“When do you see him next?”
“Will you stop? Honestly, I think it’s the meds.” Lindy ate a spoonful of soup. “My focus is getting the shop ready to open its doors in one week, since you’re zero help.”
“Hey, things are about to change, I’m feeling better. My bleeding is next to nil and my ridiculous doctor’s concerns are abating. A few places are still tender but that’s that. I’m ready to get back into life, starting tomorrow.”
“Wait, you’ll be back at the shop, then?” Lindy paused, a weight falling to her feet. That meant Shennedy would be back to a normal schedule. And being personal assistant to Armand. Surprisingly, the thought made her melancholy, like she’d just lost a favorite keepsake.
But, of course, Shennedy coming back was ultimately great. Really great. Because then life for Lindy would return to normal and she’d be back to only helping with the shop and able to spend time figuring out the next steps in her life, Phase II and New.
Shennedy furrowed her brow. “What’s that look for? I thought you hated being at the shop?”
“Yes and no. It grows on you.”
Shennedy gave a triumphant smile and stood. “Lucky for you, that growth is about to take deep root. Yes, I’m starting back, but I meant that I’ve got way too much to catch up on at the Big Barn, never mind the second floor at Kenworth’s. Keira’s been patient but they’re on a tight schedule and budget. I need to get my backside in gear at least part-time.” She patted Lindy’s hand. “I’m sooo sorry to say, my dear, you’re still on duty to take care of Armand, poor thing, and make This & That sparkle and shine. And maybe even sizzle.”
She wriggled her eyebrows.
Lindy smacked at her hand playfully as Shennedy laughed and headed to the shower. But inside, a secret relief spread through her. Likely the emotions came as a rebound from Damon. That absence of feeling appreciated and respected made the current experience with Armand more exciting and refreshing.
That was likely it.
ARMAND SHOVED HIS CHAIR BACK from the laptop and rubbed his hands over his face in exhaustion. Emails, emails, emails. Where do they come from? He hadn’t realized how much Stanton had done as publicist. Until he had recommended his being fired.
Outside the northern loft window on a chestnut oak a bird called out. It had a black cap and white bib. A chickadee, Lindy had said, because of the sound it made— chick-a-dee-dee-dee. It bounced gently on the branch, almost hesitant to fly, turning its head quickly as if scouting. Or looking for an answer. Like him. With a brief rise of its wings and a soft whoosh, it flew briskly to an even higher branch, a leafy perch better suited to protect against predators.
That’s what he needed. A propulsion to the better branch. His book tour had been given good hype, as they told him. But that had been the preparation work of Stanton. Those marketing releases had been done ahead of time, and most of it months ago. But now that time had run out. His first launch was to be at The Strand in Manhattan, a huge opportunity, and pressure. Well, official launch, that is. Now the problem of dealing with Britta and possibly rescheduling the reading. She had brought it up once to which he had replied he had to check his schedule with the publisher and would let her know.
He ran his hands through his hair with an angry shove. Why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn’t he get over this? Another allergy attack wouldn’t work. And now she wanted to announce to the town that he would do a rescheduled reading— “even better timing” she said— at the Harvest Hurrah. More people, more media, more stress.
He walked restlessly to the attic dormer window to the west. Bits of sky and sunshine continued to flow into the charming room. If only he could live here, quietly. And at last he was writing well, the words coming to him in easy bursts, thanks to being with Lindy.
Instinctively, he paused to listen— downstairs was still. Lindy had not yet come to the shop. He shook his head. Why did he even notice? But he could not help himself. Her loveliness, in beauty and kindness. The disappointment in her expression when he had canceled the reading. And yet, not knowing the real reason, she still had been kind to him. Working together, it had been a surprising joy, and for her it seemed to be too. A sudden flooding sensation in his heart made him breathe deeply. Yes, light came from her. A warmth, like the summer sun when as a boy he would dangle his legs over the highest city walls lining the River Sienne, watching the tourist boats slowly pass below. That high, it was risky, yes. But familiar enough there was no real danger.
He rubbed his hand over the unshaved part of his chin. No, no time for starting that heartache anew, and not with another city girl. Absolument pas. He was done with that kind of relationship, for good.
The laptop beeped several times in rapid succession. More emails. He would have to find a way to deal with the publicity that his publisher was not helping with, and that he clearly was unable to do. And finish his current book by deadline. And show up for the U.S. tour cities like Maximillian Dupont— with mystery, charm, and suave debonair.
And without human frailties.
Mon oiel!
He grabbed his jacket from the wall hook and gave in to the sudden need to leave the apartment.
To go anywhere but here.
Lindy spent a few more minutes situating Shennedy with juice, a good novel, and a healthy dose of stop-telling-me-to-stop-fussing-over-you.
Shennedy sat upright in the sleigh bed in her pink nightgown, surrounded with at least six puffy pillows, looking mildly like a pink peacock. “I told you, I’m feeling better.”
“And the doctor told you that you were supposed to lay low for at least two to three weeks. You pushed it yesterday and you’re paying for it today.”
“I believe he meant days. No woman can stay down for a total of two weeks. Unless that prescription comes with a twin stand-in.”
Lindy tried to add one more pillow but only received a glare. “So, about this Wednesday Women’s Quilting Bee…”
“Changin’ the subject? You are a sales girl.”
“Anything I should know before going into the lion’s den?”
Shennedy leaned her head back on the pillow, despite her protestations, a slightly pale cast still hovered over her skin. “What, those sweet little old ladies? Nothing to do or worry about. Except Bitty Betty— her, you do have to watch out for.”
“Bitty Betty? Seriously?”
“It’s a small town. Bitty Betty Harmon. She knows all, and ferrets out a story. If you don’t want the whole Damon thing out in the town within minutes, I suggest you tuck your cell phone away.” She opened her eyes. “What’s going on with Damon anyway? We didn’t 411 last night.”
Lindy gathered glasses and snack wrappers on a tray. She paused. What did she say about him? That it was time to stop avoiding and start handling? “Gee, look at the time. So I don’t need needles or yarn or anything?”
That got a laugh. “It’s quilting, Lindy, quilting. And go ahead, change that subject again. I know what it means— you haven’t a clue about what to do. That’s fine, I’ll hear about him soon enough. I know I haven’t been much help in that department, sleeping way too much. Speaking of, thanks for standing in for me, especially with this. I know how much you love crafty things.” Shennedy turned her head toward Lindy. “Thanks for everything, actually. You’ve been a godsend…especially now that you’re awake. Mercy, you’re a firecracker when you have energy. Are you doing okay?”
Lindy caught the layered meaning and decided against another subject change. “I’m definitely better, Shen. Just…confused.” She toyed with a wrapper. “I’m not sure where my focus is now. I’m not an L.A. girl anymore, but I don’t really belong here, not yet anyway. And as for men— ” she pulled a face. “As I said, confused. The shop has actually been a lifesaver in a way. A happy refuge while I make some decisions for what’s ahead. It’s been— ” a smile escaped her, “Bon.”
Shennedy raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Well, isn’t that interesting. You better scoot but we’l
l talk more about this ‘bon’ later. Remember, follow their lead and look like you’re stitching, just don’t make me look bad. And say hi to Mom for me. I talked to her yesterday but she may not remember. It helps if you remind her. She can remember what she wore to a dance in 1952 but can’t remember I talked to her on the phone.”
With a promise to do that and a kiss on Shennedy’s forehead, a few minutes later Lindy found herself at the Ladies League Community Center, an historic light blue building with white trim and a matching carriage house. Inside the open main room with amber hardwood floors sat a quilting square. About eight women sat at different places around the brightly patched quilt. The hum of happy chatter filled the air.
“Well, look who’s here, it’s Shennedy’s cousin.” Maisy, Shennedy’s mother, waved her over to sit close by. With a hug and some chit-chat, she introduced Lindy to the group as Lindsey, to which a few ladies smiled and then began introducing themselves. As they began to ask questions about her stay, a loud bang of the front door made them turn. A dark-haired woman with close cropped curls and a sharp nose hurried into the room.
“Did I miss anything?” The upstate accent held a socially joking tone but it contained a definite message. “Ah, a visitor. You must be Shennedy’s friend, Lindy, is that right?” An unmistakable expression of triumph.
“Yes, and you must be…Betty. Is that right?” She had almost said Bitty Betty.
A momentary pause and look of displacement. “Well, isn’t she the top of her class. Nice to have you here.” She edged her way into the middle of the table, scooching a gray-haired lady named Gracie, and smiling in turn at each of the women. “Sorry I’m late, I just came from talking to Britta. About Armand”— all heads jerked toward her as one— “she said it was okay for me to call him by his first name.”
Gracie leaned forward. “Is he still in hiding in his apartment? I heard he’s quite a recluse.”
Maisy shook her head. “No, no, Gracie, he’s writing his next book. They say he’s got to have it finished soon and he’s madly typing every spare minute to make, what is it, his deadline or to the printer or something like that.”
A woman in pearls looked up. “No, I heard that Armand had a girl back in France who had his love child and he’s ashamed and isn’t able to look people in the eye.”
“Maude, that was Winter’s Love, the novel you read last month.”
“Oh.”
Betty sat forward so all could see her. “Actually, I was privately told that he’s been rescheduled for the book signing and reading for the Harvest Hurrah.”
A happy gasp and clapping. Lindy leaned forward “He is?” Then realizing she had said it aloud took sudden interest in the quilt.
“Why yes.” Betty narrowed her eyes at her and nodded. “What with him being an international bestselling star, the media would have a heyday, an absolute heyday. There will be cameras, and reporters, and CNN, and people just crawling all over our town. Isn’t that terrible?” She carefully touched her hair.
Gracie shook her head. “They’ll hound him day and night for sure. No more recluse for him. He’ll have to tell his life story, I’m guessing it’s a tragic history, a life of want and oppression, and then there’s that love child.” A few nods.
Maisy continued to stitch. “No, I told you. Agnes told Mary who told Virginia that Britta told her he was a very nice man. His family actually was poor when he was young, but then his father came into money. A relative, I think. And then things got better, he became a diplomat or something. But instead of being uppity, they kept their small-town ways. They apparently sent him to regular school even though he could have had a more glamorous education. He’s been very good to his family and stays close to them, never mind the hype and all that nonsense. And he doesn’t even like the fame. He’s quite a man of integrity and character, so they say.”
Several women made a swooning sound.
Lindy frowned. Really? That didn’t jive with his two-time cancellation of important events, at least two that she knew about.
“And in fact, he’s quite a hero,” said Maude.
Betty edged forward a little more, speaking more loudly than necessary. “If you’re referring to the experience of protecting a woman at a book signing, well, I was told that too. In fact,” she looked around for added measure, “I was told that it was downtown New York and he had been talking very late with the store owner after a book signing. When he headed to the parking lot, he saw a woman being assaulted by a man by her car. Then Armand ran over, without any thought to his own safety, punched the man several times, and held him down with one hand until the police came.”
“Oh. I thought Virginia said that Armand just scared the man off, then helped the lady.” A blue-rinse haired woman had leaned in.
Betty straightened. “Whatever way you heard, Armand acted with honor and nobility, wouldn’t you say?”
Maude brightened. “Ooh, just like his books. Aren’t his about that dashing detective, all young and strong, and very smart in that signature camel-colored coat? Always solving the mystery. But never gets the girl, has anyone noticed that too? Maybe he just hasn’t found the right one.” Nods all around. “Is— em— Mr. Beaumont, Armand— is there a Mrs.?”
Betty raised an eyebrow and continued in her nasally upstate accent. “From what I understand— all of this is coming from a very private conversation in the library with Britta, you understand— he had a very, very serious girlfriend. But something happened, we’re not sure exactly what, and they are now no longer. So apparently,” she touched her hair again, “he’s free once again. Yes, we’re very lucky to have him in our fair town, very lucky indeed.” She picked up a needle for the first time. “I think it might be a kind welcoming gesture to take him one of my award-winning strawberry tarts.”
Gracie piped up. “Oh, but my apple coffee cake won first at the county fair last year. That might be a more fitting choice, seeing that apples are what we’re known for. You know.”
While Betty held a frozen smile on her face, Maude joined in. “I’ve got the best rhubarb pie you’d ever want to eat. I just have to find the recipe again…Where is that recipe?”
Maisy shared a wink as the ladies continued to mildly battle over who was going to take what. Lindy attempted to focus on making the same careful running stitches as Maisy’s aged and capable hands. But in reality, her thoughts followed the conversation that flowed on what was known, and even all-out conjecture, about Armand.
Established truth was that his father was Austrian, hence the firm jawline. But his mother was French, hence the beautiful face, large blue eyes, and tousled blond hair. Yes, Lindy could definitely see both— that strength and commanding presence, and yet a softness and emotional intelligence when you talked with him. Almost like he could feel what you were saying. Such an amazing combination.
Which begged the question, why wasn’t he married? Who was this “very, very serious girlfriend” that supposedly was no longer? Lindy tried to remember what had he said the other day at Chip’s about it. Then realized it was none of her business. She tamped down her rising interest in knowing which was true and which was conjecture.
With goodbyes to the ladies and a decent job of stitching— Maisy had discreetly helped rip out wrong stitches— Lindy made her way back to the antique shop. A heavy amount of cleaning, tagging, inventorying, and arranging remained to be done before the shop opened next Wednesday and she had promised to go in daily until it was done.
A quick check of her cell phone revealed no messages from Damon while she had kept it turned off at the quilting bee. Hmm. Interesting. Perhaps no difficult conversation was needed. Maybe he’d gotten the message of her leaving no message. A hope danced in her that this could be true, while an anchoring anvil suggested that may not be so.
ENTERING THIS & THAT, LINDY breathed in an undeniable and familiar feeling. This place. Was it happiness? Yes, it was. A mixture of familiarity, and home, and creation. And then something more— anoth
er delicious smell coming from the loft apartment above. And warmth below.
Wait— she looked to the woodstove. It was on? Had Armand stoked the stove for her? She had mentioned possibly coming in today, but still. Glancing toward the stairs, her eye went first to high counter and a white box with a note tucked in it. Beautiful slanted penmanship of old school days showed the note addressed to “Lindy.”
My writing goes well, thanks to you, mon ami. We say merci through our food.
My language is patisserie. Bon appetite.
Armand
The hand was firm and masculine but she could almost imagine him in tan breeches and a white buff shirt. Mon ami— didn’t that mean friend or something?
With a smile on her lips, Lindy opened the box to find fruit tarts with the unmistakable touch of Martha Jean. Hmm, he had good taste. Literally. A smile began as she considered the thoughtful gesture. For a man he certainly was appreciative. And demonstrative. And just plain mmm.
A creak of the stair made her turn. “Bon jour.” Armand smiled, an open white collar shirt with his jeans, and that luscious smell that wafted to her, both him and the food. “I heard ze bell on the door.”
She smiled from her soul. Why was it each time they met those familiar excited feelings stirred within her? The mixture of his interested blue eyes and open manner. She couldn’t align the two people that seemed to exist within him— this international bestselling charmer who only spoke a few words to an adoring crowd, and then the quiet, connecting, thoughtful man who stood before her in jeans and a white shirt.
She realized he waited. “Um yes, the bell. Did you— did you start the woodstove?”
He nodded. “Today, it iz chilly, no? I wanted you to be warm.”
Already. Done.
“Have you eaten the lunch? Would you like some soup?”
Kisses Between the Lines: An Echo Ridge Anthology (Echo Ridge Romance Book 2) Page 46
