CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The day was a blur. The gala was the following weekend, the same day that Aidan would be returning. By popular demand, my design was to be replicated. Apparently, word had gotten out, and tickets were sold out by the following Monday. It was not only a great vote of confidence for me, but it also meant that the preparations for the event would be a breeze.
Balancing a tray of food prepared by Will, I headed for the garden to meet my father. As usual, it was sunny. In fact, the weather always seemed perfect. It was as if nature was in step with my mood. And with the gentle breeze swaying the languid branches, I felt loose and serene.
“How are you, Papa?” I used the endearment I’d adopted as a teenager, after having made a personal vow to replicate all things French.
“I am full of joi de vivre.” My father had such a handsome face when he smiled. I hadn’t seen him like that since my mother was alive.
“And so am I, Daddy,” I said, embracing him.
“Look at this place.” His arms swept about. “It’s a veritable paradise.”
“Isn’t it just. I’ve started sketching.”
The pleasure in his face nearly made me cry. We’d been through so much. And at that moment, as we regarded each other brimming with optimism, it seemed as if we’d won a celestial lottery.
“I brought enough for both of us,” I said, placing the tray on the iron table.
“Not hungry, Cheri. I’ve never eaten so much food.” He laughed.
“Nor I. I’ll have to be careful. I’ll get fat,” I said, regarding with guilt the full plate of pasta staring at me.
“You could use a little more weight, darling. You’re actually looking skinnier,” he said, removing his horn-rimmed glasses.
“There’s heaps here.”
“No, seriously, I’m not hungry. Don’t let me stop you. Please eat,” he said, with a gentle nod.
As I swallowed a forkful of pasta, my stomach groaned in appreciation. I was hungry. I’d had no breakfast because I’d slept in and had to rush to work.
“How’s the cataloguing going?” I asked, chewing away.
“Awfully well. Charging through it. Love it. The best job I’ve ever had—left alone to muse over a most wondrous collection of books. It’s hard to fathom how vast and varied it is. I’m told an eccentric film producer in the 1930’s was a committed collector. He did a fine job too.” He sipped at his tea. “Greta tells me that Aidan has also bought a few original editions at various auctions and estates so that it keeps growing. She even intimated that I may be asked to do some procuring.” My father’s eyes glowed with childish wonder.
“Oh, really?” I said, overcome with a swelling of respect for my handsome lover. “I wasn’t aware that Aidan bought books as well. I suppose it makes sense. He’s a keen buyer of art.”
“Does he do the buying, or has he an advisor?”
“No. Aidan goes to the auctions himself. His cultural education came the pure way. One year spent in Europe visiting galleries.”
He nodded, looking notably impressed. “Then he’s got impeccable taste. I haven’t observed anything past 1930. Not one skerrick of post-modernism anywhere.”
As I chuckled, I decided not to mention that Aidan’s apartment in Venice had more than its fair share of modernist art.
It was a joy hanging out with my dad, marveling at the flowers, butterflies, and abundant bird life. My dad had always been a calming influence on me.
“Doesn’t it seem like we’ve traveled back in time, sitting here?” I said.
“Indeed, very European. There’s an original Brueghel here, you realize.”
“I know. I spotted it on my first day at work,” I said, recalling my sense of wonder.
Against a background of insects and birds buzzing, I finished off my lunch.
After I wiped my mouth, I said, “I’ve heard that you and Greta…” My face heated up. This was not an easy subject for us.
“Yes, we’re together,” my father replied with a shy, tight smile.
“You look really great, Daddy. It’s the best I’ve seen you in years. And I like Greta. She’s a good woman.”
“She likes you too.” In a rare show of emotion, my father’s eyes had a watery film. I hugged him as my eyes misted over. I wanted to tell him about Aidan but wasn’t sure how to broach it.
“Dad, I need to tell you something also,” I said self-consciously.
“If it’s about you and Aidan, darling, I’m already aware,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pipe.
My brows met. “Did Greta tell you?”
“No. Aidan did,” he replied dryly.
“He did?” My voice hit a high note. I collected myself. “He mentioned you had suggested a couple of books. That’s all.”
“Yes. And he slipped me an excellent bottle of single malt. He’s a lovely man. Very handsome.” My father nodded. “You’ll make a striking couple.”
“Well, let’s not jump the gun, Daddy. I mean it’s early days.” My heart pounded anyhow.
He smoked his pipe and looked out at the grounds.
“What did he say exactly, then?” I asked.
“Not much, only that he was crazy about you and that he’d protect you.” He regarded me warmly. “That’s music to a father’s ear. Especially coming from someone like Aidan,” he said, pausing for another puff. “He’s a decent man, has a kind heart. He’s been through a lot.”
“Did he speak about his days as a soldier?”
He nodded slowly. “He did a little. But I could see it in his eyes. I gleaned the same haunted expression as in my brother’s eyes after Vietnam.”
A shiver ran through me. I’d seen it too. Tossed about in an undertow of emotion, I was flooded by pity. My heart hurt all of a sudden.
“Are you all right, love?” He touched my arm.
“Sure, Daddy. Everything’s fine. How could it not be?” I glanced down at my watch. “I’d best be getting back. Got a fair bit to do.”
In truth, I needed to be alone with my thoughts for a moment. I hugged my father.
“Let’s do this again,” he said, smiling brightly.
“Yes, of course, Daddy. It will be like old times. Only our living arrangements have somewhat improved.”
He kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about anything, my petite belle. I’m sure your mother would approve.
When I returned to the office Greta was there. She greeted me warmly. “Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“It was yummy, thank you. The pasta was amazing. Will’s cooking will be my undoing.” I touched my tummy.
She pulled back her head, frowning. “You’re very slender Clarissa.”
I smiled.
Greta hovered. “Did your father mention that we’ve been spending time together?”
“He did, Greta, I’m so pleased for both of you. It’s the best I’ve seen my father since my mother…” Unsure how much father had actually revealed of his earlier life, I stopped myself.
Her face softened. “Thank you for telling me that.” Her earlier frown faded into a faint, uncertain smile. I’d seen the same tentative glint in Aidan’s eyes, and in his father’s. The Thornhills were a sensitive lot.
Greta switched back to business mode. “Oh, by the way, Bryce Beaumont is on the warpath. You may get a call. The account’s overdrawn again.”
“So what do I say if he calls?” A shiver ran through me at the thought of dealing with Bryce.
“Tell him I’m waiting to hear from Aidan,” Greta said, shaking her head. “He’s hopeless.”
“Why does Aidan put up with him?” Yet again that question.
“He threatens to cause trouble for Aidan, something that happened in the army. Instead of dealing with it, which is what I’ve suggested, Aidan keeps Bryce close by paying him off.” Greta’s response brought with it a dark cloud.
Suddenly, my lunch sat uncomfortably in my gut. Hell, talk about vicissitudes. One moment, I was soaring high in a seemingly endless turquoise sky; the next, I was scrambling on barren ground clutching at crumbs of information.
“Oh,” Greta said as she was leaving, “should I arrange for the stylist to organize a gown for the ball?”
“I’d go shopping, only…” This was sticky. I’d spent all my monthly allowance. Greta tilted her head. “Only?”
Paranoid that I was emulating Bryce’s vampiric habits by taking advantage of Aidan’s generosity, my stomach knotted. “If the stylist can do it again, that would be helpful. The blue gown was heavenly.”
As always, Greta’s intuition was sharp. “Did you get the credit card that Aidan issued for you?”
I shook my head.
Greta approached my desk. “There’s an envelope somewhere.” She rustled through the in-tray. “Oh, here it is.” She passed it over.
I tore open the envelope, and a credit card fell out. “Oh…” I looked up at Greta questioningly.
“It has no limit.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “If you want to, you can pop out anytime this week and go shopping for that gown. That’s unless you want the stylist. It’s your call.”
“Oh… okay. I see,” I stammered.
“And Clarissa, I’ve never seen Aidan happier. He’s a generous soul, sometimes to a fault. Aidan would want you to have the best. He can afford it.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out except a thin “Thanks.”