Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
FRANKIE
T ed seems like a decent human being but it’s hard to tell through the layers of well-bred British courtesy. There are all sorts of rumors about him that not even Chiara has been able to confirm or deny. Given Chiara’s powers, it seems impossible that she doesn’t know, but Ted is her boss, and through her job at Bartons Hotel, she has access to the kind of connections she’d never make working at even the flashiest hotel in Martinburg. Chiara knows on which side her bread is buttered, as they say in Ted’s home country.
Danny asks the most frequent of the Ted FAQs. “Does Ted have a last name?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” I reply, as we shut the car doors and start to walk up.
“Because no one has before?” mutters Danny. “Or no one has lived to tell?”
“Frankie, my dear, what a lovely surprise.” Ted kisses me on both cheeks, British style. He smells incredible, and not unlike a typical Bartons cocktail, with notes of warm spice, vanilla, and citrus zest.
He holds out his hand to shake Danny’s. I watch for signs of macho grip-strength competitiveness but Danny’s being sensible. One of the Ted rumors is that he was in the British SAS, their special forces whose missions are highly classified. If that’s true, Ted may have killed people with the bare hand he’s now politely offering in greeting.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Danny,” says Ted. “I’m acting on behalf of an acquaintance who’s been plunged into straitened circumstances and is hoping for an expedited sale of all their major assets, including this vehicle.”
Being a lawyer, I’m used to unpicking sentences that on the surface sound clear and factual but in fact omit great chunks of vital information. In my mind, a James Bond scenario plays out, in which Ted’s “acquaintance” is a rebel Russian oligarch with a price on his head, who needs to raise money quickly to employ his own private army.
“Happy to help,” says Danny.
His face is alight with curiosity and eagerness to see said vehicle. He really does love his work. I hope he’s rewarded with something special. My best ever vintage clothing find was a red silk Christian Dior gown in my size! I still have it and wear it when I want to make my best Jessica Rabbit impression.
“Nice place,” I say to Ted.
“Yes,” he says, vaguely, as if he’s barely noticed that he’s standing in front of a house to rival a Vanderbilt mansion. “Quite an interesting history to it.”
Then he’s all business again. “Let me show you to the garages.”
The garages – plural – are way down behind the house, I suppose in order not to clutter up the entranceway. There are six, all with wooden doors that would not survive a ram raid, though security here, I imagine, is up to rebel Russian oligarch standards.
Ted lifts a remote from the pocket of his beautifully tailored linen trousers and opens the first garage. I can tell that Danny is holding his breath. He lets it out in a low whistle when the car is revealed. I recognize the hood ornament – it’s a Rolls Royce. An older model, a two-door, goldish colored convertible with its top folded down, and that’s where my knowledge ends.
“I realize it’s not out of the absolute top drawer for this marque,” says Ted. “And my acquaintance’s expectations for sale value are reasonable.”
Danny has snapped into professional mode and is walking around the car, peering at everything. He folds open the hood and scrutinizes the engine. Lastly, he runs his hand over the tan-colored leather seats, almost as if he’s caressing them, and looks at Ted with a huge smile on his face.
“I’ll have to sense-check my assessment,” he says. “But my strong feeling is that this could fetch close to four hundred grand.”
I practically choke. “Excuse me?”
Ted is unmoved by such numbers. “And how quickly do you think you could complete the sale?”
Danny pulls out his phone. “Let me make a few calls and I’ll let you know.”
“Splendid.” Ted turns to me. “Frankie, may I offer you some refreshment while Danny conducts business?
“Yes, please.” If it means I get to see inside the house, then I’ll agree to eat anything, even sandwiches with cucumber in them.
Alas, Ted leads me around into a delightful garden area, with low formal hedges holding back an overflowing abundance of roses and other flowers I have no hope of identifying. A path made of golden gravel takes us to a paved circle in the center, where sits a French style café table and chairs painted a pale mint green and shaded by a modern cantilevered umbrella standing nearby. Whatever is on the table is covered by a white cloth.
Being a gentleman – he literally is a British aristocrat, but no one knows what kind – Ted pulls out a chair for me, and then removes the cloth to reveal a glass jug filled with a reddish liquid and topped with fruit, and a three-tiered stand holding miniature cakes, sandwiches and scones with jam and cream. It’s so perfectly, ridiculously British that I can’t help but laugh.
Ted, being perfectly British himself, ignores my rudeness, and pours me a glass of the red stuff. Fortunately, or perhaps intentionally having been forewarned of my tastes, he uses a strainer so the fruit stays in the jug.
“Pimm’s,” he says. “I can offer you tea if you’d prefer?”
I take a cautious sip. “Thank you, no,” I reply. “This is weirdly delicious.”
“A statement that applies to most traditional British fare,” says Ted, with a smile. “Although often the word ‘weird’ alone suffices.”
Set on the table before me is a white china plate with a gold rim, a crisp white damask napkin, and a pair of tiny silver tongs. Real silver: I spot a hallmark.
“Please.”
Ted gestures for me to help myself, and I do. There’s probably a correct order to eat these dainty morsels in, but I start with the scone. Jam is one of the few acceptable uses of fruit, so I’m not forced to surreptitiously scrape it off.
After the scone, I decide it would be polite to make conversation. Difficult to know where to start when I have so many pressing questions.
I settle for, “Have you lived here long?”
Ted smiles. He has hazel eyes with more green in them than brown, unusual for someone with such white blond hair. His skin is perfect, as are his teeth. He’s either struck it lucky in the genetic lottery or he has a sizable personal grooming budget. As with everything about Ted, you’ll never find out. Even if you ask him directly.
“Not long, no,” he says.
See what I mean? That kind of evasion is … what’s that British phrase? It’s not cricket!
He must have spotted the determined glint in my eye because he swiftly changes tack. It helps that my mouth is now occupied with a miniature butterfly cake.
“How are things at the winery?” he says. “Do Nate and Shelby need any further help?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply, truthfully. “It was pretty huge for them to ask Danny and me to come and stay, but that doesn’t mean they’ll confide in us completely. Shelby’s always been an incurable optimist and Nate takes too much responsibility on his shoulders. So…”
I shrug my shoulders and take a tiny sandwich. It’s smoked salmon, which is borderline but acceptable.
“I hear they may not hold the crush celebrations this year,” Ted says. “It’s a sensible precaution, given the timing coincides so closely with Shelby’s due date. But I wonder?—”
“Whether we should hold it?” I say. “We’ve talked about it, and the major issue is that all of the Armstrong-Durant friends and family will be supporting the birth if it does coincide, and it would be strange not to have them there.”
“Sometimes community events become bigger than their founders,” he responds. “And though the presence of the Flora Valley Wines families would be missed, I wonder if the event itself would be missed more.”
I could interrogate him about why he cares so much about our little community when it seems like he’d be more at home jetting between international tax havens, but that feels churlish.
“Ava, Chiara and Jordan are the official organizing committee,” I say. “Perhaps you should talk to them.”
“Sound advice,” says Ted. “Thank you.”
There isn’t a hint of disappointment in his tone but I still feel like I’ve failed some kind of test. Maybe I should take over organizing the crush celebrations? Maybe Danny and I should do it? Even if Nate and Shelby’s baby decides to make its entrance on the day, it’s not like that’ll be our only opportunity to see our niece-slash-nephew. Maybe Danny and I should take one for the Armstrong-Durant family team and make sure our community doesn’t miss out on the highlight of their year? I have no idea how we’d break it to Ava, Chiara, and Jordan, but it’s possible they’ll be relieved. Shelby will be overjoyed. She’s determined that the crush will go ahead because it was always Dad’s big day, and she wants to be loyal to his memory. Which I fully understand; Dad was larger than life and it’s impossible to imagine a Flora Valley Wines event without sensing his presence.
While I’ve been thinking and, to be fair, eating another tiny cake, Ted has stepped away from the table to answer a call. It must be Danny because Ted’s giving instructions on how to find us. Two minutes’ later, Danny appears, a little flushed and breathless, which makes him look super cute and about fifteen years old.
“Three-ninety less ten percent sales commission, cash payment overnight and pickup within the week,” he says to Ted. “Might get more at auction, but?—”
“Excellent.” Ted shakes Danny’s hand again. “My acquaintance will be very relieved. Send me the details and consider it done.”
He gestures for Danny to take a seat. “I think a glass of champagne to celebrate, don’t you?”
“Not for me, thanks,” Danny says. “I’m driving.” He flashes me a grin. “And I haven’t found out yet whether Frankie’s a champagne drinker or not.”
I am not. I know it’s an elegant, sophisticated tipple, but to me, champagne always tastes like almond pastry. I like pastry but not when it’s tainted by almonds.
Time to take our leave. I get up and stand next to Danny.
“Thank you, Ted,” I say to him. “And I will think about what you said.”
“Will you?” Ted arches one perfect blond eyebrow. “That’s very good to hear, Frankie.”
I offer him my hand, too. A tiny part of me would like him to bend and kiss it, but sadly, he gives it a firm single shake.
“I’ll show you out,” he says. “And thank you again for agreeing to come on such short notice.”
“Our pleasure!”
I can see Danny fighting an urge to skip with joy. It’s frankly adorable.
Back in the car, Ted having waved farewell and retreated into the mansion, Danny finally gives in and lets out a whoop.
“Holy shit!” He lifts his hands off the wheel. “Look! I’m shaking!”
“Let me guess?” I say, with a smile. “Biggest sale you’ve ever made?”
“Second biggest,” he says. “I sold a Ferrari 550 for half a million a year back, but that was for an old friend of Dad’s. I never thought I’d get a chance like that again. My sweet spot has always been classics between fifty and a hundred grand. Easy to find, easy to add value, easy to sell.”
“So, who bought the Rolls? Another old friend of your dad’s?”
“Friend of a friend of a friend.” Danny’s grin is slightly sheepish but mostly gleeful. “Never made so many rapid-fire phone calls in my life.”
“And they had nearly four hundred grand in cash just lying around?”
“Well, yeah,” says Danny, like it’s not an insane amount of money to part with in one go.
“Wow,” he adds. “My commission is ten percent…”
He gazes at me, eyes wide, as the reality of that sinks in. “Frankie! I made thirty-nine-grand in one afternoon!”
Wow, indeed. My yearly salary is eighty. I’m happy for Danny, but this is a world so far removed from mine it might as well be on an alien planet.
But now’s not the time to kill Danny’s buzz. That would be churlish.
“Drinks on you at The Silver Saddle?” I smile.
“Drinks for everyone,” he says, firing up the BMW. “And curly fries all round.”