Esmeralda swiped away a tear and made a helpless gesture with one plump hand. “He didn’t know how to go about it. He had betrayed you and your mother. Broken up the family. How could he ask you to forgive him? He knew he’d done a terrible thing.”
“He could have started by saying he was sorry.”
“He tried, he really did. But first you refused to see him or talk to him, and then you were away, racing in Europe, and Bobby needed him so much…”
The last conversation with his father echoed through Nick’s mind.
I needed you to be there.
But Bobby needed me more.
“Yeah,” he said, and feigned a bored yawn. “Bobby needed him more.”
“You—” Esmeralda’s gaze shot up. “You knew about Bobby, didn’t you?”
“Knew what about him?”
The blue eyes, bright with emotion, grew even wider. “I can’t do this,” Esmeralda said. “Not now. Not without a stiff drink to fortify me. Not without talking to Myrtie first.” Nick watched as his uninvited visitor slid down to her feet, red silk pajamas rustling against the covers, and stood still, dabbing tears from her cheeks.
“What is it, Esmeralda?” he asked with a small ray of concern.
“It’s Esmie. Call me Esmie. I’ve got to go.”
She plodded across the carpet, almost tripping over the edge of the Turkish rug, and hurried out of the door. Nick was left staring after her. That strange Alice behind the looking glass sensation that had taken hold of him earlier welled up inside him again, now even stronger than before.
Back to Contents
Chapter Seven
Demi-plié. Plié. Crimson clutched the back of a chair and bent her knees, again and again, sweeping one arm gracefully in the air. She’d ordered the maintenance crew to release the lock on her office window, and now the scents of summer rain and wet grass drifted into the big, glass paneled room.
Soon she would discover if she had developed sensitivity for pollen. The doctors she’d consulted when she fell ill during the South American tour had warned her that some people had to hide indoors several weeks every year, but the general practitioner she’d registered with in Longwood to renew her prescription had been more optimistic.
The phone on her desk rang.
“Anna, can you take that?” Crimson called out. She finished the exercise, rolled down the white linen skirt she’d bunched up at her hips and slipped her shoes back on. Her muscles had started to stiffen. From now on, she’d make sure to incorporate an hour or two of exercise into her schedule every day.
“It’s Nick,” Anna called back.
“I’ll take it.” Crimson hurried to the desk.
In the morning, when they drove out to work, Nick had been oddly silent. She’d never realized how narrow the seats in the Panther were. Each time he changed gear, his arm brushed against hers. She’d felt the heat of his body next to hers, had been able to see the dark pinpricks of the heavy growth of beard on his freshly shaven jaw.
On arrival in the office, he’d dropped her off at the entrance, saying he wanted to take the car over to the factory and tune up the engine. At lunchtime, she’d seen him in the cafeteria, dressed in a pair of stained overalls, sitting with the mechanics.
“There’s a problem with the new electronics supplier in Japan,” he told her now on the telephone. “Hank needs to have a video conference with them, but the manager will only get in at midday. Eleven o’clock in the evening our time. I’ve offered to join them. I speak a smattering of Japanese, which might help. Do you want to stay late, or shall I find someone else to drive you home, or get Anna to have a rental car dropped off for you?”
“I’ll stay,” she told him promptly. “I want to look through the old advertising materials. There are boxes and boxes full of brochures, going back all the way to the twenties. Too much to take home with me, and I want to get started on it today.”
“Good,” Nick said. “I’ll pick you up around midnight.”
Crimson smiled wistfully as she put down the phone. Midnight. Pumpkin time. In truth, she was starting to feel a little bit like Cinderella. Living in a mansion. Being driven in a car worth more than a suburban home. Spending her time with a handsome prince.
Her resentment toward Uncle Stephan for putting her in this situation was quickly fading. In some way, she was starting to enjoy the challenge. It meant that instead of moping around, grieving the end of her dancing career, she had something to focus her energies on.
But she must not lose sight of reality. Whatever happened, whether she succeeded or failed, New Year would be her pumpkin time. Either Constantine Motors would be sold, or Nick would take over and she would have to find something else to occupy her time.
****
Men in dinner jackets. Women in flapper dresses. Cigarettes smoldering in long holders. Crimson squatted on the office floor, glossy brochures from the twenties box spread around her. The Gatsby era. The First World War was over, the stock market booming. Electricity, telephone, mass market production of the Model T Ford. Art Deco, which had given the Constantine Spur the distinct lines the Constantine Panther sported even today.
Her imagination soared. She could almost hear the jazz. Could almost smell the cigarette smoke. See Rudolph Valentino, Charlie Chaplin, and Buster Keaton, their imagines flickering on the silver screen in the early talkies.
Hold on.
Smell the cigarette smoke.
Sniffing like a bloodhound, Crimson got to her feet. The smell was not a figment of her imagination. The place was strictly—and that meant you’ve-been-fired strictly—non-smoking, all the way to the property line beyond the parking lot. Who could it be? No employee would dare to break the rule. It had to be the night security guard from the company that covered the hours from ten p.m. to six in the morning.
Crimson hurried out, past Anna’s immaculate desk. Thank heavens she’d changed into her pink sweats when she started with the dusty archive boxes. In her sock feet, she pounded down the steps, gripping the handrail. Half-landing. Turn. The lobby. No one there. She hurried across the empty space, her socks slipping on the slate floor.
People liked to light up when they had something to eat, didn’t they? She might find some evidence of the culprit in the cafeteria. The security company must have sent some idiot who didn’t understand the danger of smoking in a building that contained flammable materials.
The instant she entered the glassed-in walkway, she knew something was wrong. Ahead of her, the factory windows lit up the night, a row of glowing squares. It looked like a color chart, with a deep, flaming orange at the far end, and paler shades near to her. She raced through the silent cafeteria, past the plastic chairs and tables, past the steel counter, through the first set of double doors. The vintage racing posters on the walls of the lobby that separated the factory from the cafeteria blurred as she hurtled by.
No! The word exploded in her mind the instant she’d slammed her palms against the second pair of swinging doors to fling them open. There was something called back draft, wasn’t there? It could send a ball of flames bursting out with enormous force when one opened the door to a fire.
The thought came too late to halt the action, and the doors flew open on their hinges. Mercifully, she could see at once, the fire was small, not fully spread. At the far end of the enormous manufacturing hall, beside a row of five Panthers with only the undercoat on the bodywork, flames leaped from a collection of paint tins on the floor. As she watched, a bottle of solvent exploded, sending fiery fingers toward the half finished cars.
She didn’t know what to do. Someone should have thought to give her health and safety training. Even as Crimson berated her lack of knowledge, she knew it was foolish. No one could have predicted that she’d be here at this hour, alone. Everyone in the factory would have been trained, but where was the security guard?
She hurried closer to the burning tins of paint. The heat from the flames scorched her skin. Thick curls of smok
e billowed up toward the ceiling. It was dangerous to spray water on some typed fires, she vaguely recalled as she raked her gaze around the vast space.
Red fire extinguishers stood along the wall, at regular intervals like soldiers on parade, and a few black and silver ones clustered at each end. She raced to the nearest red one, snapped it free from the clip on the wall. Lugging the heavy metal cylinder in her arms, she hurried back to the fire, her eyes on the instructions printed on the side.
Pull out the pin. Direct the nozzle, not to the flame, but to the burning material. Press the lever. She went through each step, panic ringing in her ears. A jet of foam spurted out from the nozzle. As she attacked the fire, her lungs filled with acrid smoke. Her breathing grew wheezy. Damn. Her asthma. The smoke was triggering an attack.
Damn, damn, damn. She doubled over in a coughing fit, carefully holding the fire extinguisher to direct the spray away from her. She mustn’t inhale the foam that was now coating the burning containers in a thick layer. She had been warned that some chemicals might make her airways swell up, badly enough to choke her to death.
In the ceiling, a bell burst into a shrill ring. Fire alarm. The plume of smoke must have triggered it. She should have thought of the alarm first, smashed the glass, pressed the button, that’s how the drill went, didn’t it? Raise the alarm first, and then tackle the fire, but only if one could do it without endangering personal safety.
The smoke stung her eyes, burned in her lungs. She concentrated on controlling her rapid breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Her vision dimmed. Her knees threatened to buckle under her.
Running footsteps. Shouts. Strong arms seized her from behind.
“Let go. It’s empty.” The fire extinguisher was knocked from her hands.
“I need to…” Each word hurt her throat, like barbed wire.
“Here. I’ve got your medication.” Nick let go of her and held the inhaler out to her. She crumpled to the floor. His movements were rough and urgent as he wrenched the cap off the inhaler and pressed the nozzle to her lips. “Breathe. Come on, Crimson, breathe.”
Grabbing the tiny device, she flapped his hands aside, exhaled, long and deep, emptying her lungs first. Then she inhaled, at the same time pressing the button to deliver a premeasured dose of medication. The panicky, choking sensation began to ease.
“You fool,” Nick muttered as he picked her up and carried her out, shouldering open the back door that gave out to a small patio. He propped her to sit in a sturdy teak chair at a garden table. “What should I do?” he asked, a notch of concern between his dark brows. “Should I push your head between your knees? Loosen your clothing? Give you mouth to mouth? Get you a glass of water?”
“Leave me in peace and put out the fire,” she croaked.
“Don’t be stupid. I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re all right.”
“I’m okay.” She leaned forward in the chair to ease the pressure in her chest. “Really, I’m just shaken. It’s the panic of not being able to breathe, more than the actual lack of air. I’ll just have to sit here for a while, and keep taking my medication.” She glanced up at him and tried to offer him a smile, to prove she was recovering. “It’s better to leave one or two minutes between doses.”
Nick waited, hovering beside her, until she was ready for the next puff from her inhaler. She gave the little canister a shake. It seemed fuller than she remembered—and she always checked, making sure to avoid running out. She sat up straight again and arched her spine to inflate her lungs. Nick’s hands rested on her shoulders, steadying her. She tipped her head back, exhaled, and administered the medication on the next long breath.
“Thanks,” she said. “Did you get the inhaler from my office?”
He eased her forward again, one hand curled around her arm, the other hand flat between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently, delivering warmth. “No. I saw a couple of spares around the house this morning and slipped one in my pocket. It’s small enough to carry around, and I had noticed that you keep yours in a desk drawer. With the factory, there are hazards for air quality—dust from polishing metal, fumes from testing the engines. I thought it might be easier to keep one in my pocket instead of rushing back to your office if you ever were caught without one.”
“I’ve never had a severe attack before.”
“Tomorrow, you’ll take the day off and see the doctor.”
She straightened, took another puff of medication, and felt strong enough to lift her hand in a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain Constantine.”
Nick gave her a wry smile. “Will you be okay, if I go inside and help Hank?”
Only now did she look back into the factory. Through the floor to ceiling windows, she could see that Hank had finished putting out the flames. He had switched on the ceiling lights—apart from two broken sections, the fluorescent strips appeared to be working as normal—and was now spraying the undamaged cars from the silver fire extinguisher.
She spoke without taking her eyes off him. “What do the different colors on the cylinders mean? Hank is using the silver one. I used the red. Did I use the wrong one?”
“You used the correct one. Foam. Powder can be more effective on some fires, but foam is easier to direct, and to clean up afterwards. The black cylinders are for oil fires, and the silver one is just water. Hank is cooling the paintwork on the cars, to prevent the surface from bubbling in the heat.”
Shoulders rigid, Nick stared at the destruction through the window. “Someone has a lot of explaining to do. The paints and solvents should have been put away in a secure cabinet for the night. It’s a health and safety breach to leave flammable materials out like that.”
When Crimson insisted that she was fine on her own, Nick returned inside to join Hank. She watched, huddled in the chair, the night cool and fresh around her, as the two men searched among the debris. Heads bent together, they paused to confer, holding up a twisted length of metal with a cone shape topping one end.
It looked like a desk lamp, anglepoise type.
A shudder ran over Crimson.
What was a desk lamp doing in the factory?
****
Nick drove through the midnight streets, the headlamps of the Panther cutting yellow shafts through the darkness. It had rained all day, a steady drizzle that had only stopped a couple of hours ago. Once or twice, when they passed beneath a tree, droplets fell onto them in the open car.
Beside him, Crimson remained pale, with a blue tinge on her lips, but her breathing had calmed back to normal. “I was going to mention that I took the inhaler,” he told her. “It might be a good idea to keep one in the glove compartment of the car, too.”
“Fine. I’ll get a few more spares.”
He flicked her a glance. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She huddled in the seat, cradling her big canvas tote in her lap, arms clasped around it, as if guarding a treasure. They’d gone back to her office to collect her things. She had insisted on taking, not only her laptop, but also some of the old advertising brochures.
“Do you think you were a bit hard on that security guard?” she asked him.
The agency guard in blue uniform had finally strolled up after the fire had reduced to nothing but blackened walls and a million dollars’ worth of damaged cars. Short and muscular, in his late twenties, he looked like one of those obsessive body building types who spent every spare moment pumping iron. Shifty hazel eyes. Puffed up face. Pockmarked skin that hinted at steroid abuse.
The guard had been belligerent in his claim that he had fulfilled his duties.
Rightly or wrongly, Nick had lost his cool and had given the man an earful.
He shot Crimson another look. “You think I went too far?”
“You had him shaking in his boots.”
“I didn’t like him. There was something…” Unable to pinpoint the cause of his dislike of the security guard, Nick finally said, “...something not quite right about him.”
“He’s supposed to do a round every hour,” Crimson pointed out. “There’s no evidence that he was negligent. It’s possible the fire broke out after he had done his first round.”
“Or it’s possible that he was chatting to his girlfriend, or calling his bookmaker, or taking a nap, or surfing porn sites on his smart phone,” Nick said and exhaled a sigh. Perhaps the guard really had acted with due care, and he was just trying to find someone to blame.
“You’re right,” he said after a pause. “I was just letting off steam. I’ll call the agency and apologize. I’ll save my anger for the jerk who left those paints out.”
After they turned off the main road, a gust of wind stirred the tall oaks and sycamores that lined the gravel drive, scattering water over them. “Sorry,” he said, and wriggled his shoulders as a few droplets slipped inside his shirt collar to run down his back. “I should have raised the top. The Panther is really a fair weather vehicle.”
Crimson made no reply, merely tipped her head back, letting the moisture collect on her skin. Nick could see that there were no lights on in the house, except for the twin lanterns that always burned on either side of the front door at night. He pulled over by the terrace steps, jumped out, and rounded the long hood to let Crimson out.
“I’ll put the car in the garage,” he told her. “Will you wait for me?”
“Sure. I’ll go in the kitchen and put some coffee on.”
As soon as Nick had dealt with the car, he pressed the button to bring the garage shutters rolling down again and went inside through the connecting door. He found the kitchen bathed in bright light. Crimson was on her feet, leaning back against the countertop, a coffee mug clutched between her hands.
He walked up to her. Now, when the surge of adrenalin had ebbed, his rational mind recognized how frightened he’d been. Not of the fire and the threat of material damage, but for Crimson. Even at this moment, a shiver ran through him as he recalled her wheezy breathing, how close she’d come to collapsing in his arms.
He halted before her, his body almost brushing hers. She cradled the bone china mug against her chest and looked up at him. Warm, brown eyes, with a flicker of fear in them. Residual fear from the danger? Or, fear of what was happening between them? She was trembling, Nick could tell, even without touching her.
Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease Page 8
