Chapter 3—Christa
THE INQUIRY FROM NICHOLS Global arrives Tuesday morning while I’m under a table.
I ignore the first notification, but the second buzz comes thirty seconds later.
I slide out far enough to reach blindly for the phone, nearly knock over my flashlight, and discover an email flagged by my scheduling software.
Private Residential Assessment Request
The client’s name beneath it makes me sit up too quickly.
Simon Nichols.
The back of my head connects with the underside of the table. “Ow.”
I stay where I am for a few seconds, one hand pressed to my scalp while I reread the name to make sure mild head trauma hasn’t created a billionaire.
It hasn’t.
The request comes from Misty Pierson at Nichols Global regarding a nineteenth-century escritoire Simon inherited from his grandmother.
The piece has been assessed before, there are concerns about lifting veneer and the existing finish, and the owner would prefer an in-home evaluation before considering transport.
All perfectly ordinary. Except the owner is Simon Nichols.
Charla’s Simon Nichols.
I immediately correct that thought because Simon Nichols belongs to himself, something my sister has failed to accept despite years of evidence. He’s also the man who stared at me across the Caldwell ballroom Friday night.
At least, I’m fairly sure he did.
I noticed him shortly before Tate decided he’d fulfilled his social obligations and wanted to leave. Simon stood near the ballroom doors in a tuxedo, looking directly at me with an intensity that made me check behind myself before accepting that I was probably the target.
Then someone walked between us, and he disappeared.
I knew who he was. Everybody knows who Simon Nichols is, even people like me who avoid most events where his name comes up in conversation.
I’ve seen photographs, heard Charla discuss him enough to qualify for continuing education credits, and once listened to her spend forty-five minutes analyzing why his refusal to attend a weekend in St. Barts didn’t actually mean he wasn’t interested.
Her argument had required several assumptions and a dramatic disregard for the meaning of the word no.
I crawl completely out from beneath the table and sit on the mat. The email doesn’t say Simon requested me personally.
It asks whether Kaffey Conservation can provide an assessment. That’s better.
Probably.
I read it a third time. The piece itself interests me. A nineteenth-century escritoire with original veneer and finish can turn into a disaster quickly if someone decides restoration means making it look new. The note about conflicting prior recommendations also catches my attention.
I answer before I can invent reasons not to. I have availability Thursday afternoon.
Misty responds fourteen minutes later. Simon will accommodate any time you prefer.
That’s an unusual phrase from an executive assistant arranging an appointment with a man whose schedule probably requires its own air-traffic controller.
I choose two-thirty. Her confirmation arrives almost immediately. Apparently, Thursday at two-thirty has become available.
I stare at the email.
Interesting.
Then I put my phone face-down and return to the Pembroke table because I have work to do and absolutely no reason to spend the next two days wondering why one of the richest men in the country has become so accommodating about antique furniture.
THE NICHOLS HOUSE ISN’T what I expect. I’m not sure what I expected. Something enormous and sterile, perhaps, with enough glass to kill migrating birds and furniture selected by a designer who considers chairs primarily decorative.
Instead, I pull through a gated entrance and follow a curved drive toward a large stone house that looks old enough to have opinions about its neighbors.
Ivy climbs one side. Mature trees hide much of the property from the road, and the landscaping has escaped the geometric pruning common to houses where shrubs are forced into submission.
I park beside the circular drive at two twenty-six. Four minutes early is acceptable. Ten would look anxious.
I’m not anxious, but I check my reflection in the rearview mirror anyway.
Work clothes were the correct choice. Navy trousers, cream blouse, low heels, and hair pulled back. I don’t dress up for assessments and changing that because the client happens to be Simon Nichols would be ridiculous.
My phone rings before I can get out.
It’s Charla. Absolutely not especially right now. I silence it and reach for my portfolio.
The front door opens before I make it halfway up the walk. For one second, I expect household staff, but Simon Nichols steps outside instead.
Apparently, billionaires can answer doors. This is useful information.
It’s also deeply inconvenient because he looked good in a tuxedo, and the lack of one hasn’t corrected the situation.
He’s wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No jacket. No tie. The photographs I’ve seen usually make him appear severe, probably because people insist on photographing wealthy men while they’re pretending quarterly earnings are fascinating.
He doesn’t look severe now. He looks amused. “Mrs. Meade?”
I climb the last step and offer my hand. “Christa is fine.”
He closes his hand around mine. “Simon.”
The contact lasts the socially appropriate amount of time.
My awareness of it lasts considerably longer.
Wonderful.
“You came out to meet me.” I retrieve my hand before I can make anything strange.
“I was told answering my own door would make me seem approachable.”
I look past him toward the open doorway. “Is there someone inside grading you?”
He laughs. “Misty isn’t here, so I’ve been left unsupervised.”
That surprises a laugh out of me.
His expression changes as though the sound pleased him, and I immediately become too conscious of that too.
This appointment has been underway for less than a minute. I need furniture. “Your escritoire?”
“Library.” Simon steps aside so I can enter. “I promise I won’t make you tour the house first.”
“Good. I charge by the hour.”
“Then I’ve accidentally provided you with an incentive to get lost.”
I look at him.
He smiles.
I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do.
The foyer is large without being theatrical. Dark wood floors, an old Persian runner, paintings that appear collected rather than purchased in one frantic meeting with a decorator. I spot a Federal side table against one wall and slow automatically.
Simon notices. “Problem?”
“No. That’s beautiful.”
He follows my attention. “The table?”
“Federal period, probably New York. Mahogany. Late eighteenth or very early nineteenth century.” I take another look without getting close enough to touch it. “Has anyone worked on it recently?”
He looks lost. “I have no idea.”
I glance at him. “You own it.”
“I also own an HVAC system. I couldn’t describe that either.”
I grin. “Your HVAC system probably doesn’t date from 1800.”
A dimple appears when he smiles deeply that I have no business noticing.
“I hope not.”
I laugh again and follow him toward the back of the house. This is becoming a problem, but the library solves it temporarily.
The escritoire stands against the far wall between two tall windows, and I forget Simon for at least three seconds. Maybe four. “Oh.”
He stops beside me. “That sounds either very good or very expensive.”
“Possibly both.” I set my portfolio on a nearby table and cross the room.
The piece is French, probably late nineteenth century, with delicate marquetry across the fall front and gilt-bronze mounts that have darkened with age. The proportions are graceful without being fussy. Somebody cared for it well for most of its life.
Somebody else cared for it badly later. I crouch to inspect the lower edge.
Simon stays several feet away.
That alone earns him points. Clients frequently crowd behind me as though proximity will allow them to diagnose the furniture too.
I take out my flashlight. “How long has it been in this room?”
“Seven years.”
“Before that?”
“My grandmother’s morning room.”
I glance toward him. His answer is casual, but his attention rests on the escritoire rather than me.
“Was it hers for long?”
“As long as I remember.” Simon moves closer, stopping on the opposite side. “I inherited it when she died.”
That explains the three previous assessments and his reluctance to let anyone take it away.
I examine the lifting veneer along the fall front. The damage is real, though less catastrophic than the email made possible. One section has separated enough that another move could worsen it. The finish is dirty and uneven, but much of what I’m seeing appears original.
I run the light across one corner without touching the surface. “Who wanted to strip this?”
Simon gives me a startled look. “How did you know someone did?”
“Because someone tested a solvent here.” I indicate a tiny patch near the lower edge. “They stopped before doing much harm.”
His expression hardens. “He said the finish was too compromised to save.”
“He was wrong.” The answer comes out sharper than I intend.
Simon doesn’t appear offended. If anything, he looks pleased. “That’s what I thought.”
“You knew?”
“I knew I didn’t want anyone removing what my grandmother touched every day because replacing it would be faster.”
I look at him differently after that. Most owners don’t understand conservation until I explain it. Some never understand. They want the piece to look expensive, shiny, or new. For most, original material matters only if preserving it costs less.
Simon may not know the technical vocabulary, but he understands the point.
I nod in approval. “Good instinct.”
“I’ll notify Misty immediately. She’ll be relieved to know I have one.”
I laugh and return to the escritoire.