screeched, “Irving!” Quint answered for him: “What!” The old woman started cussing the bird in Mandarin.
Will called to her, “Irving and Gabby are upstairs, Ming-hua. They’re playing Texas Hold ’Em.”
Lucy had also met Irving and Ming-hua Hung last Sunday. The couple had been live-in gardener and cook for Will’s parents for thirty-three years until age and arthritis began to slow them down. That was when Richard Baines, Sr., gave them the boot—and Will promptly took them in.
The door to the large front room stood open, and Lucy stole a glance inside. The space had probably begun life as a formal parlor but now served as a bedroom: Will’s room, judging by the clothing thrown around. She spied dark, antique furnishings, including a high, unmade four-poster bed strewn with the various sections of the New York Times. Lucy’s antique rolltop desk would look right at home in here.
Whoa there, girlfriend. Lucy crammed the errant notion back into her sex-starved id and commanded herself to not even think about it.
“Tom’s in his room.” Will knocked on the next door and opened it. His son sat with a middle-aged man on a multicolored shag rug, concentrating on the project before them: a two-foot-high model of the Addams Family haunted house constructed entirely of tiny Lego blocks. The structure was astonishing in its accuracy of detail.
Tom greeted her and, when prompted by his father, introduced the fellow with him, a cousin as it turned out. She shook Keith Kitchen’s hand and praised his skill with the Legos.
“Tell that to Tom,” Keith said. “He constructed this beauty. I’m only helping with the finishing touches.”
“You’re kidding.” She turned to Will. “How old is Tom again? I can’t believe a nine-year-old could do this.”
“I’m nine years and eight months old,” the boy said, “so I’m really almost ten.”
“Well, I have to tell you, Tom, this is just amazing. Do you want to be an architect when you grow up?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to be a biomedical engineer. I’m going to invent nanoscale implants to help paralyzed people walk again.”
Lucy didn’t chuckle indulgently or send his father a conspiratorial wink, not after seeing this haunted house he’d constructed, complete with spooky turret and a high ledge from which to decant cauldrons of boiling oil. If this kid said he was going to get quadriplegics on their feet again, who was she to doubt?
She bent to examine the structure more closely. “You have a thing for small-scale stuff, don’t you? I’m thinking of that model railroad layout I saw you working on in the game room the other day. That was pretty impressive, too.”
Tom beamed with pride. Keith ruffled his young cousin’s hair. “This kid is hard to keep up with. Makes me feel like a dolt.”
“Yeah, right,” Will said. “When it comes to construction, Keith’s no dolt. He’s been doing all the repairs a
round here I kept putting off.”
“I saw the new lumber in the porch railing out there,” Lucy said.
“And the basement door that was off its hinges.” Will ticked off the completed tasks on his fingers. “And the loose bathroom tiles. And the buckling kitchen floor. And he’s been here, what, two days.”
“And my desk drawer,” Tom said. “He fixed that, too.”
“Plus helping to terrorize our client over there.” Will nodded toward the Goo. “Cousin Keith can be one scary dude when he puts his mind to it.”
“Sounds like just the fellow you need around here,” Lucy said. “Fergus better watch his back.” Keith was a good-looking man a bit older than she, though he was in excellent shape. The sleeves of his navy vee-neck sweater were pushed up, revealing forearms ropy with muscle.
Tom spied the book in Lucy’s hand. “Is that the new Johnny Sherlock? Can I see it?”
“Yes and yes.” She handed it over. “It’s yours.”
“Cool. Thanks, Lucy!” He launched himself at her, nearly knocking her off balance.
Tom’s bear hug took her back a decade to when her own son was this age, that magical interlude between innocent young childhood and the fraught teen years. Tom was so sweet, all naked enthusiasm, his slender arms surprisingly strong.
“You’re very welcome, honey.” She squeezed him tight, breathed in the boy-scent of laundry soap and peanut butter. She kissed his smooth cheek. “Enjoy it.”
“She wrote this,” Tom told Keith. He opened the book’s cover and showed him her photo. “See? That’s Lucy.”
Keith made a show of comparing the photo with the real live Lucy. “So it is. But the picture doesn’t do her justice. She’s much prettier in person.”
Lucy’s cheeks warmed under his admiring gaze. Quite the silver-tongued rascal, this Cousin Keith.
He turned to Will. “Speaking of books, Tom and Cuba want me to take them to the library. That okay with you?”
“No, I prefer the kids spend their spring break getting drunk and boosting cars. Think you can handle that?” He ruffled his son’s hair.
“I’ll get right on it, Dad.”
Lucy and Will left the two to their construction project. He told her he had to check on a client and invited her to tag along. Once inside the Goo, he led the way down the corridor to the costume rack, where he hung up their coats and began riffling through the assorted outfits. “So. You’re really going through with the divorce.”
“Was there any doubt?”
“After last Sunday? That scene at your place?” Will selected an old-fashioned dress, grandma style, brown with tiny white dots, and slung it over his shoulder. “I guess not. Have you thought about all you’ll be giving up?”
“You mean like Frank’s small-mindedness, Frank’s self-indulgence, Frank’s inability to—”
“I was thinking more along material lines. Your children’s books are a blast, Lucy, but something tells me the royalties don’t come close to what Frank pulls down.”
“Of course they don’t, but I won’t be walking away from my marriage empty-handed.”
“Yeah, but still . . .” He rummaged in the laundry basket full of headgear for a few moments, finally settling on a gray woman’s wig. “Forget it. It’s not important. Hold this.”
She took the wig from him, automatically smoothing its severe salt-and-pepper bun. “Do you think I’d stay in a rotten marriage just to maintain my standard of living?”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all these years?” He reached into a carton on the shelf and shoved a wooden ruler into his back pants pocket.
“For your information, no, it is not.”
“Come on, Lucy. I’m not judging you.” He started back down the hall, leaving her to stalk after him.
“Sure you are.”
“Okay, I’m judging you, if you want to call it that.” Will stopped at the door to the room Lucy had occupied last weekend. He lowered his voice. “Look, Lucy, I’m a realist. I know a lot of women marry for practical reasons. You weren’t the first, you won’t be the last. I don’t particularly like it, but hey, as long as it doesn’t affect me directly, no skin off my nose. Judging isn’t the same thing as condemning.”
“That’s big of you, but I’m not one of those ‘practical’ women. I’m certainly not like Tom’s mother. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Last Sunday he’d told her about how he’d come to be a single dad, about his four-month fling with a young schemer named Hope Paulsen. Determined to marry into money, Hope had become pregnant. “Accidentally on purpose” was the phrase Will had used. When he’d refused to marry her, she’d scheduled an abortion. That was when he’d offered to support her in style for ten years—provided she relinquish custody of the child.
That was Will’s version of events. Lucy wondered what Hope would have to say about it. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tom’s mother lived in Arizona. The last time she’d seen her son was when she’d handed him over in the hospital.
Will persisted. “So in other words, Frank Narby’s bank account played no part in your decision to marry him.”
Lucy wanted to flatly deny it. She wished she could. “He wasn’t so well off then.”
“He was on his way, though, and you knew it. The hungry little hippie girl yearning for middle-class respectability and Ched’r Wheelz.”
She was struggling to formulate a response when Will slipped the baggy dress over her head. “What are you doing?”
He pulled her arms through the sleeves and zipped the back; the ugly thing hung like a sack over her own clothes. “You’re Miss Schiemann.” He folded her fingers around the ruler and tucked her hair under the wig.
“Who?”
“Benny’s third-grade teacher.”
“Who’s Benny?”
But Will had already opened the door and propelled her inside the room. A middle-aged man sat jammed into one of those little student desk/chair combos, the kind used in elementary schools. Heavy chains secured his torso and ankles. Metal handcuffs encircled his wrists; the cuffs were bolted to the desktop but left enough freedom of movement for him to scribble on a child’s lined penmanship pad with a crayon. Sheets of paper had been torn out of the pad and lay scattered across the desk.
She turned back to Will. “Now, wait a minute—”
He swung her back around and pushed her toward the man, who scowled at them, crayon in hand. “Look who’s come to visit, Benny,” Will said. “It’s Miss Schiemann, your third-grade teacher. She’s not very happy with you—are you, Miss Schiemann?” In her ear he confided, “The two of them didn’t get along.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. I did not sign up for this, Will.”
Lucy’s wig listed to the side. Will straightened it. “He’s not crazy, just bored,” he murmured in her ear. The warmth of his breath, the yummy scent of him, made it hard to concentrate on his words. “Have fun with it, Lucy. You’ll make the guy’s day.” He gave her one final shove so she was standing over the poor schlub, ruler in hand.
“Uh . . .” She gave the ruler a feeble wag. “Have you been a bad boy, Benny?”
Benny yawned.
Will took her aside. “Listen, you’re the old bitch who used to wash his mouth with Brillo, you’re not Santa Claus, okay? A little method acting here?”
She cleared her throat, layered a few decades and some menace onto her voice. “What have you been doing, you naughty boy?”
“Fuck you,” Benny snarled.
Lucy was shocked. What third grader spoke like that to his teacher? She glanced at the scribblings in front of him and, even upside down, was able to determine he’d been very naughty indeed. She snatched the pad of paper and shook it at him. “Where on earth did you learn such words?”
It looked like a deranged squirrel had made a nest of Benny’s sparse hair. His white dress shirt was rumpled and pit-stained; he smelled a little ripe. Lucy deduced he’d been there a couple of days. A Chock Full O�
� Nuts can sat in the corner of the room, and She recalled what Gabby had told her that first day when she’d escorted her to the ladies’ room.
Ewww . . .
Benny sneered. “Shove it up your ass, Machine Gun.”
I get it, she thought. Miss Schiemann, Machine Gun. The height of third-grade wit.
“Now, you listen here, young man.” She took a step closer. “You do not speak to your teacher in that fashion. There are consequences for behavior like that.”
He stuck out his tongue and treated her to a sloppy raspberry.
“I think Benny’s just begging for a little corporal punishment, Miss Schiemann.” Will tapped the ruler in her hand.
“Is that legal?”
Benny faked a lunge toward her, making her leap back. Thank goodness the desk was bolted to the floor. “You don’t have the balls to do it, do you, Machine Gun?” He dropped the crayon and saluted her with his middle finger.
Lucy’s ruler hand itched. This man was so rude.
Will singsonged in her ear, “He’s wayyy-ting.” It was true. Benny sat there drumming his fingers, a smug smile on his unshaven face.
She whispered back, “Maybe I could just make him write a hundred times, ‘I will not curse at Miss Shiemann.’”
Will sighed. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this, Lucy. My mistake.” He held the door open for her.
Lucy looked into those blue, blue eyes and knew what he was seeing: Stepford Lucy in a gray wig and grandma dress. “Wait, I didn’t say—”
“Go!” Benny hollered. He was rocking the desk so hard, the bolts actually began to loosen. “Go on, get out of here, you fascist cow. Moo-ooooo!”
Lucy caught herself wondering where a third grader would have learned the word “fascist,” before giving herself a mental shake.
“Moo-ooo-ooo!” Benny ripped pages out of his pad, flinging them as far as the handcuffs would allow. “Machine Gun’s a big old fascist cow. Moo moo moo moo moo!”
Lucy swung on him, gesticulating with the ruler. “You stop that this instant.”
“Make me.”
She got in his face. “Don’t tempt me, mister.”
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