Chapter 54
Lucy
Dirk and I fall into an easy rhythm of visits.
Sometimes we’ll share a simple dinner at his place or mine, or walk together to a local restaurant.
He never says “no” to a walk and talk, and we chat non-stop about all the years we missed, between our first meeting and our engagement, about our children’s milestones and the world events we saw from our own corners of the everyday world.
Always, Dirk makes me welcome with his smiles, or a touch on my arm or wrist.
I would almost be content, but every day is bittersweet. I’m still packing. I really don’t want to move away.
One night, I remember the teaspoons under the window seat. I sit up, heart galloping. They remind me that someone else lived here before I did. Maybe the original owner had more than one Brighton Court apartment. I can barely wait for morning.
Next day, when I drop in on Mrs B, she has just baked a date loaf. She sits me at her bright kitchen counter and hands me a slice, warm and dripping with butter.
“I love my lamps, Lucy,” she says as she pours me a coffee. “You sure know how to decorate. Really brightens up the orange around here. I’ve been telling everyone about you.”
“So glad you like them.”
“I’d leave them on all day if I didn’t have to pay the power bill. First time in my life I’ve longed for night-time, that’s for sure.”
I smile and munch and sip as she chats about her friends, and then I hold up a hand.
“Oh, am I prattling?”
“Mrs B, I just want to know who owns these apartments. I was thinking that even if I missed out on buying my apartment, if I could approach an owner directly, I might be able to buy another one, especially as my alimony will come through soon.”
“Ooh. Yes. Good thinking, Lucy. Let me think... Well, we know who’s in the penthouse, don’t we?” Her special smile makes me blush, and she pats my hand.
“In your place, an older lady lived there for a very long time before you moved in. I might be wrong, but I thought she was related to Professor No. Helga? Hedda? Kept to herself. She was friendly enough, but very formal. Very proper, always beautifully dressed; old fashioned.”
Should I tell her about the spoons? Telling Mrs B about anything might be a bit like broadcasting. Soon everyone would know.
“We saw less and less of her over the years, and then the movers arrived. She had beautiful furniture. Very old fashioned, like something out of a museum, just like Professor No’s furniture – that’s what made me think they might even be related – not that I ever asked – and next thing I knew, the place came up for rent, and you moved in.
“Say, when are you going to finish fixing up our garden, Lucy? Still planning on a pizza oven? Great idea. Take my word for it. Don’t you ask Professor No. Just do it.”
I go to the realty company, but the receptionist tells me there are privacy laws and she can’t give out any information. Then I remember who might be able to find out. I call Hilary.
“Sure, Ms Beston. I’ll do some searches for you.”
I tackle the garden with renewed enthusiasm.
The exercise warms me up through the last of winter.
It’s easier to see the form of the original garden with so many plants dormant, and wet days make the weeds easier to pull out.
Dirk helps me trim back some of the taller plants.
It’s another way of being with him and I love it.
Late next day, my phone lights up.
“Hilary?”
“Lucy. Good. Sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d want to know.
I’ve had a call from the seller’s agent.
Another apartment in your building is coming up for sale, and they’re open to offers.
They say this one’s in worse condition than yours, but it’s on the same floor, on the south side, so you’ll get winter sun. Can I make an offer for you?”
“Yes. Please. Oh, Hilary! Start with my original offer, but then, you know how far I can go. Well no. Not that far. It was unrealistic. I really want to give my diamonds to Phoebe, and not have to sell them. Try my original offer and then add up to twelve thousand max. Fourteen thousand. Make it sixteen. No more. Please. Quickly. I’m so excited! ”
I barely sleep awaiting Hilary’s response.
Next morning, there’s a knock on my door. It’s Amaryllis, with rare spots of color on her cheeks.
“Sorry about all the boxes,” I say.
“Lucy, can you come down?” she says. “Professor Raynor wants to see you.”
I smooth my hands over my outfit – jeans and a soft old sweatshirt, smeared with glue gun stains. My elderly neighbor is a formal man. Even when I garden I look better than this.
“Don’t worry, Lucy. His mind might be twenty twenty but his eyesight is ... Just come. Now.” She strums at the air as if it’s her harp, hurrying me up.
I snatch my keys on the way out. At the foot of the stairs, she raps on his old door and it creaks as he opens it. He stares at us, then steps back, allowing us in.
He shuffles into a formal room. It’s dark in here, with heavy drapes across the windows, bookshelves – smells like old books – an ornate dining table, French polished, stacked at one end with documents, and eight ornate dining chairs lined in velvet around it, their seats slumped with age and wear.
My fingers itch to re-web and reupholster them. There’ll be horsehair inside, for sure.
Our host gestures at the seats with a papery hand, and Amaryllis and I sit.
Amaryllis keeps lacing and unlacing her fingers, sitting straight as the teacher’s pet. Her smile is close-lipped but insistent.
“Ms Beston,” says Professor Raynor, formal as ever.
“Yes, sir,” I say, astonished he should address me correctly. I thought older people resisted the “Ms” tag, even though it’s official. Perhaps “correct” is more important to him than “preferred.”
“It has come to my attention that you wished to buy the apartment you were renting.”
“Yes! Yes. I did! I do! That is, there’s another one for sale. I’ve made an offer.”
“Ms Beston, I do not wish it to be widely known, so I’d appreciate your confidentiality.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Media folk are not known for their discretion,” he says.
“That was decades ago. My former husband is still on air, but we are divorced, which is why I want to buy ...”
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Amaryllis assures me you are of good character.”
I glance at Amaryllis.
“As I say,” he says, “it is not widely known that my late sister and I inherited Brighton Court from our father, a most industrious shipbuilder whose services were paramount during World War II.”
I nod.
“My sister, Hildegarde, did not marry. She owned the penultimate floor of Brighton Court, all eight apartments, including the one you rent – she always felt she should have inherited half of the building; never let me forget it; but all that’s in the past. When she died, those apartments came to me.
“I am a simple man. I live frugally, as you can see, especially now that I am largely incapacitated. I had always planned to live at the top of Brighton Court, Ms Beston, to enjoy those views, but it is too late now. I can no longer climb stairs safely.
“I have sold several apartments over the decades to meet my living expenses. I sold the penthouse recently, and then your apartment. I was going to sell another in six months, but given Amaryllis’s pleas on your behalf, and given that I was formally contacted by the real estate office about your buyer’s agent’s approach, and given what I have seen of your character – including your sensitive improvements to the garden – I am willing to sell you another, provided, of course, I receive the usual assurances and documentation from your representative, and provided we can complete the transaction within seven days.
I understand the tenant is moving out of Number Forty Five.
This is on the southern side. It is an unimproved apartment, not dissimilar to your own, but with an older bathroom and kitchen.
And I am willing to sell it to you for slightly less than I received for Number Forty Nine, due to its .
.. tired ... condition. Work will be needed. ”
I stand. I float. I do. My eyes snap from his eyes – almost hidden behind thick glasses, to those of Amaryllis, also bespectacled. Are they related? Is this real?
“Sir. I ... of course. I ... How can I thank you? I ...”
He holds up a hand to silence me. Mr No is definitely not a hugger.
“It is to my benefit to have good neighbors, Ms Beston. This is a selfish act on my own part.”
“No. You need to know how grateful I am.”
If I lurch at him and hug him I might break his bones. The deal may be off.
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” I say.” You need to know I’ll forever be grateful. You can’t know what this means to me – Amaryllis, Professor.”
Tears blur my vision. Gratitude wells up as if it will engulf me and float me, high above the table. I reach out to Amaryllis, ready to gush, but she grabs my hand and pulls me to the door.
“Seven days, Lucy,” she says. “And it’s almost Christmas. You have calls to make. Keep your eye on the prize.”