CHAPTER SIX
Seven o’clock on aThursday night and Lucy was sitting in her car. She studied the solar lights lining the path to Niall’s workshop, a silent guide to his man cave. This was a surprise visit. At least he’d be surprised, because when she’d left on Monday afternoon, she’d said she’d see him in a week.
She had her story prepared. A last-minute decision to attend another auction, and she needed his advice. Although her churning stomach told her a landlord should have made an appointment. The auction was only a partial truth. She wanted to sit at the table in Niall’s workshop and share a meal and listen to him talk. He had a beautiful mouth, from a simply objective viewpoint—generous, sensuous, with a hint of humour. But his lovely lilt soothed, even as his words raised hard truths.
Lucy had known her grandpa was lonely, that no one and nothing could replace the time shared with his wife. She and he had joked that because of Gran’s religion, he and Gran would be together again. She hadn’t known he’d shared so much of himself with Niall Quinn.
I’ve brought dinner, Lucy texted, then waited.
The door opened, fast enough for her nerves to settle, slowly enough for him to have time to hide what he was working on. And what business is it of yours! Inwardly, Lucy rolled her eyes.
“Hello, Lucy.” He stood in the doorway, a hand braced on the opposite jamb.
The emotional connection between Niall and her grandpa bound Lucy to Niall in a more personal way than the creation of the foundation or her plea for him to restore furniture. A friend? She had few enough of those—and none of them male—to be drawn to Niall’s workshop like birds drawn to nectar.
“I need some advice, and I thought you might not have eaten yet.” Lucy spilled her game plan on a single breath.
“A break works.” He gave a half bow to gesture her in.
The music was softer, soaring strings, and the contrast to the music he’d played on Monday revealed a complexity of character Lucy would have dismissed bare weeks ago. She strolled toward the kitchenette, aware of a largish object shrouded in drop cloths pushed to one side. Her fingers itched to flick back the coverings and see what he’d been working on.
“You were working?” Lucy glanced pointedly toward the covered item.
“Yeah,” he said. He leaned toward the carry bag she’d hoisted onto the bench. “Smells good.”
Lucy inhaled his blend of sandalwood, citrus, and man, and had to agree. “Tomato and caper pasta. Hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” He set the plates in front of her. “I can offer you water, tea or a beer.”
“Maybe tea later.” She served the hot food, grabbed a bag full of sliced baguette rolls and headed for the table. “A cross between a picnic and fine dining.”
“Thanks. I was going to nuke a frozen meal later.” He followed with cutlery and some serviettes. “What’s the favour?”
“Let’s eat first.” About to sit, Lucy stopped at the table and reconsidered. “If you pull it out, I can sit with my back to the window.”
He hooked a foot around a sturdy leg, tugged it out, set down the cutlery he was carrying, and moved the chairs. All without a word. Regret for her impulsive suggestion followed when he sat with his back to the room, his broad shoulders blocking any view, and his focus entirely on Lucy.
“What did you do today, Lucy?”
“Stock-taking,” she admitted.
“What does that involve?” He spooned up another mouthful of pasta. “I can see why pasta’s your speciality.”
His casual compliment and his recollection of their earlier conversation were why she was here. He listened to her. “Hiding in a storeroom and checking items off a list. No brain power required at all.”
“How many times did you have to start over?”
Lucy choked, then laughed, then savoured the individuality of his welcome. “At least six.”
“Name three wooden pieces and describe them.” He asked questions, she answered and dinner disappeared. “I’ll make the tea.” He stood and carried the empty plates back to the bench.
“I brought tiramisu for dessert.”
“And you kept that a secret until now?” He made a smacking sound with his lips. “The tea can wait. Tell me the favour first. I’m open to bribes, but I have my principles.”
She collected her laptop and opened the screen. “There’s another auction coming up. I’ve got the catalogue and wanted to ask what you thought about a few pieces. This takes less of your time than attending the preview.”
“That’s thoughtful of you,” he said. Did Niall think she was selfish? With his hips against the kitchen bench, his arms folded and his ankles crossed, he looked relaxed rather than wary. “Tiramisu is a big deal for a half-hour of my time.”
“Can we talk about the foundation?” Lucy had buried that plan so deep in her subconscious she’d surprised herself.
“So, the tiramisu is booby-trapped.”
“I didn’t come here to ask you about the foundation.” Lucy resented the defensiveness in her voice. “Although, Henry did call this morning. And we do need to talk. Surely this is easier for you than getting you to visit Henry with me?”
“More thoughtfulness?” He was teasing her.
“I can be thoughtful.” She felt the heat rising up her throat when he grinned. “Stop being such a pain in the ... whisht.”
He laughed aloud. “I’ll have to remember that insult next time I’m pissed off. Serve the dessert, and I’ll answer your questions.”
“What makes you think I have questions?”
“Do you?” He collected clean bowls and spoons.
“Yes.” Lucy lifted the cooler bag onto the table.
“You have questions because cabinetmaking isn’t your area of expertise, and you want to understand it.” He was letting her off the hook. “I’ll let you serve. Let’s sort the auction out first.”
Twenty minutes later, Lucy had chosen a dining set with eight chairs for the shop. They’d agreed she’d bid on a pair of late-nineteenth-century mahogany library bookcases, one of which needed restoration work. “Only if the price is right,” she insisted.
“Any more tiramisu?” He eyed her cooler bag.
“Unfortunately, no.” She upended it to prove in this, at least, she was telling the truth. “Next time, I’ll buy the eight-person serving size instead of the four.”
“Four people on starvation diets.” He licked his spoon, and a little sizzle slid down her spine. “I’ll make the tea.” He sauntered toward the kitchenette.
He had a great butt, a delicious body but that, repeat that, was not why she’d come. He was as comfortable making tea as hefting a hunk of marble and looked good doing whatever task he turned his hand to. Lucy inhaled, absorbing the complex smell of his workspace. Linseed and wood shavings with notes she couldn’t identify. Unlike McTavish’s habitual scent of beeswax and oriental lilies, the workshop offered a kind of olfactory comfort for her loss.
“What about the foundation?” He set the teapot between them, returning to the kitchenette for cups and milk.
“There’s an organisation that manages scholarships for families and companies. Henry thinks I should hand it over to them because of my workload.” He’d said Lucy lacked the skills as well as time to take it on.
“I’m guessing you set Henry straight.”
“Grandpa would have wanted me to be hands-on.” Saying the words aloud solidified her decision.
“What’s that involve?” He poured two cups of tea, doctored hers as Lucy liked and passed it to her. He did thoughtful on a regular basis, which was both irritating and endearing. Irritating because she wasn’t as kind as she’d like to be. Endearing because kindness was baked into his character.
“The simplest way is establishing a not-for-profit organisation.” Lucy organised her points in a logical order. “There are general requirements for tax purposes, like the use of funds purely for the scholarship and disbursements if we close it down.”
“I’m a simple guy. It’s getting late.” He angled his chair away from the table, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. “Words of one syllable will work for me.”
“We can’t pay ourselves unless we have legitimate expenses related to the scholarship, and if we dissolve the foundation, any monies remaining should go to some like-minded venture.”
“Makes sense. So what do you want to discuss with me?”
“Tell me what you have to do to become a cabinetmaker.” Family pride demanded Lucy take an active role in the selection process, but she’d waded through pages on the internet and hadn’t found answers.
“A lot, but not all, cabinetmakers in Australia do apprenticeships. A kid can be apprenticed, usually for four years, to an individual employer. Alternatively, he or she can work for an organisation, which acts as a sort of brokerage firm—farming out apprentices to different employers for shorter or longer periods of time.” He perched his teacup on his chest, motionless. He didn’t often stop moving.
“That’s a three-way deal, isn’t it? Employer, apprentice and the training organisation.” Lucy had a basic understanding of the Australian apprenticeship system.
“Yeah, and if a kid’s apprenticed, then they’re getting a wage and have a day job.”
“Wouldn’t an employer want to keep them after they’ve finished, especially if they’re exceptional?” She was looking for exceptional in the foundation’s first mentee.
“Not always. Some employers only keep family members, others might take the pick of the crop, and some feel a responsibility to give a young graduate a few years’ experience before they cut them loose.”
“You said not all cabinetmakers do apprenticeships?” The lack of a clear answer from her research was starting to make more sense.
“Some people are self-taught. Some start in another field, like engineering or design, and gravitate to working with wood.”
“Did you do an apprenticeship?” A basic fact she couldn’t decipher in the general blurb on his website.
“Yeah, in Newcastle, where my parents lived. Mum still lives there. After four years with the one boss, I had a fair idea of their design style and timbers. I wanted something different.”
“How different?” Her grandpa would have known every step of this journey. Another secret Grandpa had kept to encourage Lucy’s ignorance of the real Niall Quinn.
“I went on the road, visited different cabinetmakers around Australia, did stints as an unpaid intern with cabinetmakers I admired, a few stints in the warehouses of auction houses, spent some time salvaging wood.”
“Spent some time studying art history.” Lucy recalled their conversation about the clever frame on Raphael’s painting of Duke Lorenzo.
“Sydney University. Same as you. I’m betting you got your degree before training in valuation, sales and management.” He flashed her a smile, reached out a long arm and topped up his cup. “Help yourself.”
“Why did you go to Ireland? More wandering?” she asked. A wanderer didn’t sound like a reliable person to base a foundation around. Maybe his debts were the result of years of wanderlust and low-paying, casual jobs. It wasn’t her role to question his lifestyle. It was a reminder they had different dreams.
“I won an internship with a master craftsman,” he said. “You said Cam left instructions.”
“Grandpa provided the statement of purpose, duration of the scholarship, said recruitment was open—age and gender not relevant—and left some eligibility criteria.” All neatly penned in his own hand. The will was an official document, whereas Grandpa’s instructions for the foundation were personal and all the more precious.
“I’m guessing he requested, rather than specified, qualifications?” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “A portfolio of their work, how they got here, what their goals are—maybe what their dreams are?”
“He stipulated the contract was for two years on full pay.”
“That’s part of the legal contract I assume you and Henry are getting ready for the foundation. You should build in a cooling-off period.”
“What about your cooling-off period?” Waiting until his existing agreement expired to hear his answer created a different kind of chaos for Lucy. “Have you made a decision?”
“The not-for-profit can be set up with no mention of me.” He pushed himself upright, the relaxed pussy cat of the past fifteen minutes reverting to an alert king of the jungle.
“The arrangement for the workshop needs a contract. Five years at least.” She studied him. He’d just detailed a history as a wanderer, and he’d spent several years in Ireland. Five years was a long time to stay in one place.
“I got the memo, Lucy.” His voice was low and lethal. “But we’re still in the negotiating phase.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Lucy drained her tea, unsettled by the shift from two people who loved and missed Cam chatting about cabinetmaking to two people stepping edgily around default provisions.
“Then your negotiating skills need work,” he said mildly. “You can sort out the not-for-profit and start advertising for the scholarship.”
“Will you make yourself available to select the scholarship holder?” She cursed herself the second she asked the pompous question.
“I said I would.”
“And what!” She sent him an exasperated look. “Your word is your bond.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.” He was a maverick. Her grandpa would have admired his independent streak, maybe lamented a bit that his own wandering had stopped in Sydney with the birth of Lucy’s mother. “Your sideboard’s sitting over there because of it.”
She made a strategic retreat because he was right. “The selection process will take time. What sort of short-list are we looking for?”
“No more than six, maybe less, depending on who applies. We’ll want to see actual examples of their work. Ask for a demonstration of their skills.” He was committing to hours more work connected to McTavish business.
“One year served at McTavish’s and undertaking courses in art history and conservation, and the second with you.” She was beginning to see the enormity of what Grandpa and she were asking of him. It wasn’t the easy ride she’d assumed. “We need to name the mentor.”
“I haven’t agreed yet.” His face was a mask. Did he really doubt his ability as a teacher? He had the patience for it.
“I need certainty.” Another untamed legacy from her childhood.
Niall closed his eyes. Was she pushing too hard? Whatever emotion he’d wanted to hide had faded when he opened them. No smile, but his answer was clear enough. “Soon.”
“I’ll see you Monday.”
Monday was the other side of three nights Lucy would spend rattling around at home alone. Climbing into her cold car, she worked out Niall had never once closed his door to her.
––––––––
“Can you open the loadingdock for me, please?” Lucy was still dithering about which of the bowls and jugs she’d use for the washstand. She couldn’t delay much longer. Although calling in uninvited tonight was a yearning rather than a plan.
Gran’s birthday, and she couldn’t bear to be alone on the first major family anniversary since Grandpa’s death.
Her real plan had been a night wrestling with the contents of the basement, until she was too tired to think, then she’d found herself driving to Niall’s for the fourth time in two weeks. She’d stopped at the end of the street to call him, the muted music coming down the line tonight sounded like hard rock. She phoned again when she reached the back gates.
“That was quick. What are you bringing in?” he asked above the music. Listening to Meatloaf belting out “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad,” followed by the bang of a door closing and the echo of footsteps confirmed he was walking the length of the cement-floored loading bay.
“Two wash bowls and jugs.” Lucy didn’t admit she’d been able to see his lights when she’d made the first call. Now she watched the roller doors rise and spotted his figure near the control panel. The gates opened to allow her entry to the yard. She swung the van around and backed in.
“McTavish’s Antiques.” He opened the driver’s door to let her out. Another small act of kindness, making her feel welcome when he must be itching to get to whatever he did on Friday nights. “Gran’s jug deserves only the best transport?” he queried.
“I’ll be collecting some new pieces in the morning.” Lucy inhaled a bit deeper than necessary, filling her lungs with his increasingly familiar blend of citrus soap and sandalwood. The combination was insidiously reassuring and ... addictive. “I’ll go straight from home tomorrow, so thought I’d use it tonight.”
“Let’s get them unloaded then.” He waited for her to unlock the back of the van.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Lucy blurted, her fingers tangling in her gran’s pearls. “I mean, tonight? You sounded distracted when I called.”
“Communing with my muse.” The defeat in his voice puzzled Lucy.
What or who did Niall Quinn use as inspiration?
The frames for Leopold’s next exhibition had been boxed up ready to go on Monday. He never talked about his own pieces, and the absence of any uploads to his website since they’d met meant she never asked. Whatever his debt was, paying it seemed all-consuming. She understood the compulsion.
“I’m your landlord, yet you never remind me I should make an appointment to visit.” Would his muse have to make an appointment? Lucy’s spurt of envy for the unknown woman he shared his creative secrets with rattled her. Pull yourself together, Lucy.
“You called.” He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “And I’m currently working for you.”
“I’m not here to check what you do in your own time.” She stamped her foot, exasperated by her neediness and his rock-solid composure.
He grinned. “You’re a bit too ready with foot stamping and raising your knee.”
Lucy stepped closer, the urge to shock him overwhelming good sense and good manners. She’d come for his company. And to forget it was her gran’s birthday, and that Lucy was the last of her family.
Sex was a kind of oblivion, and to see friendly, consensual sex as wrong was a repudiation of her mum that Lucy didn’t have the hypocrisy to stomach. His gaze held steady while she lifted her knee. He stilled, maybe braced a little, but didn’t step back. She slid her knee up the outside of his thigh, enjoying the slide of silk stocking over thick denim, the contrast creating a fizz in her bloodstream. He wrapped a large, calloused hand under the back of her thigh. When he tugged her closer, his blunt fingers scored gentle brands through the flimsy fabric to her skin.
“You’d best call a halt soon, Liùsaidh, or this might not end as you planned.” His growl was incendiary, and he smelled like sin.
“You don’t know what I’ve planned,” Lucy purred, leaning into his chest.
“A quick tumble with the carpenter?” His second hand settled on her hip, splayed so she felt the imprint of each finger and his thumb through her skirt. His strength made her shiver in anticipation—a taste of possession. “If that’s your plan, be prepared to stay all night.”
“Is that an invitation?” Heat rose up her throat at his readiness to call her bluff.
“It’s a warning. Just because you’re twisted in knots about whether or not to use your gran’s things, you shouldn’t play with fire.” His finger traced the figure eight at the back of her knee—her lucky number.
Lucy slid her leg out of his loosened grasp and stepped back, unsettled to find a quick tumble had lost its appeal. He wasn’t a stud for hire to blot out pain and memories for a few hours. “You’re a pain in the arse, Quinn.”
“So I’ve been told. But you must be spooked to be using a word like arse.”
“You and your ‘fecks’ are a bad example,” she muttered, her stomach doing a deep dive. He was right. Cursing proved to both of them that she was flustered. She smoothed down her sweater. Toning down her expletives after her mum’s death was her act of service to spare her gran’s blushes.
Lucy had hooked up with men before. But if she and Niall went to bed, she wanted it to be because they liked as well as fancied each other, not a snatch-and-grab because she was afraid to be alone. And where the hell had that thought come from!
She never allowed herself to care too much for the men she bedded. Not because of her mum’s experience, but because she wasn’t built for permanence and happy families. She’d forgotten for a while with Doug, a banker who’d stumbled into McTavish’s one day looking for an investment and decided she was it. Never again.
“I’ve packed both sets.” Lucy opened the van doors and pointed at two boxes, strapped in to prevent them from rolling in the otherwise empty van. “We can sit them in the storeroom and consider our options.”
Without a word, he climbed in, released the straps and pushed one toward her. “I’ll bring the second.”
“Have you got the keys for Grandpa’s locker with you?” She stopped outside the storage door.
“You wanted to come via the loading bay.” He shifted the large box labelled fragile to one arm and shoved his free hand in his pocket. Unlocking the door, he flicked on a light switch. “After you.”
“We don’t have to discuss this tonight—”
“Praise the saints,” he said to the rafters.
“—but I thought if we lived with both sets for a while, we’d have made a decision by the time the sideboard is finished.” She’d just left herself without an excuse to stay.
“The sideboard won’t be finished for two weeks at least.” He locked the doors behind them. “Time for a cup of tea?”
Lucy glanced surreptitiously at her watch. “Maybe I could take you out for a drink? It’s after seven. I thought you’d be finished for the day.”
“I’m a bit behind on a commitment. I was planning to work tonight.”
She made herself smile, a skill she’d developed at her mother’s knee, an all-purpose squeezing of the facial muscles that covered “It doesn’t matter that you forgot my birthday,” or “my class play” or “my sports carnival.” “You don’t have to be kind.” She looked everywhere but at him. “Someone’s probably expecting you.”
“No one’s expecting me, Liùsaidh. I said I planned to work. That’s the truth, but I can take a break.”
“Please. Not on my account.” Her arms prickled with goose bumps, his practical compassion tangible enough for her to reach out and touch.
“Don’t go coy on me now. It doesn’t suit you,” he growled. “Will a beer do? Or I might have some red wine somewhere.”
“A beer’ll be fine.” Relief filtered through her system.
“Drive your van out and park by the house. I’ll lock up here and meet you at my door.”