“You’re my hero.”
“Shall we breakfast outside?”
She nodded. She had her robe on and the morning looked fresh and inviting. They sat and watched the leaves of the treetops in the square shift through shades of green as the sun strengthened. It was oddly intimate to sit in silence above the city. Her family bridged gaps with words, but she and Nick…their weeks apart dissolved in the silence.
Anticipation bubbled up in her. First, he had to work, presenting the garden to the camera. He’d want to walk through it alone, discovering how it had grown and changed. She’d sent pictures, but they weren’t the same. Later, work done, they could be together.
Lanie stood. “Time I got dressed.”
“Need a hand?”
She laughed, bent and kissed him. Somehow, she found herself on his lap, his hand inside her robe, and her breath and common sense both gone.
“Morning.” The shouted greeting came from Marshall, across the roof.
Lanie yelped and scrambled off Nick’s lap. Distance and a potted lilac in between meant he couldn’t have seen exactly what they were doing, but he would have seen enough to guess.
“Morning, Marshall,” Nick shouted back cheerfully and silently laughed up at Lanie.
She blushed and retreated inside, but she wasn’t so much embarrassed as disappointed to be interrupted. Happiness added a sparkle to the morning and she flicked on the radio, adding a blast of music. She had the perfect outfit planned for the day, the sort of dress a woman in the 1950s would have worn on a date to the seaside. The navy frock had a boat neck and square front pockets, both edged in white, and she tied a jaunty red scarf around her throat. Flat sandals and her hair in a high ponytail completed the look. She checked her make-up, kissing her lips at her reflection and liking the exact match between her cherry red scarf and lipstick.
When she returned, Nelson had arrived, and he and Nick were deep in discussion. Nick broke off to wolf-whistle at her. It seemed his tearing spirits matched hers.
She blew him a kiss and sashayed towards them.
“Are you sure you won’t let us film you?” Nelson asked.
Nick frowned at his friend.
But Lanie smiled. The panic she’d felt when it was first suggested during the garden’s development had gone. “No.” She smiled brilliantly. “I’m going down to the museum, so if the others ring the bell when they arrive, I’ll let them in.” The others being the rest of the film crew. Nick and Nelson could climb the outside staircase, but that wasn’t feasible for those lugging cameras, and sound and lighting equipment.
“We’ll come down with you,” Nick said.
“In a few minutes,” Nelson amended, pacing over to the shaded gazebo, waving his arms and calculating angles.
Lanie wanted everything perfect for Mrs. Smith’s arrival.
Today was a double celebration. When Rupa had heard that Mrs. Smith would visit the museum, she’d redoubled her efforts and her room was ready to be flung open to visitors. Mrs. Smith and Rupa’s family would be among the first. Other volunteers had taken time off work or re-organized their schedules so that they could also be there. As a group, they’d taken the roof garden and television program to their hearts, and exhibited a proprietary interest in both.
Mrs. Smith wasn’t arriving till midday, but from early morning, a party atmosphere developed.
The volunteers turned up carrying picnic baskets. “We thought we’d enjoy the roof garden. They can’t film it all day.” That was what they said, but judging by the number of volunteers wearing Edwardian dress, they hoped to be part of the filming.
Lanie left Nelson to cope.
She had her own catering concerns in the kitchen. She plugged in an urn to supply boiling water for endless cups of tea and instant coffee, and set out the fruitcake and cupcakes she’d baked. She’d also cheated and bought shortbread in a tin. She arranged them on the kitchen table, near the vase of daisies. Visitors as well as volunteers and the TV crew would help themselves. She’d taken that into account.
The museum was alive and bustling. She walked through it, chatting with everyone and giving Rupa a reassuring hug. “Your room is perfect.”
Rupa allowed herself a small, tight smile, but went back to polishing a brass incense holder in the shape of an island with three coconut palm trees.
Lanie sympathized with her pre-performance nerves. Until the curtain went up and her room stood revealed, Rupa couldn’t relax. There was a kind of thrill to that sensation, and Lanie left her to enjoy it.
She glanced up, imagining the filming on the roof.
Nick never seemed to show those nerves. Performing for the camera didn’t bother him. But then, she’d seen some of the footage. The camera accentuated his authority, professionalism and sheer masculine power. It wasn’t the camera that bothered Nick. His downfall would be adoring fans. The camera allowed distance. Real life didn’t.
She checked her watch. Still two hours till Mrs. Smith’s arrival. “Coffee. I need more coffee. And cake.”
In the kitchen, she laughed. There’d been an addition to the table. She recognized Velma’s writing on a card taped beside the cakes.
“Beware. You are probably allergic to something in these cakes.”
Lanie hadn’t even considered the risk of an allergic reaction. Some people might find the note rude, but with so many people allergic to nuts, gluten, dairy and so on, at least this covered the museum. She got out a pen and added a smiley cupcake face to the note. Job done.
She made her coffee and wandered out to the miniscule kitchen yard. The iron mesh door of the outside staircase was propped open, and she sat on the third from the bottom step and took a five minute break. Odd to sit in a cramped, gray square and know yourself to be happy, but she was.
Voices floated to her, from the street and the museum, and Nelson’s bossy tones drifted down from the roof in scraps of sound.
Mrs. Smith arrived at five minutes past midday, the chauffeur of her hired car superbly ignoring the traffic and double-parking while Mrs. Smith alighted. She needed a hand with that since she’d also brought treats. The chauffeur passed Lanie a substantial cardboard cake box before helping Mrs. Smith out.
Today’s outfit was white pedal-pushers and a bright pink blouse with parrot earrings dangling.
Colin swooped in in his role as volunteer butler and took the cake box from Lanie. “If Madam allows?”
“Madam does.” Lanie turned to offer Mrs. Smith assistance, but another volunteer beat her to it.
Russell flourished a bowler hat, returned it to his head and led Mrs. Smith up the short path to the door.
All the volunteers adored Mrs. Smith, and she adored them right back. Her entrance was a triumphal progress to the elevator as she greeted people, remembering names and interests, and was in turn treated like the special lady she was.
The elevator’s small size meant that it only held Mrs. Smith and Lanie. Everyone else rushed up the main stairs. The roof garden was the ultimate goal, but first they had to view Rupa’s room.
Rupa stood waiting as the elevator doors opened.
Her family clustered behind her, enthusiastic and faintly awkward. This was to be the grand opening of the room.
“Let’s see it, then” Mrs. Smith said.
The jumble of people in the corridor parted and she walked through, beside Rupa.
Rupa opened the door. “I call it the Raj Room, but for visitors it can be Great-Aunt Winnie’s Room.” Rupa was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Her voice was faster than normal, too, when she spoke. But she had reason for her obvious pride. The room was wonderful.
Who would have guessed that Rupa, with her drab clothes, harbored such a love for color? Bold colors nestled side by side, but didn’t clash. It was a jumble of memory, an idea of what an old lady might have treasured of her time in India, but more than that, it was a story of that era that worked for Rupa. It celebrated the small joys of life amid those harsh times.
A small inlaid writing desk fit perfectly between the two windows with their recycled sari curtains, and above it, shelves held old books, including many of Rudyard Kipling’s tales. Kim lay on the desk, itself. An armchair occupied the corner to the left with a lamp beside it. A basket of wool was tucked behind it, just showing the beginning of something knitted in orange and brown. The iron bedstead was covered in an Indian bedspread and a watercolor of an Indian village hung on the wall behind it. Pen and ink sketches and an array of framed sepia photos filled the remaining wall space.
Opposite was the massive oak wardrobe and off to the side of it stood an open steamer trunk. A yellowing muslin gown was carefully folded as if it lay on top of a full trunk of clothing. Instead, below it were cushions and the gown itself was a reproduction, neither Rupa nor Lanie wanting to crease a real antique dress. But the impression was of an over-flowing trunk. And when one peered close, a turquoise and pink sari looked as if it had fallen forgotten to the floor just behind the trunk.
Other quirky touches took a moment to register; like the snarling tiger doorstop and the antique tin of cough drops on the bedside table, as well as the Moghul patterned floor rug in crimson and azure blue.
“My dear, it’s exquisite.” Mrs. Smith patted Rupa’s hand.
Rupa blushed as a wave of enthusiastic agreement engulfed her. The volunteers had respected Rupa’s desire to surprise them all, not peeping in while she worked on it, and now the room’s transformation stunned them. They wandered, bumping into one another, fingering the exhibits and asking questions about where Rupa had found the various objects.
Mrs. Smith shuffled carefully out of the room, leaving Rupa as the star of the show. She winked at Lanie. The Horry Museum had worked its magic, again.
It wasn’t just the Raj Room that was transformed. Rupa had grown in confidence and ambition.
Her family recognized it, too, and beamed with pride.
The museum made it obvious, but all homes told stories. The objects they held, the style of their decoration, the way they smelled—sandalwood incense drifted from the Raj Room—all told a story. Like hermit crabs decorating their shells, the stories people told of who they were and where they belonged re-framed their pasts to create their futures.
“I’m longing to see the roof garden,” Mrs. Smith confided.
She and Lanie snuck into the elevator and travelled up.
Nelson greeted them as the doors opened. “Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Smith.” He helped her out of the elevator. “I know you want to explore the garden, and Nick wants to meet you, but can you give us ten minutes? We’ve got about five minutes to film—if Nick gets it this take—and then, we’ll break.”
“We’ll wait in the flat,” Lanie said, smiling across at Nick, who smiled back.
“Thanks.” Nelson blocked the elevator doors so that it couldn’t be recalled down and enable yet more visitors to swarm up.
Mrs. Smith sat on the sofa where she could look out the window at the television crew. Lanie had closed the door so they could talk quietly without affecting the filming. “So, that’s Nick.”
His chambray shirt was rolled to the elbows and worn above dark olive chinos. He looked tanned and fit, a gardener and an adventurer.
“Yummy,” Mrs. Smith proclaimed.
Lanie giggled.
They didn’t have long to admire Nick’s perfection at a distance.
Filming ended, and he crossed to the flat. He opened its door while Nelson stooped and released the elevator doors. Both men then escorted Mrs. Smith on a tour of the garden. They were only just in time.
Volunteers arrived, puffing, up the outside staircase. “The elevator got stuck.”
“Seems to be working, now,” Nelson said as Rupa and Velma arrived in it.
Both carried picnic baskets.
People spread out over the newly finished platform by the street front wall, over the bench seats and the white wicker furniture brought up from the attics, and on cushions set wherever they pleased. Ophelia, the cameraperson, wandered among them, filming. Those in Edwardian gear self-consciously straightened their spines and smiled wider. Actually, everyone became more animated.
A sense of dancing anticipation swirled invisibly, as if dreams might come true; even those dreams you hadn’t thought of dreaming.
Lanie stood close to Nick, aware that everyone noted their body language of intimacy, and not caring. She was among friends.
Nelson slanted them a glinting, envious look, smiled ruefully and undertook host duties. “Mrs. Smith, we thought you might be willing to be filmed speaking with Nick just outside the gazebo this afternoon. The angle of the sun will be ideal in about an hour.”
Lanie brushed a hand over spires of lavender.
“The keynote of an Edwardian garden is charm,” Nick said.
She looked around, but the camera wasn’t tracking them.
“The garden suits you.”
A beautiful compliment. She smiled at him and saw the blaze of answering passion in him. “Tonight.”
“I’m not flying anywhere for two weeks.” It was a vow.
Mrs. Smith turned from her study of the gazebo and watched them. Her smile was warm, approving and a hint wistful.
Lanie didn’t need the reminder of how lucky she was. She’d pushed aside all doubts and dark moments. The sun shone, Nick was with her, and time alone together beckoned. She laced her fingers with his, and rejoiced at how instantly he accommodated the whimsical gesture. She smiled at Mrs. Smith.
“So the roof garden and filming have lifted spirits?” Mrs. Smith refrained from gloating, but there was a hint of glee in her question as they waited in the hall for her hired car to arrive. The old lady was tired but happy. As their last hoorah, Mrs. Smith had cut the cake she’d brought while Ophelia filmed the moment.
The cake was a masterpiece in itself. Shaped like a compressed Georgian house, and evidently meant to portray the Horry Museum, it had a green roof with candy flowers on it.
“The roof garden was an inspired idea,” Lanie said. “I’m glad you insisted on it.”
“It’s done you the world of good.” Mrs. Smith touched Lanie’s face. But she wasn’t a woman comfortable with sentimental gestures and she turned briskly to look out the door. “There’s the car.” She rose from the telephone chair. When she was safely in the double-parked car, she had one final piece of wisdom. “Hold onto your happiness, Lanie. Fight for it.”
Lanie shivered as the car pulled smoothly into the stream of traffic, releasing the bottleneck it had caused.
Clouds covered the sun. That explained the suddenly gray day and the cold wind. She hurried back inside, into the warmth.
The film crew and volunteers had descended from the roof or from wherever they’d been busy. Velma emerged from the kitchen. Undoubtedly, she’d cleaned up the chaos there.
“Thank you,” Lanie called to her over the crowd.
A wave acknowledged and dismissed her thanks before an ear-splitting whistle halted everything.
“Ow,” Russell said. He’d been standing next to Nelson.
Nelson ignored the complaint and raised his voice. “You’ve all been brilliant. We only have one more shoot to do here, an end of summer, Harvest Festival kind of thing, in a couple of months. So to say thank you for putting up with work on the roof garden and filming it, we’d like to take you all out for a Friday evening drink.”
Lanie glanced at Nick.
He looked back, poker-faced, which told her this was his idea.
As much as she wanted time alone with him, it was a good idea. Everyone deserved to be appreciated and she could never do enough for the volunteers, essential as they were to the museum’s running. “Thanks.”
“Great. Let me just change my kit.” Colin started stripping off his butler’s jacket.
“I should go home,” Rupa began. Her family had gone hours ago, back to work and wherever.
A chorus of “no’s” caused her to flush.
La
nie crossed over to her. “Why don’t you phone your husband and explain? You can invite him to join us.”
“Please, do,” Nick said.
“All right.” Rupa sounded awed at her own courage. She got out her phone.
They burst out of the museum in a flood-tide of humanity, drawing startled looks from passers-by.
Lanie had forgotten that a few had elected to remain in their Edwardian costumes, or else hadn’t thought ahead like Colin, and lacked a change of clothes.
People stared, smiled, and hurried on.
The pub had windows open and tables out, daring the increasingly gray skies to ruin the start of the weekend. The big group from the museum broke naturally into smaller conversational groupings. People shifted, milled about and reformed until they settled into companionable discussions. Lanie let the movement and conversation drift around her, content to sit on a stool with Nick standing near her. Near enough that everyone saw them as a couple.
Nick drank his beer in the expensive pub over-run with tourists and business types, and tried to calculate how long he had to wait before extracting Lanie. She was distractingly close. He wished they were at Simon’s rooftop bar where there’d be no comment if he sat and pulled her onto his lap. Better yet, they needed to be alone.
He thought of the narrow bed in her flat. It would do, but he’d booked a better room at the hotel with Lanie in mind. And if he kept thinking of seducing her there, he’d be in trouble. He grimaced and tried to concentrate on the conversation.
Nelson’s instincts had been right on the button to push for this project. The museum would be a highlight of the television program. There was something about the Horry Museum that added magic. The volunteers deserved this evening, and so did the small film crew. But for him, as always when Lanie was near, she was his focus. Even when he spoke with Rupa’s husband about the national debt or flirted gently and improbably with Velma, every nerve in his body was alert to Lanie’s slightest movement.
She’d become the center of his world, the pivot of it.
He’d recognized it while boarding the plane in Mexico. He hadn’t been flying to his next project, to London or to his office in Dubai. He’d been flying to Lanie.
Sky Garden Page 18
