She pointed up ahead. “He had an errand to run, but said he’d be right back and would meet us around the bend.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“Where’s your hotel?”
“Jack made the reservation. I don’t know where.”
“I’ll tell Gabe to cancel Jack’s reservation, and I’ll make a different one for us. I don’t want anyone to know where we are.”
“We have to go to dinner tonight. Elliott made me promise we’d show up. We don’t have to stay all evening, but they want us there. And I can’t wait to meet all the kids.”
“The kids go with the parents, so you’ll have to put up with them, too.”
“I’ve met them all.”
“When?”
“Last night. We had dinner at Louise and Evelyn’s B&B in Edinburgh. Gabriele and I had rooms there, but everyone else came back to the castle.”
“While I was in the air, you all were celebrating.”
She kissed him, and their passion was so explosive, so well matched. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and kissed him again with rising urgency, and he responded, disregarding their surroundings and the immediate world until one of the horses snorted and forced him to remember where they were.
“Just tell me Maria is planning a big Italian dinner tonight.”
She pulled back, her eyes widening. “You’re thinking of food while I’m standing here with my jacket open, exposing myself?”
He slowly zipped up her snowsuit, barely resisting the urge to do just the opposite. “If I don’t think of food or something else, I might embarrass myself.”
She looked down at the bulge in his jeans and cocked her head slightly. “Am I imagining things or are you…bigger?”
“Let’s stick to food.”
Sophia laughed. “Maria said she has to cook a few Scottish dishes, but she’s preparing all your favorites.”
“Great sex. Delicious food and wine. And more great sex.” He picked up her beanie and tugged it onto her head. “Damn. You look exactly like the picture I’ve carried in my mind all these years.” He swooped her up into his arms and kissed her. He could barely pull his mouth away long enough to set her down on the sleigh’s bench and cover her with layers of wool blankets.
He pulled the flask from his jacket pocket. “How about a nip of whisky?”
She reached for it. “Carrying a flask is a bold personal statement.”
“I always thought it showed practical forethought with a flair for the dramatic.”
She sipped and shivered, wheezing. “Wow. Potent.”
He kissed her forehead and cheeks, chin and lips, savoring the taste of whisky in her mouth. “God you taste good.” He placed Matt’s hat back on his head, adjusting it until he had its brim at just the right angle, then he slipped in beside her and gathered the reins. “If I don’t get you in bed within the next fifteen minutes, we’re going to try out this bench seat.”
She bounced up and down. “I’d prefer a bed, but if you want to give this a go, I’m game.”
“You always were. But nope. Not this time. I’m going to act responsibly for both of us. We can wait a few more minutes. After all, we’ve waited twenty years.”
“Well, I can’t wait. I’m in a hurry. Give me the reins. I want to drive.”
“You hate horses.”
She slid the reins out of his hands. “I’m still not completely fond of them, but I’m better than I was.” He put his arm around her, and they rode off into the sunset.
Well, the sun wasn’t setting, and to be honest he couldn’t care less. She turned to look at him and he captured her mouth in a sensuous kiss that held years of pent-up desire and longing—a kiss meant to last forever.
She pulled back on the reins. “I thought you were in a hurry.”
Her mouth was soft and warm, and she leaned into him eagerly. He didn’t want to stop, but he wanted her too much to continue. “Give me the damn reins.” He snapped them, and Highlander Spirit and Winter Jubilee trotted off through the snow.
Sophia removed her beanie and tossed it into the air, laughing. “What could be better than driving away in a Norman Rockwell painting?”
“Driving away with me, Soph. What was lost has been found again.”
49
New York City (Fourteen Months Later)—Elliott
Elliott stood at the back of the Hayes Theater on 44th Street in New York City. He’d spent the first forty-five minutes of Jack and Matt’s three-men, one-act play, Dinner on Maiden Lane, sitting next to Meredith in their box holding her hand, but he was too damn nervous to sit still for the remainder of the play.
There’d been five preview shows to work out the kinks, and finally officially opened tonight. You would have thought he was the playwright or director, not the producer. He had money in the game, so it was a tax write-off for him, but Jack had skin in the game. If the play flopped, it could hurt his brand and book sales.
Jack had spotted several theatre critics and was now backstage biting his nails. He was a hell of a lot more sensitive about his reputation. Elliott had been known for years as an arrogant son of a bitch.
Sophia scooted in beside him and stood there rubbing her barely noticeable baby bump. It had taken her and Pete three fertility cycles using her frozen eggs to get pregnant, but now they had a healthy fetus and five more months to go.
The baby wasn’t her worry tonight, though. Following the play, two hundred and fifty people—art critics and serious collectors—were also invited to a private champagne exhibition entitled Thomas Jefferson and The Beginning of the Republic. The collection consisted of thirty-six paintings from the sketches she’d drawn during her time in the past, and Lisa’s sculptures of Jefferson, Washington, Adams, Hamilton, Madison, and John Jay.
Sophia was also the set designer for the production. Who better to design the room where it happened than one of the people who were there? When the curtain first opened, there had been a collective gasp at the sight of the elegant set design. Sophia had every piece made to replicate Thomas’s fixtures, furnishings, draperies, and wallpaper. The set was as authentic as it could be.
“Where’s Pete?” Elliott asked.
“He went next door. Said he wanted to check a few details. He’s more nervous than I am.”
Elliott knew exactly why Pete went next door. It was a surprise for Sophia. Tonight was the culmination of months of hard work and dedication, and Pete had something special for her.
Elliott was so proud of all of them.
As soon as the curtain dropped, critics’ reviews would post on the website “New York Stage Review” at the same time reviews would post at traditional media outlets, so they wouldn’t have to stay up all night waiting for the news.
The director, David Tillman, joined them at the back of the house. “We have a hit,” he said.
“How do ye know?” Elliott asked.
“I’ve been watching the audience. They’re mesmerized. No one is fidgeting or checking their watches. Everyone will want to know the same thing I asked Jack and Matt. ‘It’s so real. Where’d the material come from?’ You’re going to get the same questions when the art critics see the exhibition. The paintings are phenomenal. And to open the play and exhibition the same night is brilliant. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you next door.” David disappeared into the darkness.
Tillman wasn’t fooling Elliott. The man was as nervous as everybody else. This business was a crapshoot. Just like horse racing. You think you have a winner, but you never know until critics post their reviews, or a horse crosses the finish line.
“Let’s go up to the box and get out of the crowd. I don’t want ye knocked over in the rush to exit the theatre.”
Elliott escorted Sophia up the stairs, and they reached the box just as the final lines were delivered. The curtain closed and opened again to thunderous applause. When theatregoers leapt to their feet, Elliott knew Tillma
n was right. They had a hit.
The MacKlenna Clan, except for the kids who stayed home, and Robert and Lisa Harrison, filtered out through the back entrance and entered through the rear of Sardi’s next door.
Waiters were already circulating, serving hors d’oeuvres and champagne in the upstairs special events room, which was packed with works of art, patrons, and large vases of fresh flowers. A string quartet playing Beethoven could be heard over the chatter and laughter.
“Come here a minute,” Elliott said to Sophia. He escorted her into a small room where a painting covered by a sheet stood on an easel with a single light shining above it.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Pete came in behind her. “This is for you, Soph. Matt found it, Elliott made all the arrangements, and I bought it. I figured tonight was the best time to give it to you.”
“A painting?” She clapped. “What a wonderful surprise. Let me see it.”
Elliott removed the sheet, and the white silk shimmied to the floor.
Sophia’s hands went to her face, covering her mouth, as she sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. She wobbled, but Pete held her steady. “Where did Matt find this?” She walked up close to the painting and touched the frame. “What a wonderful gift.” She kissed Pete. “Thank you. I started this when I was on the Clermont during our journey to America.”
She gazed fondly at the painting. “I finished it at Mallory Plantation during the winter of 1789 and sent it to Captain Colley, the captain of the Clermont, as a thank-you gift.”
Matt and Elizabeth waltzed into the room. Elliott had never seen the lawyer/historian float on air, but that’s what he was doing. “It’s an absolutely riveting, psychologically absorbing painting, Sophia,” Matt said.
“How’d you find it? Of all the paintings I did, this was the one I never thought would survive.”
“A couple of years ago I read an article in The New York Times about the renovation of a house in Amagansett. They discovered a closet behind a built-in bookcase, and the painting was in there with pieces of early American furniture. Pete bought it at a private auction, had it restored, and here it is.”
“Thank you all so much. This is so amazing. I guess it will give the art critics another example of how I paint just like the eighteenth-century Sophia Orsini.”
Jack entered the room holding Amy’s hand. “Sophia, you need to get out there. The art critics are asking for you.” Then he whispered, “You’ve got your story down, right?”
“Several nights of vivid dreams after seeing Hamilton: An American Musical.”
“Okay, good luck,” Jack said.
Sophia gave Matt and Elliott a hug and, holding Pete’s hand, walked out to meet her critics.
Meredith kissed Elliott. “The night’s a huge success. The play, the art, Lance and Ruth taking their first steps. It’s a night for the history books.”
“I have to say, tonight almost beats winning the Triple Crown.”
“Nothing beats that. Come on. The photographer is waiting for you.”
He hand-pressed the front of his tuxedo jacket. “How do I look?”
“Like a Scottish studmuffin. Your legs are as sexy as ever.”
“It’s because these kilt hose cover the scars.”
They walked out into the exhibition space. He was one of nine—Kevin, David, Cullen, Braham, Daniel, James Cullen, Lincoln, and Noah—wearing formal Scottish attire. It seemed appropriate on a night like this for the men to be kilted. Without the Celtic brooches, none of this would have been possible. Not the play. Not the art. And especially not the brides, all wearing dresses made from Fraser, Montgomery, McCabe, McBain, Grant, or Digby plaids.
Jack came over with his iPad, grinning hugely. “Read this.”
Elliott put on his glasses. “‘The high school American history class field trip is about to become a thing of the past. When high schoolers—or theatre patrons of any age—cast their eyes and ears on Jack Mallory and Matt Kelly’s amazing, multilayered one-act play Dinner on Maiden Lane, you can bet your two-dollar bills that Hamilton, Madison, and Jefferson become more than historical characters to them. Mallory and Kelly, teaming with director David Tillman, have a connection to this material bordering on supernatural possession…’” Elliott glanced up and removed his glasses. “Ye’ve got yerself a hit. Congratulations.”
Beaming, Jack said, “We sure do!” Before taking the iPad to share the review with the others, he hugged Elliott. “Thanks for everything. And I mean—everything.”
Meredith kissed Elliott on the lips. “Congratulations. You were ahead of the curve on this one. I thought a small local theatre would work best. But not you. You were convinced the play deserved to start at the top. All I can say is, thank goodness we bought Amy’s house on Riverside Drive. If we’d had to stay in hotels, we would have spent more on housing than on the production.”
Elliott wrapped his arm around her and held her close. “We’ve had a good run this year. It’s been a joy to watch Lance and Ruth grow and thrive, and I’m not the only one still amazed at how they hit all motor, language, and social and emotional milestones. And Amy and Olivia had healthy babies. Rick did a super job with the winery reopening, and sales are almost back to what they were before the fire. Pete and Sophia had their church wedding. Amber’s business is skyrocketing. The kids are excelling, and I’m about to retire.”
“Promises, promises. You say that once a month,” Meredith said.
“Maybe, but so do ye.”
“Rick’s in a position to take over the winery, but let’s talk about it later. Tonight is for the kids. Look at them. They’re all so happy.”
“Because they’re all drunk. Didn’t ye hear all the bitching this afternoon?”
“I was there, remember? They all want to take the company in different directions. I thought David and Braham were going to punch each other out.”
“Look at them now. True Scotsmen.”
Meredith looked over at the two men toasting each other. “Got to love ’em.”
At midnight, waiters served Glenmorangie, and pipers marched into the room playing “Scotland the Brave,” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. By the end of the musical program all the sculptures were sold, and there was only one painting without a sold sign—a two-hundred-year-old portrait of Thomas Jefferson standing at the helm of the Clermont.
When the room thinned to only family members, Meredith said, “Let’s go home, Elliott. It’s been a long day, and this crew will be here celebrating till dawn.”
Elliott sent a text to his driver to pick them up in the alley. A few minutes later, he and Meredith said good night and left through the rear door. Before it closed, he looked back at all the couples hugging and laughing.
“Good night, lads and lassies. May God hold all of you and all the wee ones at home in the palm of his hand.”
THE END
Coming next…
THE TOPAZ BROOCH (Book 10)
Wilhelmina Penelope Malone and Rick O’Grady’s love story
With Sophia and Pete
AUTHOR NOTES
In March 2016 I saw Hamilton: An American Musical on Broadway.
The music is simply brilliant. I listen to the songs when I work, run, and drive my car. When my granddaughter, Meredith, gets in the car with me, if the album isn’t playing, she turns it on. Hamilton’s story is so much more than his duel with Aaron Burr, which is the only thing I remember from high school history classes.
Once the music was in my head, I knew I wanted to write a story that included the Founding Fathers, but I was already committed to writing The Pearl Brooch, a story about an Italian painter. While researching female artists, I stumbled upon Maria Cosway, an Italian-English musician, society hostess, and portraitist. Her dear friend was Angelica Schuyler Church, Alexander Hamilton’s sister-in-law.
Wow! A connection to the Founding Fathers.
Then I discovered Cosway was rumored to be the love of Thomas Jefferson�
�s life. The more I read about Jefferson, the more interested I became, and decided to focus on him instead of Hamilton. The day I referred to Jefferson as Thomas, I knew I had a story to tell.
Keeping all the balls in the air was indeed a challenge. And finding a way to tell a love story without the hero and heroine showing up on the same page until the end was a huge obstacle to overcome. If I wrote the story the way it was demanding, it would throw out the blueprint I’ve used in the other books—girl goes missing, hero goes to rescue her, and all sorts of bad stuff happens until they find their happily ever after. In this story a rescue wasn’t even necessary.
The deeper I dug into Sophia’s backstory and passion for art, the more I grew to love her. I think Sophia had repressed her emotions for so long that she was able to continue putting her art before her own true happiness. The idea of being considered the only female Old Master was too compelling for her to walk away from.
The Brooch books always surprise me. I never know where my muse is going to take me or what it intends to reveal. Each one is a wonderful journey. The revelations about the brooch history and Mr. Digby were as much a surprise to me as they probably were to you.
I traveled to Florence in May 2018. One of the tours I scheduled was a wine and dinner tour which included dinner at the Osteria Toscanella. After the meal, we walked down the cobblestone street past the Studio d’Arte Toscanella. I backed up, went in, and introduced myself to the owner/artist Lukas Brändli. The next morning, I had a three-hour art lesson with Lukas.
Originally from Switzerland, Lukas moved to Florence in 2003 seeking a classical artistic education at The Florence Academy of Art. He paints and exhibits in Switzerland, France, and Italy. In 2014 he opened Studio d’Arte Toscanella.
When I returned home, I sent him an email and asked if I could put his studio on the cover. He happily agreed and created a picture. I was a little slow to understand his concept, but while gazing at the picture one day, I slapped my forehead, just like Blane. The bicycle mirrors the brooch.
The Pearl Brooch Page 62