Chapter 2—Simon #4
“Then ask Christa whether it has to be.” Misty gives a small shrug as if she’s just solved an ordinary scheduling problem. “She clearly does in-home work, and her profile says she consults on pieces before transport. This isn’t even a fake excuse, Simon. It’s an excellent one.”
I look at her. “You sound disturbingly proud of yourself.”
“I am.” She leans forward and taps the screen. “She’s also selective about private residential commissions, which means you can’t assume she’ll accept just because you’re Simon Nichols.”
That interests me more than it should. “Good.”
Misty catches the answer. “Why is that good?”
“It means her reputation isn’t built on accepting every wealthy person’s damaged chair.” I scroll through another page of project information, pretending that’s the entire reason.
“That was almost convincing.” She gives me a moment before adding, “You like that she doesn’t need you.”
I don’t answer because she’s right, and Misty already enjoys this too much.
She reaches for the tablet. “I drafted an inquiry.”
I look up sharply. “You already drafted it?”
“Obviously.” Her expression says I’m the unreasonable one. “Did you think I researched the woman, found the perfect legitimate reason for you to hire her, and then planned to stop before the useful part?”
Despite myself, I laugh. “I should probably be worried about you.”
“You’ve employed me for nine years. That opportunity passed a long time ago.
” Misty opens the draft and hands me the tablet.
“I kept it normal. Your grandmother’s nineteenth-century escritoire has several known conservation concerns.
Previous assessments produced conflicting recommendations.
You prefer an in-home evaluation before agreeing to transport. ”
I read the message. It’s restrained, professional, and completely truthful. Nothing suggests that the owner of the escritoire stared at the recipient across a ballroom long enough to consider neurological testing. “This is good.”
“I know.” Misty makes no attempt at modesty. “I also didn’t mention that your actual motivation suddenly became much more urgent Friday night.”
“Excellent judgment.”
“I have moments.” She watches me reread the inquiry. “Send it.”
I look up. “You’re very invested in this.”
“Immensely.” She makes no attempt to deny it.
“You haven’t been interested in anyone in a long time.
I’m not going to push you toward an affair, and you wouldn’t have one anyway.
I’m absolutely going to help you arrange a perfectly respectable meeting with a woman who made you forget how doors work. ”
I scoff. “I did not forget how doors work.”
“So Noah lied?”
“He embellished.”
Misty’s smile deepens. “He said you physically stopped moving.”
“Someone walked between us.”
“After you physically stopped moving.”
I give her a look and return to the draft. “Send the email before I fire you.”
“Never happen. You can’t handle the scheduling software.”
I grunt, which is a concession to that truth.
She reaches for the tablet but pauses before taking it. “You know I could’ve done that ten minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to admit you wanted me to.”
“Manipulative.”
“Still accepting that as praise.” Misty takes the tablet and taps the screen. “Done.”
The small act produces an absurd jolt. I sit up straighter.
Misty sees that too.
I point toward the doorway. “Don’t.”
She presses her lips together as she stands, but her shoulders move with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“Apparently, Noah isn’t the only one studying faces now.” She tucks the tablet against her side. “I’ll let you know when she replies.”
“When her studio replies.”
Misty gives me a solemn nod. “Naturally.”
She makes it halfway to the door before stopping. “One more thing. If she accepts, when should I schedule the assessment?”
I frown. “Whenever she’s available.”
“Excellent.” Misty glances toward my calendar on the wall. “I’ll make sure you’re home.”
“I would normally be home for someone assessing my furniture.”
“Normally, you tell the house manager to handle it.”
I consider denying that and decide against insulting both of us. “This piece was my grandmother’s.”
“Absolutely.” Her tone is so agreeable that I know I’m being mocked.
“Misty.”
“I’m helping.” She smiles and heads toward the hall. “That’s what you pay me for.”
“Not this.”
“No, this part is free.” She disappears before I can answer.
I reopen Christa’s professional profile after she’s gone. The photograph fills the upper corner of the page, and now that I look more closely, she’s smiling at the cabinet rather than the camera. Whoever took the picture must have caught her mid-conversation.
I read the short biography beneath it again.
Furniture and decorative-arts conservation. Private collections. Museums. Historic interiors.
Her studio is twenty-three minutes from my house without traffic.
I close the profile and open my calendar. The simple one, not the one Misty uses to manage my obligations like a small nation.
Thursday afternoon has three meetings I can move if I need to. Actually, every meeting can be rescheduled so I’m available whenever she is.
The escritoire has waited seven years, but I’ve developed a sudden sense of urgency. I don’t let myself dwell on why.