Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
KELSEY
Ispot Bruno in a leather armchair near the window of the hotel lounge, a glass of something amber in his hand. Scotch, probably. He looks like a scotch person.
He’s staring out at the lawn, all flags and tents, very knights-of-the-round-table encampment.
I’m pleased to see his cowlick is still doing its own thing. There’s that.
I go right up to him. “I don’t know whether to punch you or give you a fake kiss.” I touch the errant chunk of hair, smooth it down. It springs back immediately.
“You won’t get it to go down.”
“You’re fighting dirty. The wallpaper?” I sink into the chair next to him. “Did you go down there and take a picture of it?”
“I had one of the bellboys do it.”
A waiter comes over and I order a champagne with a cherry. “I appreciate the gesture.”
He makes a sound that could be roughly translated as no big.
But it was big. Not so much the dresses, but the feeling of having someone in my corner. And also, yeah, the dresses. The waiter brings my drink, and I fish out the cherry and pop it in my mouth.
Bruno is watching me now. That focused attention that makes me feel like a watch movement he’s trying to understand.
I’m slowly getting that this is maybe his superpower—he watches, and he catalogues, and then he sends someone to find dresses that are champagne bubbles and wallpaper and things I mentioned once in passing.
Also, he figures out just how you want to be kissed.
Maybe that’s why he’s a good kisser. He’s a highly deliberate person. Devastatingly deliberate. Too bad he’s an emotionally shut-down kazillionaire recluse who would be a nightmare to date and who would never date somebody like me anyway.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
“I guess now you think I’m going to wear one of them, don’t you?”
“Are you?”
I gaze out at the wedding-ready lawn and the sparkling ocean beyond. The answer here is a resounding fuck yes, I’m going to wear one.
“We’ll see,” I say.
“It wasn’t just for you,” he says. “I do have my own charade to run. Someone took pictures and they’ll probably take more.”
Is he just saying that? Appealing to my practical side? I hold up my glass. “Well. There happens to be one that’s all champagne bubbles and scattered stars that I could definitely see myself in. But I want to lodge a formal complaint that you are the worst.”
“Noted.”
“And also thank you.”
His eyes crinkle minutely. I can’t tell if it’s the light or a super suppressed smile. His face is just so arresting when it’s on the move. “You’re welcome.”
“Weddings,” I say. “Right?”
We sit in companionable silence. He’s looking out the window with that gaze of concentration, like he’s having thoughts. Is he thinking about the kiss? But why? The kiss was just a chess move to him.
“What?” I ask.
“The misunderstanding with your family,” he says. “You never told me what it was.”
I take a sip. The bubbles tickle my nose.
I wasn’t planning on telling him, but for some reason, I want to. It’s a little bit because he feels like an ally. And a little bit because I want him to know I’m not a piece of shit.
And suddenly I’m launching into it.
“My great-great-grandmother was a dancer,” I begin.
“Naomi Winters. She performed in some of the most famous theaters in Europe, and she had this tiara—rubies set in silver, absolutely stunning. Very valuable, not the piece itself, but the rubies. She wore it during a legendary performance of Giselle at the Paris Opera House. It’s been in our family ever since. ”
Bruno is watching me with that quiet intensity. He’s not raising his eyebrow, but the eyebrows are definitely uneven, and I think it means he’s listening hard.
“A few years ago, I was putting together this dance recital. A big one—my own choreography, original music, the whole thing. And I wanted to wear the tiara. To feel connected to her. Like I was part of this lineage of dancers.” I laugh a little. “Stupid, maybe.”
I leave a pause for him to say it wasn’t stupid. He doesn’t. Just keeps listening.
“My mom let me borrow it. A lot of my family came in for it. The recital was one of the best nights of my life. Afterward we had this party, and I took the tiara off and hid it somewhere I thought was safe.” I swallow. “It was stolen.”
“From the party?”
“Yeah. And then a few weeks later, the empty setting—just the silver, no rubies—turned up at a pawn shop near my apartment.”
Bruno’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharpens in his eyes.
“A witness claimed that someone matching my description had been asking about selling antique jewelry in the area. Dark hair, purple streak.” I touch my hair reflexively.
“And right around that time, a patron donated a significant amount for our new studio space, and my family saw the deposit and thought...”
“They thought you sold the rubies.”
“It’s so outrageous. As if I’d ever do that.
That tiara wasn’t just jewelry to me; it was her legacy, something I absolutely cherish.
” My voice wavers. “I should’ve figured out a better place to put it, I know that.
The theft is a hundred percent on me, and I’ll always feel horrible about it.
But to think I would tear it apart for the money...
” I shake my head. “When I realized they thought it was me, that I had faked the theft, so I could keep the tiara and sell the rubies… I can’t tell you how devastating it was.
I’ve always been the black sheep of the family—you’ve probably figured that out—but I never questioned the idea that they knew who I was.
I was like, this is me. You know me. But it was like suddenly I was a stranger. ”
Bruno lowers his gaze to his glass, pondering. He’s an amazing listener and I find myself wondering what part of watchmaking is listening.
“It was like one minute I was inside by the warm, cozy fire and the next I’m locked outside, standing in a blizzard. And I was so ashamed. Ashamed for what they thought about me. Ashamed that I was careless with something irreplaceable.”
“It doesn’t sound like you were careless. You found a place to tuck it away. You thought it was safe.”
“But it wasn’t safe, was it?” I pull apart the cherry stem.
“When I wouldn’t cop to the crime, they cut me off.
Just kicked me out of the family. They blocked me on all communication.
Even Granny Ernie. Well, I’m pretty sure somebody blocked me on her devices.
” I don’t say it was probably Mom. It hurts to think it, and I don’t want to name her and make it true but who else?
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I didn’t tell my friends for a long time.
That first Christmas, I let everyone think I was going somewhere, but I stayed in my apartment working on a dance routine.
I thought it would be cleared up, and I just didn’t want people to know.
My friends know now and they always make sure I have somewhere to go for holidays, but it’s not the same.
Of course, I refused to give up. I’m sure you’re not surprised by that. ”
His lip quirks. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I sent Christmas cards and birthday cards. Some of them were returned unopened. That didn’t stop me.
I sent messages about little milestones.
You can’t block the mail. I just kept the door open.
And it paid off. Danielle reached out this past January to ask me to help her address invitations.
And to obviously come to the wedding.” I smile.
“It was an amazing feeling. Danielle had come over to my side. I was being invited back in. I think they had mulled it over and maybe realized I wouldn’t ever do anything like that. ”
“So they didn’t find any specific evidence to show you’re innocent?”
“No. They must have just realized, God, Kelsey would never! They’re choosing to believe me. That’s what my sister said. Well after all, I’m family.”
“Choose to believe you,” he says.
“It sounds bad when you say it. I’ll admit, I would have wished for something more whole-hearted, but—”
“Have you ever considered hiring a private investigator?”
I blink. “What?”
“An investigator. To find the real culprit.”
“But they believe I didn’t do it now. I mean, they seem to. They invited me here.”
“But what if you could give them solid evidence that it wasn’t you?”
“They’ve let me back. They’ve as much as admitted their error.
It feels weird and aggressive to launch some investigation.
And even if there’s lingering doubt, which maybe there is, I’m handling it.
If I need a private investigator to make my family true-blue believe I’m not a thief, I’ve already lost.” I meet his eyes.
“Wouldn’t you rather have people know your heart than accept you based on facts in a file? ”
“I’d prefer neither.”
I gust out a laugh. “So full of shit.”
Something flickers across his face. He looks away, back toward the harbor.
“I have the truth on my side. I always felt like my family members would look inside themselves and realize deep down who I truly am. They know I’m chaotic and impulsive and sometimes I lose label makers and forget to return candy thermometers, but they know I’d never do a thing like this.
And they’re letting me back in. It shows that when you hang in there and stay in connection with each other, that is the win.
Not some random PI who they may or may not believe. ”
“But what about the lingering doubts?”
“I’m sure there are some, but you know what?
I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep being me.
And they’ll see.” I set down my glass. “We’re family, Bruno.
The truth always comes out; not because someone hires a detective, but because connection heals things.
Staying in there with people and keeping the door open, that’s what works. ”
“That’s rather idealistic.”
“Well, I am idealistic, and I will live and die by that sword.”
He looks troubled, somehow.
And then I catch sight of a couple of cousins crossing the lobby, all dressed up. “Shit. We have to get ready.”
“We have nearly an hour. All I need is five minutes.”
“Dudes,” I say, mock disgusted. I get up and head to the elevators.