New Year, New Man. Laura Iding

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СКАЧАТЬ linoleum floor, the dark wood counters, the waitresses in their little white aprons, those plain shirtwaist dresses and sensible shoes. They look like they’ve been working here all their lives.”

      “Most of them have.” He sipped his café au lait and nodded at their server, Justine, who was tall and deep breasted with steel-gray hair. “Justine has been serving me since before I could walk. Gerta, our nanny, used to bring us here at least twice a week.”

      “Us?”

      “My brothers, my sisters and me. Sometimes my mother or my father would bring us. They’ve always loved it here, too. The croissants are excellent and Justine and the others always knew to wait on us without a lot of fanfare so we would be comfortable and able to enjoy just being a family out for a treat.”

      She ate the last bite of her croissant. “Um. So good.” A flaky bit of pastry clung to her plump lower lip.

      He imagined leaning across and licking it off. “Finish your coffee,” he said a little more gruffly than he meant to.

      She dabbed at her lip with her napkin and then sipped her coffee slowly. “Are we in a rush?”

      “We don’t want to miss the Procession of Abundance.”

      “Ah, yes,” she answered airily. “I read the guidebook. It’s an age-old Montedoran tradition that always occurs on a Friday at the end of November. A parade of farmers and vintners marching the length of the principality to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Sorrows in order to have their seeds and vines blessed, thus ensuring bountiful crops in the year to come.”

      He nodded approval. “Very good. But don’t forget the donkeys.”

      She pressed a hand, fingers spread, across her upper chest. “I can’t believe I forgot the donkeys. The farmers and vintners all ride on donkeys.”

      He gave another nod. “As did our Lord on Palm Sunday and Mary on the way to Bethlehem, the donkey symbolizing loyalty and humility and the great gift of peace, which brings the possibility of abundance. Ready to go?”

      She set down her white stoneware cup. “I just want to look at the pictures first.” And she swept out her left arm to indicate the sketches and paintings that jostled for space on the dark wood-paneled walls. A moment later she was up and strolling the length of the shop, her gaze scanning the framed oils, watercolors and pencil drawings created by local artists over the years.

      He left the money on the table and got up and went with her. She stopped opposite three drawings grouped together on the back wall. One was a street view of the café’s front window, one of a slightly younger Justine, in profile, bending to set a cup on a table. The third was the front window again but seen from inside. A fat cat sat on the window ledge looking out.

      Lucy said, “I do like these three. The cat reminds me of Boris.” Boris was her fat orange tabby.

      “Is Boris still in California?” When he’d taken her to New York, they’d had to leave Boris behind in the care of Hannah Russo, Lucy’s former foster mother, who was now Noah’s housekeeper.

      Lucy shook her head, her gaze on the cat in the drawing. “Hannah brought him to me a few weeks ago. He likes it in Manhattan. He sits in the front window and watches all the action down on the street—very much like this cat right here.” He knew she’d already checked for and found the scrawled initials, DBC, in the lower left-hand corners of each of the sketches. Lucy was always after him to dedicate more of his time to painting and drawing. She added, “These are so good, Dami. When did you do them?”

      He slid his arm around her waist, allowing himself the small, sharp pleasure of touching her, of feeling the warmth of her beneath the softness of her cashmere cardigan with its prim row of white buttons down the front. “Years ago. I was studying briefly at Beaux-Arts in Paris and drawing everything in sight. I came in for coffee, had my sketchbook with me. Justine gave me a box of pastries in exchange for these.”

      She leaned into him a little. He caught the scents of coffee and vanilla—and peaches. Today she smelled of peaches. And she scolded, as he’d known she would, “You should spend more time drawing and painting.”

      It was delicious, the feel of her against his side. “Life is full of diversions and there aren’t enough hours in a day.”

      “Still...”

      He turned her toward the door. “Let’s go. The Procession of Abundance won’t wait.”

      * * *

      After the parade, they strolled the Promenade in the harbor area, not far from where he’d told stories to the children the day before.

      She chattered gleefully about her upcoming first semester at the Fashion Institute of New York. She’d been to the school and pestered some of her future instructors for ways she might better prepare for the classes to come. As a result, she was designing accessories and working with fabrics she hadn’t used before.

      And then, again, she brought up his painting. “I know you have a studio here in Montedoro. I want you to take me there.”

      He teased, “Never trust a man who wants to show you his etchings.”

      “But that’s just it. You don’t want to show me. You keep putting me off.”

      He took her soft, clever hand and tucked it over his arm. “I’ll consider it.”

      She bumped her shoulder against him and flashed him a grin. “And I’ll keep bugging you until you give in and let me see what you’ve been working on.”

      “But I haven’t been working on any of that. I’m a businessman first. And you know that I am.”

      “You’re an artist, Dami,” she insisted. “You truly are.”

      “No, my darling. You are. Now please stop nagging me or I won’t take you to the holiday gala at the National Museum tonight.”

      Her big eyes got wider. “Oh, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten about the show at the museum. There will be an exhibit of that new car you’ve been working on, the Montedoro, won’t there?”

      “You make it sound as though I built the car personally.”

      She put on an expression of great superiority. “I know how to use the internet, believe it or not. I read all about the new sports car and how you helped design it.”

      “So, then, we’re agreed.”

      She sent him a look. “Agreed about what?”

      “You’ll go with me to the gala tonight. We’ll drink champagne. I will dazzle you with my knowledge of Montedoran art. And you’ll stop giving me grief about how I should spend more time in my studio.”

      * * *

      Lucy wore red to the gala that night. Her own design, the dress was strapless, of red satin, with a mermaid hem and a giant jeweled vintage pin in the shape of a butterfly at the side of her waist. She felt good in that dress—comfortable and about as close to glamorous as someone everyone considered “cute” was ever going to get.

      Dami said, “Wow,” when he saw it. And she had to СКАЧАТЬ