The Brontë Plot (35 page)

“Your tone makes me want to laugh, but I don't think it's a laughing matter.” Despite her words, her mom's tone held no laughter.

“It is.” Lucy wiped at her eyes, unsure if she was on the brink of tears or laughter herself. “Why didn't you ever tell me? Sit me down and make me listen to what he was? Deep inside.”

“What good would it have done? Some things you needed to learn on your own. And you
are
so like him . . . I know you don't like it when I say that sometimes, but there is good there too. You loved the stories, the playacting, and had—still have—an amazing imagination. Look at your creativity now. That's a gift from God. He gave it to you both, and your father helped cultivate it in you.” Her mother paused then asked quietly, “Are you okay?”

“I am. Mom . . . I've been such a fool. I was so certain that if he was okay, then I could be too. You've been telling me for years he couldn't do that. And I wanted him to; it made it easier for me . . . I called Sid and told him everything.” Lucy laid her head on the cool window.

“I don't know what ‘everything' means, but this time your tone tells me it isn't a laughing matter.”

“It's not. I've made a real mess of things, but I'm coming home to set them right. I've got a stop in London, then there are a couple flights with open seats out tonight.”

“How can I help? Do you want me to drive into the city? I have appointments tomorrow afternoon, but I can be there by seven o'clock.”

Lucy rubbed her eyes again. “There's nothing you can do to help, Mom, but I'd love the company.”

Lucy disembarked at Paddington Station and crossed to the Bakerloo Line. She rushed back up at Wembley Station, dragging her rollerboard behind her. She headed west to a small shop with two words beautifully scrolled across the red door-frame.
Duncan MacMillan.

The setting sun sent a vivid color palette of pinks and blues across the sky. A glow of rose highlighted the single, exquisite vase resting in the window. It was easily three times the size of those she'd acquired for Sid, with the same gold cascading over the top into a puddle of midnight. The gold morphed in texture and radiance, burning even brighter, as it threaded along an edge to pool near the bottom of the blues, as if finally finding peace. Lucy felt a surge of courage and pushed open the door.

A woman with emerald cat-eye glasses and a severe bob glanced from her computer screen then returned her focus.

Lucy walked to her desk. “My name is Lucy Alling and I purchased three vases for a gallery in the States, but I need to speak with the manager about them.”

“Was there a problem?” The woman sat straighter and glared over the rim of her glasses. She picked up a pen and rapped it against her desk. She appeared confident, efficient, even bored, but Lucy read tension in her eyes.

“No problem with the vases, just with how I acquired them.” Lucy sensed that her next question would shake the woman's equilibrium. “Is Aidan here?”

The woman stood. “Aidan no longer works here. Why don't you tell me what this is about?”

“I think you must know.”

Without a word, she took her seat and stabbed a red-nailed finger to the chair across from the desk.

Lucy sat. “Aidan contacted me and offered to move up my gallery's order for a fee. I paid it.”

“Which are you?” She pulled a paper from her drawer. “Sid McKenna, Weis Haus, Holmann, or Fine Arts? I assume from your accent McKenna or Fine Arts.”

“Technically, McKenna, but my boss knew nothing about it. He didn't ask me to pay the bribe and was horrified when I told him about it an hour ago.”

“Really?” The sarcasm struck Lucy.

“Yes.”

“We've fired Aidan. Why are you here?”

“I came to apologize and I've arranged for the vases' return. As soon as I get the tracking numbers, I'll pass them along to you.”

The woman sat perfectly still, leaving Lucy to take another step.

She pulled a card out of her bag. “Here's my card and here”—Lucy dug for a pen and wrote her cell number on the back—“is my phone number. I don't know what comes next. Do you want me to stay in London until you get the vases?” She slid the card across the desk then clenched her hands in her lap. “I'm trying to make this right.”

The woman removed her glasses. Lucy noted her eyes were hazel, with distinct threads of green and gold—not unlike a cat's. She swirled the glasses in her hand. “Duncan is firm that he doesn't want any press. We aren't demanding the return of
the vases. Later this week, I was planning to notify each of the four galleries that paid Aidan. A shot over their bows is the least they deserve. But the customers? None of them are to blame. Have you promised or sold the vases?”

“We can return all three without breaking any commitments to our customers.”

The woman set down her glasses and fingered Lucy's business card. “Well, Lucy Alling, I appreciate you coming here. I'll let you know if I need anything more from you.”

“Thank you.” Lucy stood and turned to the door, only to spin back. “So you don't need me to stay here, in the country or anything?”

The woman leaned back in her chair, bouncing slightly, and laughed. “That you came here today speaks volumes. I have your number. I suspect this will be my easiest conversation regarding the matter. I doubt San Francisco, Berlin, or Vienna will be so contrite.”

“I suppose not . . . Thank you.” Lucy rolled her suitcase out into the evening glow and hailed a cab. She rewound the day in her head as the cabbie whisked her to Heathrow.
My name on the door
. Then the woman saying,
We aren't demanding . . .

She pulled out her phone and tapped James's number. She didn't wait for a hello when he answered but rushed ahead. “Did you all get home safe?”

“Yes, Grams is fine and I—”

“I'm sorry to interrupt, James, but I need to ask you a question. A legal question. I told Sid about what I'd done with the books, but I realized that as I undo all that, he's at risk. His name is on the door.”

“Yes, he is.”

“That's not going to work. He can't pay for any of this. How do I make it so he's not liable?”

“You're his employee and it's his business, Lucy. How did you think that worked?”

“Clearly, I didn't,” Lucy snapped then bit her lip. “Sorry. Please, James, how do I separate myself from him and him from this?”

“That's what you've got to do. Separate him from the book business. Buy it and take it out from under his gallery, rename it, whatever. If you pay him rent, you can then sell out of his space and it can legally remain independent. Or move it if you want. That's the best you can do at this point.”

“How on earth am I going to do that? Even with all my savings, I don't have that kind of money.” Lucy deflated.

“You asked what you should do, not how you're going to do it.” She heard James's breath shudder over the line. “I wish I had something better to tell you, but there aren't many options here.”

“Okay then. Thank you.”

Lucy mentally drained her savings and was adding up everything she owned when James called out, “Wait. Don't hang up.” He dropped his voice. “You asked me a question a couple days ago, at the inn, during lunch, and I didn't answer it honestly, about true lo—”

“That's okay, James. Don't worry about it. Oh . . . We're at Heathrow. I have to go.” She hung up.

Chapter 32

T
wo weeks later, Lucy looked up from her account files to find hands pressed against the window. She blew back her bangs as she ran to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open.

“I called you. Did you get my messages?” Lucy hugged Helen, noting that she felt thinner, more petite, if that was possible in such a short period of time.

“I did, but I didn't want to call you back. I wanted to come see you. Then one day became two, then three, and over a week, but I'm here.” Helen took in the gallery. “And so are you, I see.”

“In a fashion. I bought the book business from Sid and am renting this corner of his store.” Lucy crossed back to her desk. Helen started to follow then stopped and gaped at the mahogany bookcase.

“A lot of the books are gone. I sent the ones I tarnished to a shop in New York. They'll sell them with full disclosure and make good money too . . . And slowly, step by step, I'm making everything right. Some things I can't, but for the most
part, people have been very gracious and allowed me to do something.”

Helen continued to the desk and sat in the offered chair. “Oh, Lucy. This must be so hard.” Helen's soft tone conveyed a complete understanding of Lucy's situation.

“Some parts are very hard, but, oddly and rightly, the books are the least difficult. They are stories. They needed nothing from me then and nothing from me now.”

“And Sid?”

“If anything could make me cry, it's him.” Lucy pulled out her desk chair and sat. “I forced him to fire me. I truly believe he wouldn't have. He would've stuck by me, but James said if anything happened later, about the books, that difference could be material so I couldn't just quit. I needed to be fired.”

Lucy surveyed the store. “He's letting me rent space for almost nothing in exchange for watching the gallery for him. As hurt and betrayed as he feels, he still puts me first. And he is hurt, Helen. I can see it in his eyes.”

“I suspect it's also hard for him to see you struggle. He loves you very much.”

“A wayward daughter?” Lucy quipped.

“Prodigal daughter, perhaps.”

“No more about me. How are you? Have you made any decisions or has Charlie made them all on your behalf?” Lucy lightened her tone.

“Charlie . . . He has taken the helm as I anticipated, but it's good. He needs to be involved.” Helen held on to the upright handles of her handbag as if they provided support.

“He's met with my doctors and, though it was hard to hear,
he agrees that there are no more avenues.” She held her hand up as Lucy's lips gaped open. “I'm at peace with this, Lucy. And I'll tell you, I'm enjoying a rare time with my family. Charlie and I talk, really talk. And Leslie? I've adored that woman for years and now there's no chasm between us. Was it the watch? Was it recognizing my own mortality? Perhaps. Or maybe it was something so easy as accepting who I truly was the entire time. I can't say anymore.”

Helen glanced up to the ceiling. “And my granddaughters? How they love my stories. Molly drove up from college last weekend and stayed with me. We had such fun. She's coming back in another couple weeks and even called me yesterday to tell me she's not moving in with her boyfriend.” She grinned. “Leslie's laying the credit for that at my door; she says Molly's not as rebellious lately.”

“That's cute, but I'll cry if I start to laugh.”

Helen shook her head. “Don't start crying now, Lucy.”

“What about James? This must be tough for him.” Lucy leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk.

“James has had the last couple weeks off. That was another reason I couldn't drop by earlier.” Helen shifted her bag. “We've had some wonderful times and good long talks. I didn't realize in Haworth that I'd hurt his feelings.”

“He told you that?”

“Once I started looking, I could tell.” Helen rested a finger on her temple. “The eyes don't hide much, do they?”

“They don't.”

They talked a few more minutes about Lucy's apartment and her decorating plans, and how Sid's work schedule was only now lessening as spring drifted into summer.

Helen talked about how Charlie was setting up the guest room at his home for her to come for an extended visit. Helen didn't need to tell her that, while she was touched by Charlie's offer, it scared her. Lucy knew.

And Lucy didn't need to tell Helen that in the past weeks, as she'd become increasingly aware of when she wanted to embellish a story, or add a flourish of fiction to a tale, or a shade of color to a truth, she worked hard, each and every time, to shut it down and stick close to the facts. Helen understood.

“I'm so sorry, dear, but I need to go.” Helen rose and draped her bag over her arm. “I'm meeting Leslie for coffee then on to another doctor's appointment, but I'll be in next week. Do you still enjoy Book Day?” She turned back to the bookshelves. “Or is that gone too?”

“That's gone too.” Lucy nodded. “And I don't miss it. In fact, I'm enjoying reading books and the business more now that it's not all wrapped up in my head together. They've unwound, if that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Lucy walked with Helen to the door. As she opened it, she said, “If you talk to James, will you tell him thank you for me? He gave me good advice about all this.” She raised her hand. “Don't. You're still under the ‘no-meddling' edict and I've already thanked him.”