Chapter 32
Arthur came home to hear Ella Fitzgerald singing her heart out to “Dream a Little Dream Of Me” with Louis Armstrong.
He paused in the doorway. It had been a long time since he’d come home to the lights on and music playing with a beautiful woman present. He could get used to this, especially after the day he’d had. Man, he hated kissing the asses of potential new advertising clients. But if he was going to make his loan payment in full this month—pride wouldn’t let him do otherwise—he would kiss whatever ass it took.
“Is that you, Arthur?” he heard Clara call as he hung up his winter coat.
He followed her voice to the family room, sniffing the whole way. What was that smell? It was as if a spice market had exploded in his house. God knew what that sack of bones Hargreaves was cooking. He’d dug his feet in about having oatmeal this morning, but Clara had made him pay for it by peppering him with dozens of questions about his family. God, she was relentless—though he had to admit she’d looked stunning, sitting in the kitchen chair across from him with her silver hair streaming over her shoulder.
He found her sitting on his couch with her feet up, a highball in her hand. The navy dress she had on today had a lower neckline and a higher hemline.
Oh, Clara was trouble with a capital T, all right.
And part of him couldn’t be more tickled.
“Who the hell else would it be? It’s my house, although you seem to be making yourself right at home.”
She slid off the couch in a way he wouldn’t normally notice, something amazing for a woman her age because it actually looked sexy. “Did you have a bad day?”
“Not particularly,” he replied, watching as she went over to his bar caddy and made him a martini. Where had the olives come from? he wondered as she added a few with panache.
“Oh, I thought for sure you had since you were barking like a dog,” she said, smiling at him as she brought him the drink.
“You didn’t get dolled up for me, did you?” he asked, noting the mauve touch of lipstick.
She winked. “You noticed, didn’t you?”
He growled. “What is that infernal smell?”
She linked her arm through his and led him to the couch. “Dinner.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, sitting beside her. “You’re trying to kill me in punishment for not talking to you since 1962.”
Of course, her response was to cozy up to him like they were going steady. He decided he’d enjoy it.
“I told you Hargreaves was a proficient cook,” she said, sipping her drink. “He’s taken courses at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
“Good for him, but I know what French food smells like.” He pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “That is not it.”
She settled back against the couch, rubbing up against it like she was a kitten. Oh, good gracious. He was too old for this kind of stimulation.
“It’s Indian food,” she said. “He makes the best naan you’ll ever have.”
“I haven’t had Indian food since—”
“Gandhi’s funeral in 1948,” she said with a sly smile.
Oh, she thought she had his number, did she? “I was ten years old in 1948, so it’s unlikely I was there. But you get points for cheekiness.”
She leaned her face briefly against his arm. “I meant to ask you if there’s a woman in town who might not like me staying here.”
He shifted slightly so he could see her better. Two could play this game. “More than one might get bent out of shape.”
Her eyebrow rose slowly. “Looking as you do, I can see you still breaking hearts.”
“Better than hips at this age,” he said, laughing. “There’s a woman I used to go out with every once in a while, but she’s still in love with her dead husband. We’re more companionable.”
“Meaning you haven’t slept with her?” Clara asked.
“I’m old. Not dead,” he said, giving her his best glower. “But we haven’t seen much of each other lately if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you still in love with your wife?” she asked.
“You’re nosy.” He took a healthy swig of his drink. “Egad, you made this strong.”
“Part of my plan,” she said. “I was hoping you’d tell me all your secrets.”
“Oh, good Lord, Clara,” he said, shifting on the couch. “You’re still a brat. But I’ll answer your question. Harriet was the only woman I loved while we were together. But when she died, I grieved her. I can’t go about telling the young generation to move on from loss and tragedy if I don’t do it. Besides, I know Harriet wouldn’t want me to hole up with her old sweaters and cry myself to sleep for the rest of my life.”
“I burned all of Reinhold’s clothing in the garden when he died,” she said, swirling her drink in her hand. “Then I had cake and champagne. I probably had more fun that day than I did at my wedding.”
Yeah, he remembered she’d had none of her usual sass that day, and it had saddened him. Every detail she shared about her marriage painted a bleak picture, and he felt for her. No one deserved a lifetime of misery. No one so full of life deserved to be shackled to a human mannequin like Reinhold.
“I’m sorry you had such a bad time of it.”
“It was my partly my fault, which is why I understand Julian,” she said.
Ah. He’d wondered why she’d been so quick to help the boy.
“I didn’t see Reinhold for what he was until it was too late, and convention kept me from divorcing him. We lived separate lives, which was the best I could hope for.”
“So you had an understanding?”
She socked him in the arm. “Is that your indelicate way of asking if I took lovers too during our marriage? Well, Arthur Hale, you can go stuff yourself.”
Standing, she put her hands on her hips, and he thought about grabbing her by those curves. Oh, sod it. Why the heck not?
He pulled her onto his lap none too gracefully, and his cane clattered to the ground. “Yes, you’re a brat, but I still like you. And your legs aren’t bad.”
She snorted, extending one of the legs he’d complimented. “Did you notice the shortened hemline? Hargreaves stuck me a few times in the hemming process after we got home from the Rembrandt photo shoot.”
She’d shortened her clothing today? God, she was batty. Like he cared about a dress.
“I can’t wait to see those pictures,” he said, feeling like he’d somehow cajoled a wild gazelle onto his lap. “You’re the only woman who would keep a Rembrandt hidden.”
“I had good cause, but J.T. is twisted up pretty good about whether the world will understand. He and Caroline haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye, but I think they made up in Lucy’s office today.”
He covered his ears. “Don’t tell me things like that.”
“Do you really want to see the Rembrandt?” she asked, swaying on his lap.
Okay, he’d heard that. “Of course. Clara, stop that. You’re going to make me seasick.”
“I was trying to be seductive.”
He laughed. “Your routine needs some work.”
She socked him again, and he had to be losing it because he found he rather liked it. “You’re one to talk. Here I dress up for you and shorten my hemline—”
“And lower your neckline,” he said, letting his eyes dip to the slight cleavage exposed.
Both her hands twined in the hair at the back of his head. “You really did notice. And here I was worried you might be dead in that department.”
He pecked her solidly on the lips to prove he wasn’t. She held him in place when he went to draw back, and soon he was kissing Clara Merriam for the first time, and damn, it was really good.
When she finally released him, her blue eyes were sparkling. In them, he could see the young woman he used to take to the ballet or for a walk through Central Park. But both of them had changed, honed by life, and she’d acquired a wisdom he found more attractive than that snarky young girl.
“You’re more beautiful now, you know,” he said softly.
She traced his cheekbone, her lips twitching. “You aren’t.”
He scoffed. “Well, thank you very much.”
“Oh, but I like this new you in some ways,” she said. “You were so…driven and serious when I knew you.”
“I had a lot I wanted to do,” he said, shrugging. “And I haven’t done half bad.”
“Yet you haven’t slowed down one bit,” she said, tapping his cheek. “You’re just like Grandpa Emmits. He was working a full day when he dropped dead.”
Arthur remembered receiving that phone call. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d hung his head and cried. “It was how he would have wanted it. Not a bad way to go if you ask me.”
“I’d rather go in the sack with a man I was in love with,” she said, looking him directly in the eye.
He didn’t blink. Was she teasing him? Or was she trying to tell him something? After a moment, he decided she was serious.
“If you keep things up, you never know,” he said carefully. “It could lead that way.”
She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips, and dammit if he didn’t feel a warm glow in his chest.
“You know,” he said finally, caressing her incredible cheekbones, “I imagined a hell of a lot of things for my so-called golden years, but I didn’t see this coming.”
“If you’d called me after my husband died, we’d have gotten to this earlier.”
He rolled his eyes. “Brat. You could have called me.”
She made a rude sound. “Women from my generation do not call up men, Arthur.”
She was full of shit, but this wasn’t the moment to point it out.
“I’m feeling better than I have in years,” she said, lowering her voice, “and I’m old enough to know how precious it is. Just promise me something.”
He put his arms around her. “What?”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘anything, Clara.’”
He barked out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. I would never agree to something carte blanche like that. You know me better than to expect otherwise.”
She gave a decided huff. “Fine. I was only going to… Oh, never mind.”
Before he knew it, she was sliding off his lap. He watched as she started to walk off.
“I don’t remember you ever running away,” he said to stop her. He was too old to chase after her.
“I was going to check on that revolting dinner you smell,” she said, throwing out her arms in a dramatic gesture. “You want to know what I was going to say? Okay, here goes. I was going to ask you to promise not to break my heart like you did in 1960. How’s that for one of your timeline markers?”
He stood and felt none too steady without his cane. “I didn’t break your heart.”
“I know my own heart,” she said, laying her hand over it. “I cried when you left, Arthur, and I never cry.”
He had to cough to clear his throat. “Clara! Oh, dagnabbit.”
“As I said, I’m going to check on dinner, although perhaps I’ll have Hargreaves open a can of your boring tomato soup instead. Then I’ll show you the Rembrandt.”
She turned the music off, and he grabbed his cane and walked toward her.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. “I cared for you too, but the people we were then… Clara, you know as well as I do that we weren’t meant for each other.”
“And now?” she asked, those blue eyes searching.
He extended his hand to her and was glad when she clasped it. “It’s early yet, but things look promising.”
Her chest lifted as she took a deep breath. “I must be going senile to think about falling in love at my age, and with someone as stubborn as you are.”
“You’re stubborn too,” he pointed out, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it.
“You haven’t forgotten all your moves,” she said, tapping him on the chest. “And if I’m stubborn, it’s only because you like it and need it.”
His mouth twitched. “I do indeed. Don’t stop.”
She fought a smile, but it finally won out. “I won’t. I know you better than you think, even after all these years.”
Truer words had never been spoken. And she’d lit up his life in a way he’d never expected—and didn’t want to lose. He’d never thought he was lonely, but perhaps his life outside the office had gotten stale. “About the Rembrandt… Did you really say you were going to show it to me?”
“Yes,” she said, keeping his hand and leading him back to the couch.
They sat down together, and she took his cane and set it out of reach. He decided not to comment.
“Clara, are you telling me there’s a priceless painting here in my house?” he asked instead.
She put her hand on his knee and left it there. He rather liked that.
“J.T. had trouble with the idea too, but I told him there was no safer place than under my bed. Besides, Hargreaves would handle any thieves, but seriously, who would break into this house? You’re a legend, after all.”
He stared at her. “Under your bed? Woman, you’re insane to think Hargreaves could handle anything. You call J.T. and ask him to come and get the Rembrandt right now. I don’t want that kind of responsibility. That painting’s priceless.”
“You’re overreacting,” she said in a bored tone, “but I’ll call him tomorrow and talk to him about this safe Trevor seems to have. I can’t have you both on my back.”
“You’re too much,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Under your bed!”
His phone rang, and he wanted to snarl. Of course the phone would ring when he was sitting beside a beautiful woman on his couch.
“Go ahead and answer it,” she said, flicking a hand toward the sound. “I know your work is important.”
That response had him stepping even lighter to the phone, and without his cane, he realized. Young Clara hadn’t truly understood or respected his work. That had clearly changed, much to his delight.
“Would you make me another drink?” he asked. “I plan to let you wrangle out a few more secrets after I take this call.”
Her smile was like quicksilver. “Oh, Arthur, I’m so happy.”
He was too. Picking up the phone, he watched her saunter back to the bar.
“Arthur Hale,” he answered.
“Hello, Arthur. It’s Franklin Gerhardt. I’m sorry to be calling you at home.”
His blood pressure rose. Why would the bank be calling him after hours?
“What can I do for you, Franklin?”
“Arthur, this is a very difficult call for me to make, but the decision came from the executive office.”
His stomach sunk. “What decision?”
Franklin coughed. “The bank has decided to call your loan in. You have thirty days to pay it, or we’ll have to take possession.”
That place was his second home, his legacy. He turned his back on Clara, feeling his chest tighten. “Why would you call in the loan? I pay the monthly balance on time and—”
“Like I said, Arthur, this came from the executive office.”
Something was wrong here, especially on the tail of losing their largest advertiser. He could feel it in his gut, and his gut had never failed him. He did a mental computation of what he still owed. “You expect me to pull together three million in thirty days? Franklin, that’s impossible! This isn’t what we agreed to. This is bullshit, and you know it!” His heart pounded in his ears, and he started sweating.
“The loan agreement says very clearly it’s at the bank’s discretion to call in the final balance at any time, thus giving the loanee thirty days to pay the full balance.”
Now he was giving him legalese? Yeah, something was wrong for sure. He’d gotten the runaround from the advertiser that had left too.
“What happens if I can’t pay the full amount?” he asked, hoping the man wouldn’t voice his greatest fear.
“The bank takes over the paper if you default,” Franklin said.
His chest got tight, and suddenly it was hard to breathe.
“I’m sorry, Arthur. We’ve known each other a long time, and this wasn’t a call I ever expected to make.”
“You’re damn right it isn’t!” Arthur barked.
He could lose the paper? It wasn’t possible. The thought made him lightheaded.
“Goodbye, Arthur.” He barely heard the man’s brush-off over the roaring in his ears.
He lowered the phone and stared out the window, rubbing his chest. How was he supposed to find three million dollars in thirty days? Everything he worked for was in danger.
Pain shot through his chest like a lightning bolt, and he clutched it. “Argh.”
“Arthur!” Clara called.
The pressure increased, and he felt himself tip and then crash to the floor. He landed hard. More pain radiated from his bad hip. Jesus!
“Arthur, what’s wrong?” Clara asked, bent over him.
“Can’t breathe,” he hissed out, his fist over his heart.
He smacked it for good measure, but it didn’t stop the pain or help him breathe. The pain shot down his arm, and it went numb. God, he was having a heart attack.
“Dammit! Arthur Hale, you listen to me.”
Strong hands gripped his face, and for a moment, he focused on her. There were tears in her eyes.
“You aren’t going to die on me. Not when I’ve only just found you again. Do you hear me? Hargreaves!”
He heard someone stomping across the wooden floors. A cold hand touched his face.
Then the pain in his chest surged again, and he felt nothing.