Always You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love Collection Books 5-8)

by Brenna Jacobs

  She shook her head slowly, smiling. “I don’t want to get your hopes up before we’ve done some testing, but it’s possibly part of a Giotto triptych.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes widened before he blinked in slow motion. “A Giotto?”

  Alice nodded.

  His jaw moved up and down before he spoke again. “When do we do these tests?”

  “When I get back.” She bit her lip before adding, “I’d like to do some tests on the Monet too, but I’d still like you to gather all the documentation you have on it. And any you can find on the other.”

  “If anything exists on the unicorn, I’m going to need your help in digging it out of the centuries of Grey documents we have squirreled away somewhere.” Geoffrey carved his hands through his hair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “Getting my father to turn over any documents about the Monet may be even more difficult.”

  Seconds passed as Geoffrey stared in the distance, but not at anything in the room, and Alice resisted the urge to reassure him in some way that everything would be okay. The possible confrontation with his father had obviously tempered his excitement about the unicorn painting, but there seemed to be more bothering him.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Alice. I don’t know if I could part with the unicorn. It seems silly, but it’s always brought me a lot of comfort.” He gripped his knees with his hands and hazarded a glance at her. “I know all the Christian symbolism of the unicorn in art, and I’m not a religious person, but I’ve always felt that unicorn represented something much bigger, for me, anyway. I attached the medieval symbolism of the unicorn as Christ to my flea market unicorn—or what I thought was a flea market unicorn—and saw it as a symbol of hope and redemption.” He sat back and turned toward her. “Am I making any sense?”

  Alice nodded.

  “When things were bad with my parents, I’d stare at that unicorn’s eyes, and the light reflected there. And when the plonkers at school gave me a hard time, I’d think about those eyes and know that things weren’t so bad . . . that people weren’t so bad.” His chest moved up and down as though pouring out his soul was a type of deep-breath meditation.

  Alice waited to respond until she knew he didn’t have anything else to say. “Then it did for you what it was created to do. You may not have seen it as a religious icon to help you think about Jesus Christ, but it gave you the hope medieval worshippers were looking to find through Him.”

  Geoffrey sat back, the look in his eyes making her want to move into the arm he had stretched across the back of the sofa and lean her head on his chest to feel his heartbeat.

  “That’s a really lovely thought, Alice,” he whispered in a way that made her think he wouldn’t mind at all if she curled up in his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  Between his lingering jetlag and everything Alice had told him, Geoffrey couldn’t fall asleep. He had a lot to think about, both good and bad. The news of his unicorn painting possibly being worth much more than he ever thought gratified him in more ways than one. To Geoffrey, the painting was already priceless. Some of his best memories were of sitting in the kitchen with Gertrude while she prepared dinner. He would talk to her and stare at the painting, wondering about who created it and what stories it held. He had asked Gertrude once what she thought, and she, on the spot, had created a story involving knights, fairies, and unicorn-riding elves. From then on, whenever she got the idea that he’d had a bad day—and she had a knack for knowing—she would add to the story, weaving in more fantastic elements.

  The painting had inspired his Re-Collecting piece that Alice loved so much. He wondered if she saw the elements in his sculpture that were inspired by his unicorn. He’d be surprised if she hadn’t, but she hadn’t said anything about it, and he hadn’t offered up any information. But the fact she recognized, at a glance, the painting’s value—and not just monetarily—made him want to pull her into his arms and never let her go. If she understood the painting, she understood him.

  Clarissa hated it. She’d told him on more than one occasion that when they moved in together the painting wouldn’t be going with them. He hadn’t argued with her, but he also hadn’t made any move toward living with her, either as husband and wife or girlfriend and boyfriend.

  And then there was the Monet. He suspected Alice wanted to see verification of its authenticity for bigger reasons than merely assessing its value. Geoffrey had no idea where that paperwork would be, and asking his father would be tricky, as Lord Ashburn was currently in a posh rehab center in Scotland. Not by choice, of course, and the whole thing was very hush-hush. After Lord Ashburn’s latest arrest, the judge had ordered him to dry out in rehab or by serving ninety days in jail. He’d chosen rehab. Lady Ashburn had chosen which one. Rather than the court-ordered centre, she’d found one that was very discreet, and that discretion came at a very high price.

  But talking to his father would be easier than asking his mother what she knew. That could only lead to a long-winded list of everything his father had done before buying the painting from who-knew-whom and questions about why he wanted to know which could only lead to him admitting to having Alice over for dinner. And then the real interrogation would begin.

  Nope. It would be easier to try and get his father on the phone and hope that he remembered some details about the painting itself and not the circumstances that led to its purchase.

  When Geoffrey did finally fall asleep, it was with the image of Alice smiling, her brown eyes reflecting the copper light fixtures that glowed above her as they ate dinner. It had been a good night. One of the best ones he could remember.

  The next morning, he woke early with Alice still on his mind. They had agreed to meet around noon, and he planned on surprising her with a picnic lunch. His first call before even getting out of bed was to his assistant, Ardis.

  “I need two tickets to the Tower of London for today,” he said as soon as she picked up. “And what would make a good picnic to eat beforehand?”

  “Hello, Geoffrey. I’m fine. Thank you for asking,” Ardis answered sternly. She’d worked for Geoffrey long enough to know conversations often started in the middle of his thoughts. “Yes, I’ve checked all the social media everywhere and anywhere, and there are no pictures of you on an airplane.”

  “Thank you, Ardis.” Geoffrey smiled. “What would I do without you?” He honestly didn’t know, but he’d soon find out if he couldn’t get his finances in order.

  “You would have to Google what to take on your picnic, which you probably should have done anyway. Google, free. Ardis, not free.”

  “But worth every penny,” Geoffrey finished for her.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page there.” Her voice sounded surprisingly clear, almost like she was in the same room.

  And before he could answer, she was.

  “I let myself in,” Ardis said while pulling the phone off of her shoulder where she’d had it cradled next to her ear. She disconnected the call with one hand as she walked toward Geoffrey’s bed, then took the newspapers tucked under her arm and tossed them to him. “Why aren’t you up?”

  “Couldn’t sleep until late or early. Whatever three in the morning is.”

  “Hmm,” Ardis puffed with all the judgment she meant for him to feel for being in bed past eight o’clock. “Shall I bring you breakfast too, or will you not be playing the spoiled child today?”

  Geoffrey snapped open the Times. “See, it’s comments like those that will get you fired.”

  He and Ardis both thrived on teasing each other about how terrible the other was.

  At least, he hoped they both thrived on it. He sometimes wondered if Ardis really did think he acted like a spoiled child. She knew how to keep a straight face when she teased him.

  “Go ahead.” She pulled open his curtains, which only brightened the room slightly. There would be rain for sure, if the gray sky wasn’t lying. And odds were, it wasn’t. Rain in London was as predictable as sunshine in LA.
/>   “Have you ever been to Los Angeles, Ardis?”

  “No. Remember, you left me here to do all the work while you went on a six-month vacation.” She went into his closet and came back with a pair of trousers and a jumper.

  “I left you here because you didn’t want to leave Dana.” He didn’t make a move to get out of bed. “I’ll need something more casual. Like my California hoodie and some jeans.” When Geoffrey didn’t sense any movement from her, he peeked over his paper to find her staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “Please?”

  She nodded and returned a few minutes later with the requested items, but also the well-worn coveralls he wore when sculpting and painting. “I’m assuming you’re not meeting Clarissa for a breakfast picnic, which means you’ve got time to work.”

  Geoffrey frowned as she carried the clothes to him, not knowing where to start to correct her or even if he should. “You read the reviews. Time to move on. My only job is ‘reinvigorating’ the Grey estate.” He emphasized reinvigorating, his mother’s word. “Sculpting is a hobby now.” Even if every part of him wanted to be back in the studio more than anything else—except spending the afternoon with Alice.

  “While I’m sure Clarissa”—Ardis accentuated the -issa with a hiss that emphasized just how much Ardis didn’t like her—“will be thrilled by that prospect, you won’t be happy. So get up, dry your eyes, and get back in the studio.”

  Geoffrey gave her his obligatory glare, though it was a Pavlovian response rather than one with any real feeling behind it.

  She stood next to the bed, her tall frame looming over him, holding the coveralls out to him. He knew she’d do that all day if she had to, and while he was tempted to make her, he flung back the bed covers and stepped out of bed to stand directly in front of her. He knew she wouldn’t blink, but he stared her down anyway.

  Geoffrey grabbed the coveralls and turned his back to her while he stepped into the legs. “I’m not sure why you think you’re in charge here.” He stuck his arms through the sleeves, and a rivulet of excitement ran over him. Hopefully that rivulet would turn into a river forceful enough to wash away the fear that had grown with each bad review.

  Once he’d buttoned the coveralls, he faced Ardis again.

  “That’s my boy.” She patted his head and smiled, which brought out his own smile.

  “If I’m working, I’ll need you to put together the picnic I’ll be eating on the Tower grounds like a regular old tourist.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Clarissa’s usual from Harrod’s?”

  Geoffrey tipped his head. “No. I’m meeting someone else, actually.” Ardis’s eyebrows went up and a smile tugged at her lips, so Geoffrey hurriedly added, “The American I’ve hired to curate the museum.” He didn’t want Ardis thinking there was anything going on between him and Alice, whom Ardis would undoubtedly meet once Alice started working.

  “Well, that makes perfect sense. Picnicking with an employee at the Tower of London. Why, we’ve done that at least, oh I don’t know…never. Never amount of times.” Her eyes bored into him like a drill on an exploratory mission.

  “I apologize, Ardis.” Geoffrey patted her arm. “Had I known you were so anxious to picnic with me, I would have asked you long ago.” He about-faced and stuck his hands in his pockets, walking quickly toward the door. “Could you get my father on the phone? I’ve got some matters to discuss with him, and then I promise, I will get to work.”

  “And what would she like to eat?” Ardis followed closely behind him, but he stopped at the question.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “—Ha! So it is a woman!”

  Geoffrey turned quickly. “What?” Then he realized, he hadn’t told Ardis who he’d hired, and there had been a few men on his list of potentials.

  Ardis’s face held all the satisfaction of a cat who’d caught its prey. “And what shall I tell Clarissa if she calls looking for you?”

  “Tell her . . . tell her I’m working.” Heat flooded his face, burning his ears and causing a damp sweat to make its way down his back. “It’s not what you’re implying. And you and I have picnicked. At Mother’s Easter charity brunch event . . .”

  Ardis’s smile grew, so he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Just get Father on the line, please. I’ll be in the studio.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ardis saluted, which Geoffrey didn’t find nearly as funny as she did. She even laughed as she walked past him.

  “And bring some tea!” he called after her. “And toast!”

  He should fire her for her impudence. Except that she’d stayed on part-time while he was in America when she could have found another, much better job. She was overqualified and underpaid for doing what she did, and if she hadn’t known him most of his life, she probably wouldn’t have worked for him at all. So he gave her back a good glare, with real feeling this time, then headed toward his studio.

  It would take Ardis some time to reach the rehab facility and for them to locate his father, which meant Geoffrey could get started in the studio. Started on what, he didn’t know. But likely something that included the same brown color of Alice’s eyes with their copper undertone. And he had the perfect material in the antique plumbing fixtures he’d found at a salvage yard then polished until their orange-gold color shone again.

  The fixtures weren’t easy to find on the disorganized shelves full of all the “garbage” he found interesting. When he carried them to the large, beat-up table he kept in the middle of the room for drafting, there was a cup of tea and a plate of toast waiting for him. After that, he didn’t know how much time had passed before Ardis interrupted him. By then he’d started sketching out his ideas and was irritated he had to stop.

  “I have your father on the line,” she said, holding his landline phone to him.

  For a second, Geoffrey couldn’t think why he wanted to talk to his father, but then remembered the Monet. He took the phone and held it to his chest. “Tell me when it’s eleven o’clock, please.”

  She nodded, then left, and Geoffrey put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Father.”

  “Geoff?” His father sounded very far away. And very tired. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

  Geoffrey hadn’t had much to say to his father for quite some time, and his being five hundred miles away in a rehab centre made ignoring him even easier. “Yes, sorry about that.” Geoffrey touched his sketch, an idea niggling the back of his mind that he’d rather focus on than the unpleasant task at hand. “How are you? How’s the . . .” He paused to find the right word. “Facility?”

  “Oh, you know . . .”

  Geoffrey didn’t. He’d learned from his father’s example to avoid excess. When he didn’t respond, his father went on.

  “There’s lots of talking. Getting in touch with feelings. That sort of thing.”

  Geoffrey could picture his father making air quotes at the phrase “getting in touch with feelings.” His father was a typical Brit in that feelings were not to be touched.

  “Very little drinking . . .”

  Geoffrey laughed. His father had always made him laugh. Or cry. There wasn’t a lot of in-between when it came to Lord Ashburn.

  “And even fewer drugs, at least not the good kind.”

  “That does sound trying.” Geoffrey added a quick detail to his sketch.

  “It’s not all bad. I’ve always enjoyed the Scottish countryside. I think. This may be the first time I’ve seen it sober.” Lord Ashburn knew how to make a joke, but he didn’t always know when to stop.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Geoffrey said dryly, stopping himself before adding something sarcastic about his father always enjoying himself at other people’s expense. Literally and figuratively.

  An awkward silence followed, and Geoffrey added another detail to his sketch.

  “Yes, well, thank you for calling, son. I appreciate you checking in on your old man.”

  Geoffrey took a breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Actually,
Father, I had a question for you. About the Monet you bought for Mother.”

  “Oh, yes.” A pause followed. “I’ve decided not to fight her about it, even though I know she hates it.”

  Geoffrey hadn’t expected that. If there was one thing his parents were particularly good at, it was being punitive to one another.

  “That’s not actually my question, but I’m sure she’ll be relieved to hear it.”

  “I hope so,” Lord Ashburn said softly without even a tinge of sarcasm. If anything, his voice held something Geoffrey had never heard or seen in his father before—vulnerability. “She’s suffered more than her fair share of hurt on my behalf.” His father let out his breath. “As have you.”

  Geoffrey was too stunned to respond. The lump in his throat wouldn’t have let him anyway.

  “These twelve steps are hard, Son, but I’m trying to make amends. Going to try. I’m aware one apology or acknowledgment of what a bastard I’ve been—what a bastard I am—is not enough.”

  “It’s a start, Dad.”

  Geoffrey put down his pencil and took a seat. Then he and his dad talked for the first time in years. Really talked. They talked until Ardis came in and pointed to her watch. Geoffrey nodded. He hadn’t gotten the information he needed about the Monet, but he’d be late to meet Alice if he kept talking to his father.

  “Dad, I have to go, but can we talk again?” he asked. If he’d been meeting Clarissa, he would have canceled plans, but Alice would be leaving in two days, and he wanted to see her. He was going to be honest with himself about that.

  “I’d like that.” There was a brief pause, and then Lord Ashburn said words Geoffrey had waited a lifetime to hear. “I love you, Son.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alice met Geoffrey in the lobby of her hotel the next afternoon when, fortunately, there were very few people around. She’d been willing to meet him at his car when he had texted her he was on his way, but he’d insisted on coming in.

  She found him sitting in a tall armchair with its back to the glass doors of the entrance, his head buried in a newspaper. An actual newspaper. She didn’t know anyone who still read those. Except for her, that is.