Chapter 3—Christa #2
The next twenty minutes pass quickly. I inspect the veneer, hardware, hinges, interior fittings, and old repairs.
Simon answers every question he can and admits when he can’t.
He doesn’t pretend expertise he doesn’t have, which may be rarer among wealthy collectors than genuine eighteenth-century lacquer.
I open the fall front carefully and examine the writing surface. A faint peppermint scent survives inside one drawer.
I stop.
Simon notices. “What?”
“Peppermint.”
His face changes. For the first time since I arrived, the easy humor disappears entirely. “She kept them in there.” He blinks rapidly for a second.
I look at the second drawer. “Your grandmother?”
He nods and comes closer. “Peppermints. The chalky red-and-white kind nobody under seventy willingly buys.”
“My grandmother had those too.” I remember the crystal candy dish she used as clearly as if I just saw it yesterday.
He grimaces. “They’re terrible.”
I nod. “They are.”
He shuffles his feet. “She accused me of stealing them.”
“Were you?”
“Constantly.” His smile returns, smaller this time.
I look down at the drawer again. The scent is barely there beneath old wood and paper, but now I understand why this piece hasn’t gone to somebody’s studio. “I can do most of the work here.”
Simon blinks. “You can?”
“Yes. I’d rather stabilize the veneer before anyone moves it regardless. Once that’s done, transport would be safer, but I don’t see a reason to move it if you’re comfortable with me working in the house.”
His answer comes too quickly. “Very comfortable.”
I look at him.
He clears his throat and glances toward the escritoire. “With the arrangement.”
“Naturally.”
Something suspiciously close to embarrassment crosses his face.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Maybe Charla has broken him. That possibility shouldn’t be as entertaining as it is.
I stand and make notes in the assessment form. “The biggest issue is the veneer. There are also a few older repairs I’d like to examine under better light, and the finish needs cleaning before I know exactly what we’re dealing with. I won’t recommend stripping it.”
“Excellent.”
“I also won’t replace original material simply because a new piece would be easier.”
“Even better.”
I give him a stern look. “The work will take time. I won’t rush it.”
Simon leans one shoulder against the edge of a nearby table. “I waited seven years.”
That makes me look up. “Seven?”
His expression changes by half a degree.
Interesting.
“I haven’t been in a hurry.”
“Until now.”
He meets my gaze, and I wait for a response.
Simon has the grace to look mildly trapped. “It was time to try again. Another expert.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
He smiles. “Misty said you’d find the timing suspicious.”
My cheeks are abruptly warm. “Your assistant sounds wise.”
“She’s become insufferable since marrying Noah.”
“I’ve never met Noah.”
“You probably saw him Friday. He was standing beside me while I attempted to remember how doors work.”
I stare at him in confusion. “What?”
Simon closes his eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, please.” I set my pen against the clipboard. “I need the rest of this story.”
“There isn’t one.”
“You forgot how doors work?”
“I paused.” He clears his throat. “It was a sticky mechanism.”
That sounds familiar somehow but only half-true. Then I remember the Caldwell ballroom.
Simon near the exit when our gazes locked briefly. Him standing there until someone crossed between us.
Oh.
He knows when I understand.
“I was distracted,” he says.
My pulse misbehaves. “Sticky mechanism,” I repeat, skeptically.
I should rescue both of us by changing the subject. Instead, I ask, “Distracted by Eleanor’s escritoire?”
His mouth curves. “That would’ve been an excellent answer.”
Heat creeps into my face. Wonderful. I suddenly need to inspect something near the floor.
I crouch beside the escritoire again and pretend the lower gilt mount deserves immediate scrutiny.
Simon has the decency not to laugh. He also doesn’t explain what distracted him besides some vague sticky mechanism. I appreciate that more than I should.
Charla’s name enters my head with terrible timing.
Naturally.
I straighten and return to my clipboard. “You know my sister.” It’s not a question.
Simon’s expression becomes more guarded. “Yes.”
“She talks about you.”
“I’m aware.” The corner of his lip curls downward.
I almost smile. “I assumed you might be.”
He studies my face as though deciding what he can safely say. “I’ve known Charla socially for several years.”
That’s remarkably diplomatic.
I give him a chance to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
No joke at Charla’s expense. No complaint about her persistence or calling her a stalker. No smug reference to how badly she wants him.
Considering what I know about my sister, restraint probably requires regular exercise. “She likes you.”
Simon rubs two fingers along his jaw. “I’m aware of that too.”
His careful answer makes me laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“You aren’t.”
“No.” I put my pen down. “I’m really not.”