Chapter 4—Simon
CHRISTA SENDS THE TREATMENT proposal at eight-thirteen Friday morning. I know this because I happen to be looking at my phone when the notification appears. There’s no reason to mention I’ve checked my email four times since seven.
Misty enters my office three minutes later carrying coffee and a folder. She looks at me, looks at the phone in my hand, then puts the coffee on my desk. “She said yes.”
I set the phone down. “Good morning to you too.”
“Did she?”
“Did she what?”
Misty narrows her eyes. “You’re going to make this difficult.”
I give her a bland smile. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Simon.”
I pick up the coffee. “Christa sent a treatment proposal.”
Misty’s face brightens. “So she said yes.”
“Technically, she proposed a conservation treatment with an estimated duration of six to eight weeks, depending on what she finds after surface cleaning.”
She grins. “That’s the most romantic sentence I’ve ever heard.”
I take a drink and ignore her.
Misty doesn’t require encouragement. She settles into the chair opposite my desk and opens the folder she brought with her, though she’s clearly lost interest in its contents. “How was yesterday?”
“Professional.”
“Naturally.”
“She’s very good.”
“Professionally?” Misty asks with insulting innocence.
I give her a look.
She presses her lips together, but I can see the smile trying to escape.
I turn back to Christa’s email. The proposal is detailed without being bloated, which I appreciate. She explains the loose veneer, the areas of finish degradation, the old repairs she wants to evaluate, and the sequence of treatment. Most of it requires terminology I only partly understand.
I’ve already looked up four things.
Misty notices the open browser tabs on my monitor, and her expression becomes unbearable.
I close one with a stern look her way.
She leans slightly to the side to see the others. “Hide glue?”
“It’s relevant.”
Her eyebrow raises. “Reversibility in furniture conservation?”
I shrug. “Also relevant.”
“French polishing?”
“That one was unrelated.”
Misty laughs. “You’ve become a scholar.”
I keep my gaze on the browser. “I prefer informed client.”
“You’ve owned old furniture your entire life.”
“I’ve never had reason to understand how it’s conserved.”
Misty rests her elbow on the chair arm. “Now you do.”
I refuse to dignify the implication. Unfortunately, she’s right about one thing. I am interested.
Yesterday, I expected Christa to inspect the escritoire, tell me what needed to be done, and leave.
Instead, I spent more than an hour listening to her explain why a scarred drawer matters, what distinguishes an old repair from original construction, and why making something look untouched can erase the very history worth preserving.
She changes when she talks about her work. Not dramatically. She simply forgets to be reserved.
She gestures more. Her expressions come faster. She’ll stop midway through a sentence to look more closely at something, then resume from exactly where she left off as though the furniture briefly interrupted her conversation.
I liked watching it far too much. I had to remind myself twice that she’s married.
“Sign it,” Misty says.
I look at her. “What?”
“The proposal.” She gestures toward my screen. “Before you spend the next forty minutes pretending the price requires contemplation.”
I frown at her. “I don’t make financial decisions based on emotion.”
She waves a hand. “You’re worth several billion dollars, and she’s charging you less than one of your suits costs.”
“This suit didn’t cost that much.”
Misty looks at the jacket draped over the back of my chair.
I reconsider. “Possibly.”
She opens her folder at last. “Sign it.”
I read the estimate one more time, mostly to annoy her, then accept electronically. The confirmation appears.
Misty smiles. “Congratulations on your furniture.”
“Thank you.”
“Your six to eight weeks of completely accidental proximity.”
I pick up the folder she brought and open it. “What do you actually need?”
She grins. “Nothing now. My morning is complete.”
“Get out.”
She laughs on her way to the door.
I wait until she reaches it before asking, “When does Christa want to start?”
Misty stops without turning around.
I immediately regret speaking.
Her shoulders move once.
“Misty.”
She faces me with a professionally neutral expression that convinces nobody. “Tuesday at one. She said the first session will probably take three hours.”
Three hours. I nod as though this information has no particular significance. “Clear the library.”
“The library is already clear.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because this is delightful.” She leaves before I can answer.
I look at Christa’s proposal again. Tuesday at one. I have a board call at one-thirty. For no good reason, I move it.
CHRISTA ARRIVES TUESDAY with two cases, a folding work light, a padded roll of tools, and absolutely no awareness that I’ve spent the previous four days learning enough conservation terminology to embarrass myself.
I open the door before she rings. Her hand is raised toward the bell. She looks at me, then at her finger. “Were you waiting behind the door?”
“No.” I struggle not to flush.
Her eyebrows rise.
“I heard your car.”
“Through the house?”
“The acoustics are excellent.”
She smiles. “They must be.”
I step aside before she can interrogate the architecture, or how quickly I opened the door further. “You brought considerably more equipment this time.”
She smiles. “I’m planning to do actual work.”
“I assumed the binder was the difficult part.”
Christa walks inside carrying one case while I take the heavier one before she can object. “The binder was a test. You passed.”
“I’m relieved. I’ve been concerned.”
“Don’t get comfortable. There will be others.”
I glance at her as we cross the foyer. “Is there a written curriculum?”
She laughs. “Not until you’ve paid the deposit.”
“I paid it yesterday.”
She stops so fast I nearly walk into her, glancing back at me. “You paid it already?”
I frown. “Was I supposed to wait?”
“No.” Her surprise shifts toward amusement. “Most private clients make me send at least one reminder.”
I shudder dramatically. “I dislike unpaid invoices.”
“You paid before the invoice was due.”
I lift a shoulder. “I dislike the possibility of unpaid invoices.”
Christa starts walking again. “That sounds exhausting.”
“My accounting department seems happy.”
“Your accounting department probably has its own building.”
“Two floors.”
She laughs, and the sound warms me. I shouldn’t be this pleased with myself for causing it.
The library has been prepared according to the instructions she sent yesterday. The rug beneath the escritoire is covered, the nearby furniture has been moved back, and a worktable sits several feet away.
Christa takes in the setup. “You followed directions.”
“I mentioned being trainable.”
“You did.” She puts down her case and looks toward me. “I assumed you were exaggerating.”
I shake my head. “I rarely exaggerate.”
Her expression turns skeptical. “You told me a door had a sticky mechanism.”
“That door has been inspected.”
She freezes for half a second before laughing. “You actually had someone inspect it?”
It’s utter nonsense, but I commit to it. “I wanted to establish whether my explanation had factual support.”
Her lips twitch. “Results?”
“The mechanism is functioning perfectly.”
Christa bends over her case, but I can hear her laughing.
I smile despite myself. “I’m glad my humiliation is improving your morning.”
“It’s one-fifteen.”
“My humiliation is improving your afternoon.”
“Much better.” She unrolls a padded mat across the worktable and begins arranging small tools.
I watch for a moment before realizing I’m doing exactly what clients apparently do when they hover. “Where should I be?”
Christa looks over her shoulder. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”
“No.” That’s technically true now and a little pathetic.
She glances toward the clock on the mantel. “Nothing at all for three hours?”
“I arranged my schedule.”
Her expression changes, not with alarm. It’s awareness.
I focus on the job to give us both breathing room. “This was my grandmother’s. I want to understand what you’re doing.”
Christa relaxes. “Then you can stay. Just don’t touch anything unless I tell you.”
“I’ve been thinking about touching things all week.”
She gives me a suspicious look.
“The furniture.”
She opens her mouth as I hear what I said. My face burns as I flush scarlet.
Christa presses her lips together. The corners are still twitching, though.
I close my eyes. “I’m going to stop talking.”
“No, don’t.” Her shoulders shake slightly as she turns toward the escritoire. “This is much more entertaining.”
I deserved that.
She spends the first half-hour photographing the piece again and placing tiny markers near several areas she wants to track. I ask what they’re for.
“Documentation.” Christa adjusts the light. “I photograph before, during, and after treatment. If anything changes unexpectedly, I need a record.”
That sounds alarming. “What kind of unexpected change?”
“Finish response, movement in the veneer, or maybe old adhesive behaving differently than expected.” She points toward a small lifted edge. “Furniture is usually cooperative, but it has its moods.”
“I thought damaged veneer didn’t sulk.”
Her head turns sharply.
I know immediately I’ve made a mistake.
Christa stares at me. “What?”
I search backward through the conversation. She never said that to me. Apparently, I’ve confused something from her professional profile or my research with something I imagined.
Except I’m almost certain I read a quote from an interview where she described old materials as easier than people. “Your website,” I say.
Suspicion remains. “My website says veneer doesn’t sulk?”
“Possibly an interview.”
“I don’t remember ever saying that in an interview.”
I am failing badly.
Then Christa laughs. “I’m kidding.”
I stare at her as her smile widens. “That’s cruel.”
“You looked terrified.”