Chapter 27
Arthur stared at the spreadsheet for the hundredth time. He was fretting over the paper’s numbers, what with the stupid loan he’d taken out and the loss of advertising dollars from their number one client. He still didn’t buy the department store chain’s reasoning, but they hadn’t changed their mind despite his follow-up calls. He hadn’t had a month this tight since the early days of the paper. Looking for a new client at that level was giving him chest pain, but they’d find someone, by God.
He heard a knock at the door and wanted to snarl. Who the hell was paying him a visit? Crap, at the rate he was going, it had to signal more trouble.
When he opened the door, he found himself staring at trouble with a capital T. The woman standing before Arthur was just as beautiful as she’d been in 1962. She’d aged, of course, but she hadn’t lost her regal bearing or her sparkle.
“Clara Merriam,” he said slowly. “What a surprise.”
She drew her long silver hair over her right shoulder and fixed her blue eyes on him, as if taking in all the changes in him as well. “Arthur Hale. You’re old. You even have a cane, I see.”
He laughed and executed a Fred Astaire move with it. “Yes, and you’re still a brat.”
“I don’t think you can call a woman my age a brat,” she said.
“A bitch then?”
She stepped forward and kissed him on the mouth before he could blink—and then she slapped his face.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“The kiss or the slap?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Either. Both.” He was too old for this aggravation. His ticker couldn’t take it.
“The kiss was because you never had the courage to kiss me when you were in New York, and I didn’t have the courage to press you. The slap was because we haven’t seen each other in fifty-six years.”
He growled. She’d always been a handful. “I didn’t want to kiss you before—”
“Liar! You took me out when you lived in New York City.”
“As a friend,” he reasoned, although she was right. He was lying. But she was also the granddaughter of his best friend and mentor. The man whom he’d owed everything.
She ran her hands over her white fur coat. “Will you please let me inside?”
“You could get assaulted with eggs or red paint by some environmentalists for wearing a coat like that around here,” he said, stepping aside.
He was about to shut the door behind her when another man appeared in the doorway.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“You remember Hargreaves, don’t you?” Clara called, shrugging out of her coat. “God, you haven’t gotten that forgetful, have you?”
He’d thought it impossible, but Hargreaves was the same man who’d been her butler in the late fifties.
“I’m sharper than ever, honey,” he said. “How in the hell was I supposed to recognize Hargreaves? He’s a barrel of bones.”
“You look good too, sir,” the butler said, bringing in two suitcases. “Where should I put these?”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m staying with you,” Clara said. “I never stay in a hotel when I know someone in town. The least you could do after not seeing me for fifty-six years is to put me up. After all, I’m only here because you called.”
“Bullshit,” he barked. “I called you to help the boy, which you didn’t seem eager to do, not so you could come to Dare Valley and shack up with me.”
“Such a crude term,” she drawled out. “I’m only staying for a few days. To help the boy, as you say. Besides, Hargreaves cleans and cooks. From the looks of you, you could use a good meal. What are you eating these days? Spam?”
“I happen to have a grandson-in-law who’s a chef, and I’m a backer of his restaurant,” he told her.
She waved her hand as if unimpressed. “Arthur, I’m not leaving.”
Part of him wanted to jump for joy, he realized. Dammit, but he’d missed her. “You’ve gotten more stubborn, Clara. I didn’t know it was possible.”
“I’d like to say you got better looking, but I can’t tell a lie.”
He fought a smile. She was still a brat, all right, but heck, he liked brats. Even old ones like her.
“Fine, you can stay,” he said. “For the boy’s sake. I’m glad you got your head out of your ass and decided to help him.”
“Hargreaves, please select two rooms upstairs,” Clara said, fidgeting with her diamonds, something she used to do to annoy him. “You might lay out my clothing for tomorrow.”
Good Lord. What was this, Downton Abbey?
“Very good, madam,” he said, taking off for the stairs.
Arthur thought about offering to help him with the suitcases, but Hargreaves managed them just fine.
When the man disappeared from view, he asked, “My God, how old is he now?”
“He’s seventy-nine,” she said. “A few months younger than you.”
“Nice of you to point out.”
“Well, you don’t look too bad for your age,” she said, walking in a circle around him. “You’re still lean and have your hair. Good bone structure helps.”
“So does drinking milk and clean living,” he quipped. “Clara, you’re a pain in the ass. What are you really doing here?”
“I thought we’d catch up,” she said. “It’s been a long time, and I’m tired of my weekly bridge game. Arthur, when you called, I got to thinking about old times.”
Dammit, she’d gone for his soft spot. The Merriams had a way of bringing back good memories for him. “Me too. It’s an affliction of age to think of times past.”
“If you still have those infernal red hots, I’ll take one,” she said. “It was a long trip.”
He rolled his eyes and crossed to the table by the armchair for the crystal bowl holding his favorite candy. “You came in a private plane. How bad could it be?”
She laughed, taking a red hot. “These are still atrocious. You gave me one for the first time after we went to a party at the Met.”
“I’d just come to New York City to go to Columbia,” he said. “You were…”
She’d been a vision with her raven black hair, porcelain skin, and direct blue eyes. No woman up until that point had given him such shit or stirred him up. But she’d also been young and a bit entitled. Unlike Emmits, her grandfather, she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.
He’d known all along they weren’t suited—their interests could hardly have been more different, and then there was the class distinction between them. Back in the fifties, that kind of thing was a big deal. He’d made sure not to take things beyond friendship. Then he’d left New York for Dare Valley, like he’d planned all along, and met Harriet. Two years later, Clara had married someone as rich as her. He’d always thought things had turned out exactly as they were meant to.
“I was what?” she asked, her mouth moving as she sucked on her red hot.
“Never boring,” he said instead.
Her shoulders seemed to sag, and he finally took in her attire. The black dress she wore fit her slender body nicely even if the neckline and hemline had been popular a hundred years ago.
“Words to flatter any woman,” she said. “Have you eaten? I’m starving.”
He thought of the dinner he’d been late to start. “I have tomato soup warming on the stove.”
“No wonder you’re as skinny as a rail,” she said. “Hargreaves! I need you.”
Footsteps sounded upstairs and soon the man appeared on the steps. “Yes, madam,” he said as he climbed down the final steps.
“Mr. Hale has bachelor cooking tendencies, and they won’t do.”
The man had the audacity to cluck his tongue.
“I’ll see to it, madam,” he said, walking in the general direction of the kitchen.
“How did he know where to go?” Arthur asked.
“In a house this small, it’s not hard,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “You simply start walking.”
It was exactly the kind of comment she used to make as a brash young woman—and he found he still rather liked her attitude, her spunk.
“You did the right thing, helping J.T.,” he said. “Emmits would have been proud of you.”
She teared up, alarming him. “That’s kind of you to say. I’m already fond of the boy. I haven’t felt any kind of…connection to my family for decades before today.”
“I hated to see what happened between you,” he said, buttoning his sweater vest.
“Is that why you tried to mediate a truce between me and my brother?” she asked. “I was grateful you tried even if…it failed.”
The regret in her voice pinched his heart. “Was your marriage not easy?”
“No, but his mistresses made it more bearable.” She waved a hand. “Let’s talk of happier things. Do you have fixings for a gin and tonic by chance?”
After the bomb she’d just dropped, he had the odd impulse to comfort her. “No, I stopped drinking those after Nixon resigned,” he said. “Brandy?”
“You and your historical life markers,” she said, walking over to the bar caddy with him.
He realized he hadn’t reached for his cane, but he wasn’t about to ask her to get it for him. Besides, his feet seemed to be solid under him. Be a shame to fall on his face in front of her, but at least Hargreaves could help him up. Ha!
“I remember you telling me you’d stopped wearing undershirts after seeing that Clark Gable didn’t wear them in It Happened One Night. Of course, that was crap because that movie came out in 1934.”
“But I didn’t see it until 1955.” He didn’t bat an eyelash at that prevarication. He was having way too much fun.
“You’re still a big fibber. I can’t believe you’ve made such a successful career as a journalist—where you’re supposed to tell the truth.”
He laughed. “It’s one of life’s mysteries. Speaking of another… Is that lost Rembrandt the boy is after really a Rembrandt?”
She veiled her eyes. “Hmm… How would little old me know something like that?”
Handing her a brandy, he poured one for himself. “Little old you? Please. There is no way the Clara Merriam I knew would be able to stand not knowing. I don’t buy that you kept it in your collection all these years without checking.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I suspected it was real, but I had to wait until Reinhold died to go through the proper authentication process.”
Reinhold. What a jerk. He’d only met the man at her wedding, and even then, he’d smelled trouble. Besides, the man had a flaccid handshake.
“He would have sold it?”
“I couldn’t be sure,” she said. “I had to make sure he didn’t think I wanted anything to do with it.”
That was telling.
“I’m glad he’s dead then.”
“Yes, I got your card,” she said, dryly. “Your condolences were much kinder.”
“Do you want me to blow smoke up your ass?” he asked. She never had before.
Turning to the side, she looked at said ass. “You seem to be obsessed with this particular part of my body.”
He dipped his gaze to it and let it hover. “It’s not bad.”
She laughed and extended her snifter to him. “Oh, Arthur, I’ve missed you. To fresh, new times.”
He paused, meeting her eyes. She looked years younger in that moment, and he was transported to their last toast, the day before his return to Dare Valley. They’d been drinking champagne in her parents’ townhouse on Park Avenue. She’d said, “To your return to New York.”
Of course, he hadn’t gone back to stay.
“What are you remembering?” she asked.
“Your last toast,” he answered honestly. “Or our last toast.”
“In 1960,” she said, deadpan.
He laughed.
“I’d hoped you would return to New York,” she said in a soft tone.
“I never planned to,” he said, “you know that. Although I don’t blame you for doubting. The only person who thought I could make it out here with a national newspaper was your grandfather.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry I wasn’t one of the believers. Maybe you should be the one to toast then since my toasts don’t come true.”
He looked into her eyes again. “To fresh, new times.”