Chapter 5 #3
for dinner. Somehow she’d find a way to help without offending Sylvia’s pride. “An anonymous donation?” she mused aloud, reading
the labeled containers her personal chef had arranged so neatly. Sylvia’s bank could trace a wire transfer, and a grant from
the National Endowment for the Humanities would be difficult to fake. She couldn’t just anonymously overnight a crate of cash
to Elm Creek Manor. Sylvia would consider it her duty to turn it over to the authorities.
She had just decided on a mushroom and asparagus risotto when the phone rang. Leaving the container on the counter, she glanced
at the caller ID and picked up eagerly when she saw that it was Nigel. “Hello, Nigel, dearest,” she greeted him pertly. “Just
waking up? Or just getting home?”
“I’ve been up for hours, darling. I swam, had a lovely long phone chat with Alistair, and sat for an interview with GQ. Do you believe you were robbed last night?”
“What?” The non sequitur threw her for a moment, and she had to think. “No, I kept my purse with me the entire time and it
was definitely on my dresser this morning when I woke. Not that I would have lost much. I wasn’t carrying anything in my purse
but a lipstick, some breath mints, a pen, and an index card with some bullet points for an entirely unnecessary acceptance
speech.”
“Not robbed of your purse, darling. Robbed of an Emmy.”
“No, of course not. I already have five and I’m not greedy. Why do you ask?”
“Because a certain nominee claimed that he was robbed because his show didn’t win the prize for Outstanding Reality Competition Program. ‘Outstanding Reality Program’—do
you suppose that’s an intentional oxymoron?”
“My, aren’t you snobbish this evening,” Julia remarked, smiling as she pulled up a kitchen stool and settled in for a long, enjoyable chat.
“I happen to know that you disdain reality television as much as I do.”
“Fair enough, but I’ve watched a few episodes of The Amazing Race, and it’s not bad. It’s probably the best of the genre.”
“Faint praise indeed.”
“I don’t mean it to be,” Julia protested, laughing. “I rather enjoy the show—the spectacular scenery of all those faraway
locales, the interesting tidbits of world cultures. It certainly isn’t how I’d like to travel, racing around and completing challenges rather than savoring every moment, but as entertainment, it works.
It deserved to win the Emmy last night.” She paused as a memory rose. “Charles never liked the idea of pitting artists against
one another for prizes. He used to say that the work itself was the reward.”
“Charles could say such things. He had two Oscars.” Nigel sighed. “Well, one must endeavor to be a good sport. What are your
plans for the evening?”
“I don’t really have any. It looks like I’ll have a quiet evening at home.”
“I have a better idea. Come with me to Napa.”
“Now? That’s nearly a seven-hour drive!”
“Santa Barbara, then. Dinner at Tre Lune. The food is excellent and they never recognize us. We can dine like ordinary people.”
“They always recognize us, Nigel,” Julia said, amused. “They just don’t make a fuss.”
“Then you have no reason to refuse. Do say yes,” he implored. “I’m bored and lonely. Don’t make me eat takeaway at my kitchen
counter, alone and pathetic.”
“When you put it that way . . .” Julia glanced at the container of risotto gathering condensation on the counter. “What sort
of friend would I be if I didn’t help you escape such a dreadful fate?”
“I’ll come by for you in fifteen minutes.”
Then she was already late. “See you soon.” She hung up and raced off to get ready.
Soon they were driving up the coast, taking Highway 1 to the 101 and on to Santa Barbara, gossiping and bantering all the
way. Arriving just as the sun was setting, they had a brief wait at the bar, but soon were seated at a white-draped table
for two, perusing menus and sighing with anticipation as delectable aromas from the kitchen wafted their way. Black-and-white
photographs of stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood adorned the walls, but otherwise the ambiance was of a classic Italian
bistro, reminding Julia fondly of her travels in Tuscany with Charles. As Nigel studied the wine list, vowing to limit himself
to a single glass, Julia’s gaze lingered on a still of Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart from Sabrina, regarding each other warily as they danced. With a sudden, wistful ache, she wondered if anything she had ever accomplished
in her career would merit including her photo on the wall in such company. Probably not, she decided, and returned her attention
to the menu.
Julia was savoring a decadent dish of rigatoni ai tre funghi, Nigel the penne al ragù di cinghiale, when she finally broached the question that had been bothering her since the previous evening. “Where was your favorite
plus-one last night?” she asked lightly, sipping her acqua frizzante. “If memory serves, you said he was coming in for the ceremony.”
“He meant to have done.” Nigel offered a melancholy smile and reached for his wineglass. “At the last minute, UNESCO asked
him to join a team tasked with identifying and recovering antiquities looted from the Iraq Museum in Baghdad.”
Startled, Julia set down her water glass, nearly toppling it. “Alistair is in Baghdad?”
Nigel allowed a small smile. “The museum is in Baghdad. Alistair is in Switzerland, where some of the artifacts have been shipped to black-market buyers—allegedly. That’s what he’s meant to determine.
From there, he expects to be sent on to Jordan or Paris, but he definitely won’t be going to Iraq. ”
“I’m glad he’s safe,” said Julia, relieved. “This assignment sounds terribly important, but I’m sorry he had to cancel his
visit with you.”
“Fortunately, I didn’t win the Emmy, so he didn’t miss my heartbreakingly beautiful acceptance speech.”
Julia reached across the table and clasped his hand. “But he missed seeing you. And I know you miss him terribly.”
“Hence my desperate, last-minute invitation to dinner, which you so kindly accepted. I wanted to wallow in self-pity, and
for that, I require a sympathetic audience.”
“You don’t wallow.”
“Perhaps ‘indulging’ is a better word for it.” He sighed. “To be honest, I could use a distraction. Alistair meant to spend
a fortnight here with me before we returned to London together. Now our plans are scrapped and our reunion has been postponed
indefinitely.”
“I’m so sorry,” Julia said. “How about this—I know I’m a poor substitute for Alistair, but I’m free this weekend. Why don’t
we drive up to Napa after all? We can tour some wineries, visit a spa, go hiking among the redwoods—”
“Thank you, darling,” he said, placing his hand over hers, “but it was a bad idea and I never should have asked you. I wouldn’t
be a very pleasant travel companion. I fear I’d only make you as miserable as I am myself.”
“I’m willing to risk it.” When he shook his head and reached for his wineglass again, she changed tack. “At least come for
dinner at my place Thursday night. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t do the cooking. We’ll watch the new episode of Patchwork and congratulate each other for our brilliant performances.”
He mulled it over. “That sounds rather nice, actually.”
“Then it’s a date,” she declared, before he could talk himself out of it.
The mood was more hopeful as they finished the meal.
Nigel’s promised single glass of wine turned into two, followed by limoncello in a chilled cordial glass, so Julia drove Nigel’s Jaguar back to her place.
She settled him into her guest room, brushing off his apologies and smiling at his vows of eternal devotion.
He was snoring before she switched off the light and softly closed the door.
As she went to her own suite and got ready for bed, her mind churned over the impending demise of her series, Elm Creek Quilts
in jeopardy, and dear Nigel’s profound loneliness. If unhappy tidings came in threes, perhaps that meant she had passed through
the worst and the days to come would bring only good things. One could only hope.
She climbed into bed, drew up the soft quilt, and had almost dozed off when insight struck with such force that she gasped,
suddenly wide awake.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Yes, that’s it. That’s the answer.”
The pieces had been just beyond her fingertips all evening, but now she held them tightly in her grasp, and she knew precisely
how to stitch them together.
She knew exactly what to do to help Nigel, Elm Creek Quilts, and herself.