The Brontë Plot (24 page)

Lucy couldn't hear the rest as she looked around the room. She noted the quality fabrics, the heavy drapes on the four-poster bed, the nineteenth-century dresser and side table. Bette was right. Everything here was of the first quality. “What else do you need to do?”

Bette dropped to the floor again. Lucy caught the moment when Bette decided to trust her; it was accompanied by a huff and sagging shoulders. “The whole place needs renovation. Tourism has been slow for a few years—your economy, our economy, and three cool summers in a row.”

She rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Last year we had 92 percent occupancy of the year before and that was 89 percent of the previous year. I'm trying to take some of the management off Mum's and Dad's shoulders and they haven't updated these rooms since Thatcher.” Bette gripped the edge of the fitted sheet again and pulled. “That alone is probably responsible for a 5 percent drop.”

Lucy laid a hand on her shoulder. “You're going to rip it.
Hang on a second.” She walked to the opposite corner and released the sheet. “Let's set the corners at the same time; sometimes that helps.”

Lucy held up her corner. Bette did the same. Simultaneously they fitted them under the mattress.

“How'd you know to do that?”

“Like you said, fine linens are a must.” Lucy spread the sheet smooth. “The interior decorator I work for . . . Sometimes we actually make the beds for clients so that their first night in their newly decorated room is perfect. Sid can't abide a poorly made bed.” Lucy joined Bette on the antique carpet and surveyed the room again. “What do you want to do in here?”

“What don't I want to do? New curtains, new coverings. It needs to be fresher, lighter. Doesn't it feel stuffy? Oppressive?”

“I wouldn't say that.” Lucy stood and walked around. She ran her hand across the dresser. “It's tempting to want to pitch it all, but . . .” She patted the armchair, noting it was firm and well filled. She then circled the huge bed. “Envision this. What if you remove the heavy drapery on the bed? I kind of agree the fabrics are old and the first thing I think of are allergens, but that's just me. And then what about moving the bed to this wall?”

Lucy spread her arm across a long, unbroken wall on the door side of the room, across from the double window. “Facing the fireplace is nice, but over here, guests will not only catch all the light from that huge window in the afternoon, most likely when they're seeing it for the first time after check-in, but you also create a better sitting area in front of the fire.”

She pulled the legs of the armchair toward the fireplace.
“What do you think of this here? And do you have a stool someplace? It can serve as a side table with a tray atop or second seating without. And if you have a spare chair, this room can handle it.”

“There's tons of spare furniture in a few of the outbuildings.”

“If you have a wood straight-back chair, I'd paint it this color green.” She turned to the armchair. “See the thread woven on the bias? It's a gorgeous color. Pick it up in the chair and add a few throw pillows.”

“I never noticed that green.”

“If you put that on pillows, in something light—like a twill or a linen—it will wake up the color palette and lighten the ascetic. So in here? Mini face-lift done with three to five pillows, a chair you already own, and a stool.”

Bette's jaw hung open.

“Bette?”

She furrowed her brow. “Horrible idea?”

Bette scampered atop the bed. “It's brilliant. Here. Help me?”

“What are you doing?”

“Pulling down the curtains.”

Lucy giggled. “I didn't mean now.”

“I do. This has defeated me, but no more. We've got six empty rooms today and if I'm going to make them up, I'm going to do it right.” She stopped and stared down at Lucy. “Get up here, you're taller.”

Lucy pulled off her shoes, climbed up on the bed, and bounced slightly. “This is so tempting.”

“You will not break this bed.” Bette pointed at her, but softened the command with a smirk.

Lucy reached up to push the curtain rod. “It'd be easier to hold the bars off their rests and slide the rings, but I'm not strong enough.”

Bette's arms dropped. “Then how are we ever going to move it too?”

“We need help.” Lucy laughed. “Wait here. I'll go rustle up Dillon.”

Three sets of bed curtains, five armchairs, two desks, a bowfront dresser, and two rugs later, Dillon begged for a break. Lucy and Bette, also exhausted, agreed—especially as Bette discovered she was late for lunch preparations.

“You go. We'll clean all this up.” Dillon gently pushed her from the room.

Lucy gathered an armful of the bed curtains and headed to a back storage room where they'd been stacking them. Upon her return, Dillon had vacuumed the room, straightened everything, and was backing out.

“You're amazing, you know that? I don't know a guy in a million who would do what you did today.” She leaned against the doorjamb. Her memory drifted to James.
Two guys in a million.

“It was fun.” Dillon wrapped the cord around the vacuum's holding hooks. “And she needs the help . . . She's sorta like sunshine, isn't she?”

“That's just what I was thinking,” Lucy teased.

“Go on with you.” Dillon shoved against her shoulder. “I'm serious.”

Lucy was about to push Dillon back when his words stopped her. “I know you are. And yes, she's like sunshine.”

Bette's mother and another woman were clearing the tables and preparing the dining room for tea as Lucy finished her lunch. Dillon had already left to go dig more furniture out of an outbuilding for Bette.

“Do you want me out of here?” Lucy called across the room.

Bette's mother, a short woman with blonde hair, came over. Lucy imagined Bette looking much the same in twenty years—a little plumper, a touch of gray, but still gentle and still like sunshine.

“You're fine.” She tucked the chair across from Lucy farther beneath the table. “Bette took me up to the rooms you and Dillon helped her with.”

Lucy laid down her fork. “I hope you don't mind. Do you like the changes?”

“I like them very much. It's hard to see what needs changing when you've lived with them one way for so long. I don't even see the rooms anymore.”

“I think that's true. As long as you're happy . . .”

“I am and Bette's thrilled. I'm so pleased to have her excited about this place. We're not getting any younger and it's time she felt it was hers.” Bette's mom touched the rim of Lucy's plate. “You enjoy the rest of your lunch and I'll finish clearing the buffet. Those tomatoes are from last year's garden. Bette and I canned all last fall and Robert grills them up well, I think.”

“They're amazing. Thank you.” Lucy returned her attention to her plate.

“Hey.”

Lucy choked on the tomato, squirting seeds onto her plate.

James stood above her.

“Whoa . . . Not a good idea.” He reached for her then dropped his arm.

“Hot,” she gasped, swallowing the tomato whole. She jumped up, pressing her napkin against her mouth.

James held her gaze, his hair dipping over one eye, five o'clock shadow darkening his chin, and the sun hitting his eyes at just the right angle to highlight the fine lines at their corners.

Lucy took in his tired expression, his green waxed coat, blue oxford shirt tucked into jeans, and decided that, yes, he was still cute. Every gothic hero of old came to mind.
Valancourt
,
Tilney
, and
Markham—
those were James's speed.
Heathcliff?
She couldn't make a demon out of James or a man out of Heathcliff.
Rochester?
Despite Helen's assertion, he didn't work any better.
Thornton. Hamley. That's it. Hamley!
Her eyes widened farther with the realization that she'd perhaps spent too much time with Gaskell's
Wives and Daughters
already.

She lowered the napkin. “What are you doing here?”

“Little work . . .” He shrugged and she pinned him with a glare. “I wanted to come. I didn't think . . . I didn't feel you should handle this alone.”

“You came for me?” Lucy heard the wonder in her voice and tried to cover it by clearing her throat. “I mean, Helen will be thrilled.”

James twisted. “Where is she?”

“In her room. Asleep.” She stumbled back against her chair. “Come on. I'll take you up.”

As they passed by the front desk, Lucy noted Bette's absence. “Did you check in?”

“Yes. Bette? She told me where to find you.”

As they walked up the stairs, Lucy couldn't help peeking James's way. To have him so close, but in many ways so far away, was an exquisite torture. She wanted to tell him about the past few days, all she'd done, all she'd felt, and how she wanted to be different and new, “break the mold” as Helen had done.

She knocked on Helen's door and, when no answer came, pushed it open to let James enter first.

“Not locked?” he whispered.

“I asked her not to so I can check on her.”

James leaned around the door. He pulled back. “She's asleep.”

“You can wake her.” Lucy nudged him forward.

“That feels a little counterproductive.”

James's tone scraped down Lucy's spine. “We wouldn't want that,” she retorted, and backed from the doorway and headed down the stairs.

“Why are you annoyed by that?” James clicked the door shut and called after her.

Lucy spun at the landing. “You've flown across the ocean to see her and yet you won't wake her to tell her you're here?”

“What's the point? She needs the sleep and she'll be awake soon enough.”

Lucy clenched her fists at her sides. “You're right and that's very logical. But on the other hand, after all she's been through, she'd love the treat of having you here and sharing the last few days, everything, with you. She'll be upset when she finds out
you've been here for hours and she missed that time. The thing to do sometimes is not what's right, but what's best.”

“She'll have plenty—”

“You don't know that.” Lucy held up her hand. “I get it.” She marched down the stairs. “And it's not my business,” she mumbled.

“What did you say?”

Lucy didn't reply.

James called over the stair rail, “Where are you going?”

Lucy looked straight up. “I'm heading out for a walk. You wait for Helen to wake. I'll be back soon.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Why?” Lucy stopped in complete confusion.

James stared down at her. His hair flopping in front of his eyes gave the distinct impression that he'd surprised himself with his request. “I've been on a plane . . . Forever.”

She debated then nodded. “Come on.”

She walked out the door and heard him follow her moments later, his feet shuffling along the gravel driveway. As she turned onto Main Street, he drew up beside her and they walked in silence to the bottom of the hill to where she'd seen a sign for Stanbury Moor.

“A moor?”

“They're everywhere.” She trudged through the gate.

“Why are you acting like you're mad at me?” James called after her.

“Because I am.”

“You're mad at me? Are you serious?” His tone changed from sincere inquiry to sarcasm. It grated.

Lucy twisted, both feet planted on the ground. “Very. You came all the way here and I know it's for her, but I thought it was for me too, which was completely stupid because you made it very clear that I'm not worth your effort, but if all you're thinking is that I'm harming her, keeping her from the hospital, I'm not.”

“I never felt that and that's not what I think.”

James's tone incensed her more.

“But you must be here to judge my care for her. Because there's nothing between us and if you'd come for more than that, to actually spend time with her, you would've woken her.”

“That's what this is about? Because I let her sleep? Do you hear yourself?” James took a step toward her.

Lucy marched away, calling back, “Then why bother flying across an ocean? I'd have had her back in Chicago within forty-eight hours. If she was up to it, I was going to press for a flight out of Heathrow tomorrow, just like I told your father yesterday. He was fine with that. Why weren't you?”

James caught up to her. “I came to make sure she's up to it. You said yourself that you're not family. You shouldn't bear all the responsibility.”

“And yet your father was fine with it . . . Somehow, James, that's not ringing true.”

“Fine.” James stopped again. “I did come for you. Happy? I came because you owe me.”

Lucy stopped. “I owe you?”