A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  In the end, Lucy provided minimal load but maximum navigational support. Three trips, one scuffed doorjamb, and two hours later, they flopped into her two armchairs and faced her bookcases. One entire shelf remained empty.

  “I need more books.”

  “Not today.” James groaned.

  “Not today, but soon. I’m going to visit that secondhand bookstore in Hyde Park, the one where you found that old Catcher in the Rye.”

  “I’ll go with you . . . Next weekend.”

  “Fine.” She drew the word out with as much drama as her sore muscles allowed.

  “Borrow some from your gallery. Or get them at auctions. You always say you know how to get the best prices.”

  Lucy considered a moment. “No . . . Not those. Not here.” She recognized the oddity of her comment. “Besides, I’m not trying to collect books, per se. I like copies I can read and fold and wrestle around with. The ones at the shop are too delicate to really dig into.”

  James stared at her. “I’ve never heard anyone talk about books like you do. It’s like they’re your friends.”

  “Aren’t they yours?”

  James raised his eyebrow.

  Lucy laughed. “Don’t even. They’re as much your friends as they are mine. I don’t mean it in some strange or creepy antisocial way. I mean that reading forms your opinions, your worldview, especially childhood reading, and anything that does that has an impact. So call them friends, call some stories enemies if you want, but don’t deny their influence.” She popped up straight. “You learn drama from the Brontës; sense from Austen; social justice from Dickens; beauty from Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron; patience and perseverance from Gaskell; and don’t even get me started on exercising your imagination with Carroll, Doyle, Wells, Wilde, Stoker—”

  “Fine,” James cut in, mimicking her tone.

  “But you’ve got a point . . .” Lucy slouched back into the chair and studied the cases as if they held the answer to a long-held secret. “For me, they’re also a connection to my dad, my only connection, and I have taken that, I suspect, a little too seriously.”

  “Have you ever thought of searching for him?” Lucy sat still for such a long time that James reached over and squeezed her arm. “Sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t be . . . My friends were bugging me about that the other night. And every year the postmark on the Birthday Book gives me a clue. So every year, yes, I know the town in which he lives and I could probably find him. You can find anything on the Internet. But I haven’t. That’s what I was thinking about, and that’s what I can’t answer. Why haven’t I?”

  “Don’t know, but don’t blame yourself either. One, you’re the kid and, as the parent, I kinda think the ball’s in his court. And two, he clearly knows where you are because you get the books every year. It’s like a string he tugs annually, and something about that makes me suspicious. You get all twitchy when I say it, but people don’t change.”

  “While I disagree—again—those points do smack me every year, but still . . . I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and it’d be good, don’t you think? Answer some questions . . .”

  “I suppose it would. Do you have any?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Lucy peered over. “Well, not you. You don’t have questions because your family is all there, all whole and transparent. No mixed messages, bad examples, and crooked roads.”

  “Ha! Shows what you know. My family is completely opaque with massive expectations and very little true conversation. We raise passive aggressive to an art form.”

  “Still . . . It feels like a wave is building. I need to find him.”

  “Come on.” James stood and reached for her hand. “Enough of this. You’re going down your rabbit hole and that means it’s time to eat.” He pulled her up and pushed her to the door. “Let’s grab sandwiches at Snarf’s and go for a walk.”

  “Do I get you for the whole day?” Lucy let herself be pushed.

  “I’m all yours.”

  Monday morning found Lucy’s thoughts dwelling once more—this time on the entire weekend. Saturday’s lunch had turned into a walk; the walk into a romp around the zoo; the zoo into dinner at a tiny Thai restaurant; and the day ended with a movie back at James’s place because, despite the loss of an armchair and two bookcases, he still owned more furniture—specifically, a couch and a television. And Saturday wasn’t the end. Sunday involved brunch with his parents and a flurry of texts and phone calls all afternoon while he worked and she sat reading in her new leather chair. Altogether . . . a perfect weekend.

  Not quite. Lucy’s thoughts shifted to the tidal white noise. Thoughts of her father continued to churn in the background—and refused to retreat.

  “I’m thinking not a good daydream. You’re scrunching your nose.”

  Lucy glanced up to find Sid standing with one hand held high as if he’d snapped his fingers.

  He chuckled and strode toward the back room, calling over his shoulder, “You’re going to need to share that one.”

  Lucy stood and followed him. “I need a surprise for James. He’s in the running for top associate and, after a year of hard work, a book or a dinner out doesn’t seem fitting. And he’s done a lot for me lately.”

  “Explain.” Sid laid down the fabric books and leaned against his worktable, ready to dive into her problem.

  “He gave me furniture, Sid. It was incredible. He just showed up at my apartment Saturday morning with his favorite armchair and two bookshelves.”

  Sid’s eyes widened. “Most guys don’t think beyond flowers. You might want to keep that one.”

  “Hence the need to come up with a fantastic surprise. Come on, you’re creative. Help me.”

  Sid thrummed his fingers together. “What about something from you? Not something you buy but something equally sacrificial? Make him dinner. Write him a nice letter. Start a panel project for his windows.”

  “There’s no time for drapery, but a letter?” Lucy added a touch of sarcasm to her voice. She needed better ideas, grander ideas.

  “Doesn’t everyone enjoy a heartfelt note?”

  “Your generation might.” Lucy caught herself. “That’s not true. James wrote me one and I love it.”

  “See?” Sid stabbed a finger in the air. “A good idea. Now to business. You texted me about a surprise?”

  Lucy grinned. “A big one.”

  Sid, as expected, started tapping his foot. He hated surprises and he hated to be kept waiting. She knew the text would drive him nuts, but now she let the moment linger.

  “You know I love you, but you’re being mean today.”

  “You’ll be sorry you said that.” Lucy pointed to a large crate in the workroom’s corner.

  “Noooooo.” Sid drew the word out like taffy and covered the distance in three strides. “You haven’t opened it?”

  “It’s for you. Here.” She handed him the heavy yellow DeWalt drill and watched him expertly pop at least forty screws from the top of the wooden crate in under a minute, knocking each off the drill’s magnetic hold with a flick against the crate’s top.

  “How is this possible? They were backlogged two years and I only got on the list six months ago.” Sid extracted the final screws.

  “Maybe people got fed up and backed out?” Lucy bit her lip.

  “Impossible. This shooting star has substance; it’s not going to fall.”

  Lucy helped Sid lift the crate’s lid. He dove his lean frame over the four-foot-high lip—one hunter-green-driving-loafer-clad foot flying up to maintain balance. Lucy resisted the urge to yank him steady by his belt.

  Sid shot himself upright, packing popcorn flying with him, and hoisted a large, brown-paper-wrapped object high into the air. Then, tucking it close like an infant, he stood a moment and gazed at his new baby. Lucy rushed to the worktable to clear fabric and tile samples.

  He followed in careful, measured steps. “This isn’t mere art, Lucy. This is history. A reclamation of art for the home.
Artists naturally reach for the stars and all that comes with it. But MacMillan? He’s keeping his prices purposely low to keep these treasures in homes. A liberation from museums. I haven’t seen an expression like this in home arts . . . and I don’t mean big names made available, a napkin signed by Warhol or a Rembrandt sketch. I’m talking about artists purposefully honoring the home arts . . .”

  Lucy smiled. Sid had lost his train of thought and she expected him to soon shed a tear.

  The pricking in her own eyes surprised her as Sid tore away the brown paper. The vase stood about twenty-two inches high and fifteen inches wide at its apex and it danced, danced with light and color.

  “It’s breathtaking. I’ve only ever seen one in person, in London, a couple years ago. His work is very similar to some of Chagall’s vase work, but he also infuses glass into them and I enjoy these colors and the movement more. I’ve heard he uses a ground diamond powder in some of his blues and organic pigments that no one even remembers anymore. That’s how he gets this yellow. You want to lick it, it’s so rich.” Sid held the vase above his head, turning it in his hands to view all sides in the light.

  “It’s exquisite,” Lucy rasped, stunned by the realization that the vase mirrored the complexity and beauty she’d sought when forming her drapery panels. It evoked the same emotion—that feeling when her heart moved just high enough in her chest to catch her breath.

  She looked toward the door to the gallery with a new understanding: this was what people sought when they hired Sid, spent money, decorated lavishly, and invested deeply—they hoped to own this feeling, this serenity, forever.

  Sid rested the vase on the worktable. He stepped back, never taking his eyes off his prize. “He’s purposely keeping prices low and not outsourcing anything. No minions . . . I love it, but I don’t understand it. It’s either foolish or the greatest marketing technique ever developed.” He turned back to the crate. “How many are in there? I ordered three.”

  “All three.”

  Sid’s eyes watered anew.

  Lucy moved aside as Sid circled back to the crate, watching in silence as he dug out the remaining two vases. He cuddled them, unwrapped them, and adored them. Lucy found herself watching Sid more than the vases. His delight was contagious and she enjoyed making him happy. He’d trained her, coached her, and guided her with patience. He’d given her more care and stability than she’d ever experienced and more than she knew she deserved. He did the same for every client, every volunteer project. To bring him joy mattered. Perhaps he wouldn’t care how she accomplished it.

  Sid stood absorbing the vases, then paced around them, doubled back, and looped the table again.

  “Who are your lucky buyers?” Lucy asked.

  “Only the most beloved. Torrance Bergen would adore this one. She understands color—she’s such a delight. And can’t you see this one”—he touched the center vase, which boasted shots of gold through bright red—“in the Palmers’ entry? It will ignite the black lacquered walls. But this one, we keep, at least for now. Go ahead and put it atop the George III chest. There’s plenty of time to sell it, and we deserve some fun too.”

  “Perfect. It’s my favorite.” Lucy reached for the third vase and clutched it against her chest, fearing Sid’s love could evaporate if she broke it.

  He followed close on her heels. “I want to stay,” he whined. “I want to stay and bask in its beauty, but I have an appointment with Monica Dickerson. I’ll need the swatches you pulled.”

  Lucy set down the vase and positioned it so her preferred side faced out—a swirling scene of midnight blues with a hint of yellow, of hope, blurring to gold as it broke over the rim and cascaded down the side through layers of green and orange. “They’re propped against my desk.”

  She heard Sid sigh and step away, the knobbed soles of his shoes squeaking across the wood floor then squealing when they hit the cement. He returned seconds later with two sample bags and an iPad. “You’ll have to show me how to use this again.” He rested the bags at her feet.

  “First”—Lucy picked up one bag—“this blue bag has all the samples from tile and flooring to fabrics and lighting for the main level. It’s everything for that entire floor. And I’ve stapled a price sheet together too.” She dropped it beside the red and lifted that one. “Then go to this bag for the bedrooms. I clipped each room together, rather than show continuity by organizing it color-wise, as we did for the Benson home.”

  Lucy reached for the iPad. “And here . . .” She stood next to him, almost eye to eye in her four-inch heels. She tapped the screen and held it facing him. “The entire home is set up just like before.”

  “Are my sketches there too?”

  “Yes. And scroll your finger across and you can tour the rooms.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Computers are easy.” She winked. “They’re my damasks, silks, and toiles.”

  “Books are your damask, silks, and toiles. But you’re good at this stuff too, I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank Advanced Programming C-10, best college class you can take.”

  “I’ll trust you on that one.” Sid walked to the door and leaned against it. “I meant to mention it when I first walked in, but I got distracted by those.” He flicked a finger at the two vases sitting atop the worktable. “I scanned those specs and sketches you found. The sources aren’t reputable enough for us to consider purchasing.”

  “But two are Miro? And the Warhol? Didn’t Darlene Graber request a Warhol? The prices are excellent.”

  “Both sellers have questionable integrity. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “But—”

  “It takes a long time to build a reputation, Lucy, and only one faulty sale to topple it. Buying from a questionable source can ruin everything. Darlene Graber can cool her jets.”

  Lucy nodded.

  “With these MacMillans, why do we need a couple suspect Miros anyway? And Warhols are getting ubiquitous; Darlene needs more originality. We’ll kick back and warm our toes by the fire and watch the light play on those gorgeous vases, shall we?”

  Lucy raised a brow. “You warm your toes by the fire?” At Sid’s chuckle, she said, “I’ll withdraw my queries, then.”

  As Sid pushed his way out the door, arms laden, Lucy sank into her chair and opened her computer. She’d always meant to do it right. Sid deserved that. When she’d started working for him, right out of college, she’d sought reliable sources, learned the protocol, and tried to make true connections with buyers, sellers, and collectors. But it all took so long. Nothing moved as fast or as efficiently as it might, as it should, and computers brought the world to her doorstep.

  Although it wasn’t Sid’s style, she learned if she could contact a dealer in Atlanta, another in San Francisco, and yet another in Dallas, all selling the same case good or holding certain bolts of fabric on reserve, then she was fairly certain that she could convince at least one of them to drop the price, ship it for free, or pay Sid McKenna Antiques and Design a finder’s fee for bringing a client directly to them—especially if she told them a good story. Then everyone won, or so she had thought.

  As Lucy withdrew the gallery’s interest with the two dealers, her conscience pricked her again with regard to her latest literary acquisitions. The books weren’t rare or exceptional and she knew some of her own sellers were questionable. They dumped volumes on the market at irregular times and with a veil of “no questions asked.” It takes a long time to build a reputation, Lucy, and only one faulty sale to topple it. But it wasn’t her reputation at risk with each manipulation, book purchase, or fabricated inscription. It was Sid’s.

  Lucy closed her laptop and peered into the gallery—a straight line of sight to the George III chest and the MacMillan vase standing proud with its gold and yellow cascading over the side. As she stared, the hope that had glowed within the colors moments before faded into shadow.

  Chapter 5

  Spring was still moving too quickly. Lucy
found herself behind on ordering, billing, designing, filing . . . Clients wanted items yesterday, her go-to installer was overbooked, Sid’s favorite fine arts painters were out with a spring flu, and several pages of her beloved books were sticking. She was gently pulling apart Wives and Daughters with her last whisper of patience when a knock startled her. Helen Carmichael pressed her hands against the glass door, her light blonde wool coat creating a monotone beige blob from top to toe.

  Lucy laid down the book and approached the door, smoothing her skirt with the first few steps. She gestured the older woman inside. “Mrs. Carmichael? How are you?”

  “Helen, please, and I’m fine. I simply couldn’t push the door open.”

  Lucy reached to the top hinge. “This probably needs oiling again.” She shut the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to see the shop again. I wasn’t able to last time and I barely got to talk with you at dinner the other night.”

  “That was nice of James’s parents to invite me.”

  “Leslie is a wonderful hostess.” Helen looked around and raised her hand to her forehead.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “I am, but it’s warm in here.” She started to shrug off her coat. Lucy reached over to help, catching a whiff of a delicate floral, and most likely French, scent.

  Lucy pulled the heavy coat from the older woman’s shoulders to find her dressed in a pale blue cashmere sweater set and a thick wool blazer. “You have on a few layers. Do you want me to help you out of your blazer as well?”

  “I’m much better now. I’ve been so cold. Spring is late this year.”

  “April’s not for another week so there’s probably a little more winter ahead of us.”

  “Are you busy?” Helen sat in a chair as if settling in for a long chat.

  Lucy dropped into the chair beside her. “Not at all. Sid volunteers on Wednesday mornings so he’s never here and the shop doesn’t open for another half hour. I call it Book Day because it’s the morning I take care of the books and catch up on everything for that part of the business.” She spread her hands across her lap. “So you’ve caught me at my very favorite time of the week.” Helen didn’t reply so she searched for a new topic. “How do you like your Jane Eyre?”