“I’m James, by the way. James Carmichael.”
“Lucy Alling.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Lucy Alling.” James held her eyes until she gently pulled the book away and headed back to her desk.
Lucy recovered on her walk and James followed. She opened the cover to show him the price, marked lightly in pencil. He afforded it the tiniest glance and returned his gaze to her. He then lifted the same eyebrow he had moments before and reached for his wallet, never breaking eye contact. She was the first to look away.
As she rang up the sale, she couldn’t resist quick peeks as James paced the gallery. She almost laughed as he picked up or touched every item on display. Sid knew his job well. Always keep tactile objects at hand. You want engagement. James ran his hand down a warm wooden sculpture sitting atop a book on architectural design and lobbed a forged-iron apple in his palm like a baseball. He then stood stymied in front of a display of scented candles.
“Those smell beautiful,” Lucy called out.
“My mom loves scented candles. Which is better?”
Lucy reached in front of him, brushing his sleeve with her fingers as she reached for two candles. “They both smell like the actual flowers, not sweet or cloying at all.”
James shook his head as she held out one then the other. “I can’t tell the difference.”
“Hmm . . .” Lucy weighed both in her hands as if that was the determining factor. “The jasmine’s been selling better, but I think that’s because I’ve had one lit for a couple days. I prefer the gardenia and switched to that this morning.”
“Will you add one?” He tapped the gardenia candle in her hand.
“Sure.” She walked to her desk and wrapped both the book and candle in plain brown paper, tying them closed with black grosgrain ribbon. She was so focused, she didn’t hear James approach until she felt him near.
“Would you have dinner with me sometime?”
It took Lucy only a heartbeat to reply. “Yes.”
“Okay then.” He beamed. “I can stop buying books . . . Tonight?”
Chapter 2
The door chimed and Lucy hastily backed out from beneath the Louis XIV side table, banging her head on the way up.
“Lucy?”
She sat back on her heels and felt her face flare. James stood above her with an ear-to-ear grin. “That was not a sight you needed to see.” She rubbed her head.
“Are you okay?” He laid his hand on top of her head.
Lucy rested there a moment until she caught movement in her periphery. She shot up as she noticed an older woman standing beside James.
“Hi. May I help you?” She gestured back to the table. “It had a wobbly leg.”
The woman looked to James, who picked up the cue. “Lucy Alling, I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Helen Carmichael, recipient of the beloved Jane Eyre.”
Lucy reached her hand out and clasped Helen’s within hers. It was pale and thin, cool to the touch. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Carmichael.” Lucy held her eyes. They were bright blue, but as they held hands Lucy saw Helen’s eyes widen, then darken and narrow. Benjamin Moore #810 Blue Dragon. Lucy bit her lip and dashed a quick glance to James. He was unaware of anything amiss.
“Please call me Helen. I’ve heard about nothing but you for the last two weeks.”
“Grams,” James chided.
“It’s true.” Helen tilted her head to Lucy. “You have a most unusual eye color.”
Lucy smiled. “A gift from my dad. Sid, my boss, calls it #574 Once Upon a Time veering to #559 Paradise Valley when I wear yellow. We talk a lot in paint colors around here.”
“Once Upon a Time fits perfectly.” Helen looked around the gallery. “I know Sid. He did some work for me about five years ago. He’s a rare talent.”
“He is. I started here four years ago this spring. I just missed you.”
Helen turned back to Lucy. “And your family lives here in Chicago?”
“Yes and no. My maternal grandparents and my paternal grandfather are from here. But my dad moved us around a lot when I was a kid, so I didn’t call it home until I was eight—when he left and Mom moved us back here. I can’t imagine going anywhere else now. A true Chicagoan.”
“Are your grandparents still here?”
“Not anymore. My mother’s parents retired to Arizona a few years ago and my father’s are both dead.”
“Dead,” Helen whispered.
“Yes, my grandmother died years ago when my dad was thirteen, and my grandfather died when I was about two.”
“Grams is a Chicago lifer too,” James added. “You might’ve known them, Grams.”
Helen frowned.
Lucy offered a light laugh to dispel the awkwardness. “You all probably didn’t move in the same circles. My grandfather owned a watch shop in the South Loop.”
“My generation is disappearing.” Helen looked up at James. “Growing smaller with every conversation.”
“Grams,” James chided again, this time in a different tone.
“I . . .” Helen wobbled.
“Grams?”
“Oh . . . Please sit.” Lucy lunged for a high-backed upholstered chair and pulled it over.
James led his grandmother the two steps and seated her.
“Let me get you some water.” Lucy ducked to the back room and grabbed a small water bottle from the refrigerator, twisting the cap open as she walked back into the gallery. She knelt before Helen. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Helen took a few sips and recapped the bottle. “James, I think I’m done for the day.” She passed the bottle to James then faced Lucy, who was still squatted next to her. “Extraordinary eyes,” she whispered more to herself than to Lucy.
Lucy reached for her hand to help her stand. Helen nodded her thanks and added, “I suspect we’ll meet again if James has any say.”
James offered an awkward chuckle and an eye roll before he reached for his grandmother and led her toward the door.
As they left, he called back, “I’ll text you later. You still here tonight?”
“I am.”
“I’ll bring the Chinese.”
Lucy threw him a bright smile, but as soon as the door shut, it fell. That did not go well.
Lucy’s phone beeped with a text.
At the alley door.
She tapped it off and dashed to the workroom door. Pushing it open, she found James standing in the dark but brightly lit by the security light. He hoisted a white plastic bag high. “Dinner!”
“Thank you. And thanks for texting.” Lucy swung the door wide.
“I figured if I knocked without warning, it might scare you.”
“Opening a solid metal door into an alley at night does feel unwise.” Lucy held the door open with her shoulder so he could enter.
James stepped into the workroom. “So this is where all the magic happens.”
“Have you not been back here?” She cleared the worktable and brought over two stools as James spread out their meal. “Not that there’d be any reason for you to, but yes, this is Sid’s magic kingdom.”
“I’ve got Kung Pao chicken, Shredded Beef and Broccoli, and General Tso’s Surprise. Delicious, but not a surprise.”
Lucy grabbed a couple paper plates and forks from the top of the refrigerator. She waved a fork at James.
He shook his head and handed her a set of chopsticks.
“A purist, huh?”
“Always.” James served up two plates. “So why are we here again?”
“I’m waiting on Sid’s delivery from Round Top Antiques Week. It’s the biggest antique show in the nation.” Lucy rapped her chopsticks together. “Actually, I’m not sure how big it is . . . Anyway, the driver called and said he’d be here between nine and ten o’clock and Sid had a client dinner.”
“So what happens?”
“Just like you, he calls and I open the alley door. After they unload, we lock up and go home.” Lucy dropped a shri
mp into her lap.
“Okay, then.” Without looking at her, James handed her a napkin and reached for the Beef and Broccoli. He waved his chopsticks around the room. “What is all this stuff?”
“The behind-the-scenes view of Chicago’s top decorator. Fabrics, sketch boards, his ’gems’ he finds all over the world, paint decks . . . And you wouldn’t believe some of the names that work with Sid, all wealthy, expectant, and highly particular.” Lucy dropped her voice on the last word á la Cruella de Vil, and then bit her lip, regretting her ill-thought-out impersonation.
“Is my grandmother as hard to please as all that?” James raised an eyebrow, but his smile let Lucy know he was teasing.
“I wouldn’t know. She was a client before my time. But I got a call from one yesterday demanding an off-production Scalamandre fabric immediately. And that’s never fun.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Nothing. I simply found it and finagled six yards to be delivered by Monday.” Lucy wrangled some rice onto her chopsticks. “I’ve become friends with the showroom staff and they had the yardage on hold, between three different designers. So I called each one and bartered, traded, didn’t steal, but came close, and, in the end, got every yard. Everyone loves a good story.”
“A story?”
“While it was true that I needed the yardage, it wasn’t true that I’d secured a certain Fortuny trim one of the designers at the showroom needed. But once he was on board, I got a promise for the trim from Fortuny. I really needed the Scalamandre, and I simply greased the wheels by giving them a story. As I said, everyone loves a good story.”
“You’d make such a good lawyer,” James quipped.
Lucy scrunched her nose. “I know you’re a lawyer, but no one says that as a compliment.”
James raised both brows, considering. “Probably not, but it was a joke.”
“It’s just that . . . as I told the story to you just now, it didn’t sound good to me either. I don’t know why I do it. I mean it’s not really bad, but . . .”
James took a bite and watched her.
“My father told stories, James, and I promised to never be like him and now . . . I suddenly hear myself and I am like him. I can’t tell you how often I do stuff like that.”
“It’s hardly a big deal, Lucy. Wheedling your way into six yards of salamander fabric hardly constitutes a capital crime.”
“Scalamandre.” Lucy popped a bite of beef in her mouth to save herself further reply, but she remained unconvinced. “Your grandmother didn’t like me, by the way.”
“I don’t know about that. I told her about you when I gave her the book and she’s been asking questions ever since. And on the way home today, she asked a million more, especially about your eyes. You’d think the woman had never seen green eyes. She’s definitely interested in you.” James swiveled toward her. “And she wasn’t feeling all that great. Maybe lunch then visiting you was too much.”
Lucy’s call came just as they were cleaning up and James was wiping down the worktable. Within minutes she was organizing the delivery of three various chests, two Tahitian water jug lamps, two Stickley chairs, and a gorgeous oak dining table—all while James roamed the workroom and gallery.
After the delivery truck pulled away, Lucy checked the gallery and shrugged on her coat. “You ready?”
James stood by her desk, tapping a book. “Is this a book you’re selling?”
Lucy followed his gaze and narrowed her eyes, annoyed she hadn’t hidden the book, hadn’t tossed it. She turned away to search for her keys. “No. My father sent it to me. It arrived in the mail today.”
“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
Four 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.”
“I
f 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.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 56