Chapter 2—Simon #3
I continue into my office and set my briefcase beside the desk. Misty follows with my coffee and tablet a minute later, which means she has work to discuss, questions she intends to disguise as work, or both.
She puts the coffee safely away from the paperwork before setting the tablet in front of me. “Your nine o’clock moved to ten-thirty. Legal sent the revised Hollis documents, Singapore wants fifteen minutes before lunch, and I found Christa Meade.”
I close the tablet I just opened and look at her. “I didn’t ask you to find Christa Meade.”
“Noah said you wanted to know what she does.” Misty takes the chair opposite my desk and crosses one leg over the other. “I decided to save you from pretending you didn’t.”
“Noah needs a hobby.”
“He has three children.” She gives me a patient look.
“A quieter hobby.”
Misty ignores the suggestion and reaches across the desk for my tablet. A few taps bring up a website. “Christa owns Kaffey Conservation.”
I keep my expression neutral while taking the tablet back. “How good is she?”
Misty’s smile widens enough to tell me neutrality has failed. “Professionally?”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she echoes with insulting innocence, then gestures toward the screen. “She’s very good. Museum work, private collections, several major estates. Furniture, decorative arts, some architectural interiors. She did conservation work for the Wexler Museum’s Beaumont collection last year.”
“Eleanor mentioned that.” I scroll through the short list of institutional clients.
Misty settles farther into the chair. “Then you’re halfway through my research already.”
I look up. “I still don’t know why you’re telling me any of this.”
She snickers. “Sure you don’t. A hint. Grandma Torkelson’s escritoire.”
I stop scrolling.
My maternal grandmother’s escritoire is in the library at home.
It’s been there since she died seven years ago, and before that, it sat in the morning room of her house for as long as I can remember.
I used to do homework at the little table beside it while Grandma wrote letters, paid bills, or pretended not to notice when I stole the peppermints she kept in the second drawer.
The escritoire does need work. Three different conservators have told me. One identified lifting veneer along the fall front. Another was concerned about the finish. The third wanted to take it to his studio for six months.
I declined all three.
When I look up again, Misty has the expression of someone waiting for an especially slow student to reach the answer. “That’s manipulative.”
“Thank you.” She accepts the accusation with a pleased little nod.
“I don’t think that was a compliment.”
“I chose to hear one.” Misty reaches forward and turns the tablet enough to see Christa’s profile again.
“You have an antique that actually needs conservation. Christa Meade conserves antiques. For once in your life, I’m giving you a socially acceptable excuse to do exactly what you already want to do. ”
I narrow my eyes. “Which is?”
“Meet her.” Misty says it without hesitation, then points toward the professional photograph on the screen. “You refused Eleanor’s introduction because Christa is married. Very noble. Also inconvenient, because now you’ve spent the entire weekend thinking about a woman you’ve never spoken to.”
I shake my head. “Noah exaggerated.”
“He said you forgot how doors work.”
“I paused at one.”
“He described it as paralysis.” Her mouth twitches, but she mercifully doesn’t pursue that particular humiliation. “The point is, you don’t need to chase her around a ballroom. You can hire her to assess something she is exceptionally qualified to assess.”
I look back at the profile. Christa is wearing work clothes instead of an evening gown, her hair pulled back and safety glasses resting on top of her head. One hand rests on the edge of a carved cabinet while she smiles toward someone outside the frame.
The attraction is immediate again. At least I no longer need an MRI. “She’s married,” I remind Misty.
“I know.” Her humor fades just enough to show she understands why I’m saying it. “I’m not suggesting rose petals and a hotel suite. You’re hiring her to look at your grandmother’s furniture. You can want to know her without behaving like an asshole.”
I lean back in my chair and study her. “That’s your professional recommendation?”
“My professional recommendation is that you stop pretending you haven’t already decided.
” She gestures toward the tablet again. “My personal recommendation is that I get to enjoy this because I’ve spent years watching Charla attempt to climb you like a tree while you behave as though she carries an airborne pathogen. ”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “That’s an unpleasant image.”
“It’s been unpleasant to watch.” Misty crosses her arms, still smiling. “Then Noah calls Friday night and says you’ve apparently developed a sudden, life-altering passion for Cholera. Imagine my disappointment when he explained there are two of them.”
“My relief was considerably greater.”
She chuckles. “He mentioned that too.”
“Of course he did.” I look toward the windows and picture Grandma’s escritoire in the library. “Three people have already assessed it.”
Misty’s eyebrows rise. “Three people you refused to hire.”
“I had legitimate concerns.”
“I’m certain you did.” The amusement in her voice suggests the opposite.
“The first wanted to strip the finish.”
Her expression changes immediately. “Okay. That sounds bad even to me.”
“The second wanted to replace some of the veneer because it would be cheaper than conserving what was there.”
Misty winces. She knows enough about my attachment to the piece to understand why that ended the conversation. “The third?”
“Wanted to take it to his studio for six months.” I rub my thumb along the edge of the tablet. “I don’t want it moved unless it has to be.”