Chapter 7 #2
Holly whispered, “Can your accent get that thick too? I don’t think I understood a word he said.”
Charmaine sneered at him. “You both are absurd.”
“Thank you,” he answered. “Now, share with me these details of the Rembrandt you fixed the loan with. If we can get that sorted before the chief comes back, I think we can avoid some serious trouble. Don’t you think?”
I hadn’t focused on how close Tee was to her until he stepped up to her stair and gently laid his palm on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze and a soft smile before letting go.
Charmaine didn’t look like she wanted to give up the fight, but TJ had his face arranged all pleasant like.
With his tan skin, dark brown hair, and the family’s blue eyes, he was what my aunts called a looker.
And right then, he had those good looks aimed directly at Charmaine, and he wore an expression that said she was his last saving grace, and he knew—just knew—she’d make the right decision. And surprisingly, she tried.
“The Rembrandt is on loan until back payments can be made and regular service to the loan can be reestablished. I have the paperwork.”
“Sounds fair.” TJ gave her a smile that lit his eyes.
She looked to him with wary concern, then to Holly and me, then back to him. “They think I stole it.” To us: “I didn’t, it was an agreed-upon—”
“Agreed upon?!” I hollered, and my exclamation boomed around the stone cathedral ceiling of the foyer.
Tee patted at the ground. “Shh, let’s hear her out. You’re making her question her own judgment, sis. You’re a damn bulldozer—let her have her say.”
Holly snorted, “Bulldozer,” as I ground my molars. Loath to let the fight pass, I searched my wrist for my band and reminded myself that anger was an emotion, not a state of being, and that it too would pass. Then snapped it.
Charmaine continued, “The chief is under the assumption that I’m no longer an employee of Casswell, but I am, and my supervisor approved the decision to move forward with the Rembrandt as collateral.
The castle and all its assets are safe. It’s time to improve the operational costs here at the castle to show an increased revenue stream and resume regular payments, putting all this foreclosure and bankruptcy nonsense behind us. ”
I had a feeling she included me in the “foreclosure and bankruptcy nonsense.”
“There, that sounds like some highly intelligent business savvy.” He smiled at her in a way that made her look pleasantly at his mouth.
But what TJ always had was my back, and she wasn’t going to like what he had to say next.
He was wearing his “yeah, but” smile. It was meant to make the observer feel good because what he was about to say wouldn’t.
He continued, “But. You’ve neglected the body count.”
“I beg your pardon? Body count? This isn’t a military operation; no one has died, T-J.”
“That may be so, but your reputation took a swan dive off the tallest turret of this castle the moment you moved behind the back of the owner of this place.”
She scoffed, resuming her mask of contempt. “My reputation is solidly intact because it’s based on the three-hundred-year-old legacy of Casswell to do right by the clan whether there be a chief of legendary import at the helm or one who gets sidelined by an American tart.”
Holly stepped toward her, and I held my arm out, stopping her. The name-calling was new, putting both of our backs up. “She’s baiting. Let’s have her explain to my brother what tart means.”
TJ looked sad. “You’re an intelligent woman, Ms. Chevalier. Calling my sister that is beneath you. I know what tart here means.”
She looked smugly at TJ. “You Americans—” She broke off with a surprised squeal as TJ picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and headed down the stairs.
Over her squeals, he continued, “You can’t call my sister a tart, Ms. Chevalier, and think I’ll let you get away with it. Let’s get some air and talk about this.”
Marion and Flora were shocked and gleeful as TJ walked beneath the workmen’s scaffolding—they were thankfully late to work—and out the front door.
When the front door shut, Holly’s laugh burst out. It echoed off the arched stone and reverberated back to us as Marion and Flora began to tittle.
I was shaking my head. “She called me a tart… I wish that meant pastry.”
“TJ! I love yer brother! He just”—Holly made scooping motions with her arms—“up and grabbed her, then, right over his shoulder!” Holly wiped her eyes. “I hope he takes her down to the docks and tosses ’er in.”
“I wish. He’s probably just taken her to her car. And either she drives out or he’ll drive her home. I wish this were the first time this had happened to us. Maybe it’s something about us Bakers that makes people irrational.”
Holly was thoughtful before turning to me. “Do ye think I can borrow him? I have a family thing tomorrow, and tha’ skill set would come in handy.”
“It’s not a unique skill set. I know you can do it too, Holly.”
“Yeah, I’d have initiated my own t?te-à-t?te with her, had he not stepped in first.”
I knew she would have.
“But,” she continued, “I was talking about that sack-of-potatoes move. My uncle who spouts garbage about my mum’s family when he’s pished is over fifteen stone.”
I’d been in Glentree for over a year, but stone measurement still threw me. “So, huge.”
It was the correct response. Context and good guesses got me through a lot in this place.
“So, can I borrow him?”
“You bet.”