Читать книгу Lydia Lane - Judith Bowen - Страница 9

FOR A SPLIT SECOND, Lydia thought about playing dumb, but decided that was giving Sam Pereira more importance in her life than he had: he was a potential client, according to his ex. That was all. “Sure I do. How are you, Sam?” she asked pleasantly.

“Fine, fine. Yourself?”

“Very well.”

“Married? Kids?”

“No.” She racked her brain for something to say. Funny how you could obsess about a situation like this—well, she had when she was fifteen—and come up with a million clever remarks but when the time came, your mind went blank. “How about you?”

“Divorced. One daughter.”

“That’s nice—not about the divorce, I mean. I meant your daughter, that must be nice.” She took a deep breath. “So, do you still see Steve much?”

“Now and then. We spent some time together last summer near Peterborough. I was with him and Avie—you remember Avie Berkowitz?”

“No.” She remembered a Jill Berkowitz, who was probably related.

“He graduated with me and Steve. We went fishing, the three of us and my little girl. Rented a cabin for a week. Caught some northern pike.”

“Great.” Lydia was starting to feel silly. Where was this conversation going? “Well, it’s good to hear from you, Sam, after all this time—”

“Fourteen years.”

Had it been that long? Thirteen, Lydia had thought. “As a matter of fact, Candace Downing mentioned your name to me yesterday.”

“That’s what I’m calling about,” he said quickly, the charm evaporating as he picked up on what she hoped were her cool, attention-to-business tones. “Candace is, uh, she’s my ex, you know.”

“Yes, she told me. She mentioned you might call me regarding Domestica—”

“That’s it. Candace thinks I could use your company’s services. Organizing my house or whatever it is you do. I’m not a hundred percent convinced but I told her I’d talk to you.”

“I understand. Domestica isn’t for everyone,” Lydia said stiffly. Honestly, she was so tired of people being skeptical about the joys and rewards of making a house a home, even people who desperately needed it.

“That’s what I told Candace. Can we get together to talk about it?”

“This is a busy season but I think I could work you in.” It would have been a lie, except that with Charlotte’s wedding, this actually was a busy time. “We could discuss your needs tomorrow or Saturday. Or toward the middle of next week? I have a wedding to go to on Monday.”

There was a horrifying split-second pause. “My…needs?”

“What you want me to do. You know the services Domestica offers clients?” she said hastily. From the frying pan into the fire!

And, of course, Sam didn’t miss a beat. He chuckled. “Hey, for a minute there…”

“Does tomorrow afternoon work for you?” she interjected frostily. Really! Mr. Charming hadn’t changed his ways much. “Say, two o’clock?”

“Two o’clock is fine. My place or yours?”

“It’d better be your place, Sam, since it’s your place I’ll be organizing, right?”

“Right. See you at two.” He gave her directions to his house and Lydia put the phone down, realizing that her hand was shaking. She wished she didn’t know him. She wished she was meeting him for the first time and could safely call him Mr. Pereira, as she addressed all her clients. It was part of the professional attitude she tried to maintain, which was hard when so many people seemed to automatically look down on the “menial work” they thought she did, even though they were paying big bucks for her expertise.

Just hearing his voice after all this time…

Would she be able to pull it off? The cool, competent Ms. Lydia Lane? Of course she would. This was just another job and a particularly interesting one, considering what Candace had said. It was ridiculous to even think anything else! She was no besotted fifteen-year-old who went tongue-tied and weak-kneed at the sight of a macho guy on a noisy motorcycle.

Not anymore.

And, besides, what was she worried about? He had no idea she’d ever had a crush on him. As far as he was concerned, she was just Steve Lane’s little sister. She was lucky he’d remembered her at all.

SHE HAD the breakfast club assignment in the morning, which meant allowing time to zip back to the loft and change out of her uniform of the past two years—black leggings, a loose hip-length striped black-and-tan linen tunic that said “Domestica” on the back and a chef’s apron. Sometimes, on a cooking job, she’d don a big chef’s cap, too. Kids loved that. When she was doing closets or helping a client organize other parts of his or her life, she added a slip-on apron that had a million pockets in it. Lydia had sewn the aprons herself, plus tunics for her part-timers, all of whom had families of their own and had booked off through the holiday season, until the middle of January.

The breakfast club ladies were full of post-Christmas gossip and entertained themselves while Lydia whipped up breakfast in the middle of Mrs. Laverty’s big kitchen. There were seven regulars, all longtime friends in their fifties, who rotated their meetings at each others’ houses every Friday morning. They’d played cards for a while, shopped and even hired a personal trainer for six weeks once. Now they were trying a no-fat breakfast club. This was the last one of the year, and Mrs. Laverty told her they’d decide next month if they were going to continue with the club or try some other activity.

The ladies were always dieting. Lydia prepared poached eggs with smoked salmon and grilled tomatoes with feta cheese and basil. She juiced man-goes, strawberries and kiwis for beverages and popped a batch of apple muffins in the oven for those ladies who preferred low-fat to no-fat. There were always two or three who caved and had muffins or coffee cake or whatever Lydia baked.

Then she rushed home to change. She’d been thinking about Sam all morning. She was curious about him. Where he lived, how he lived, what his daughter looked like. What kind of father he was—a wonderful one, according to his ex. Whether law school and responsibility had changed him at all.

She checked her messages when she came in the door, as was her habit.

“Lydia? Sam here. Listen, my daughter would really like to meet you. What about joining us for dinner this evening so Amber could be there? Nothing fancy. Six o’clock? If not, see you at two.”

Well. Lydia was moved. She did want to meet Sam’s daughter. See what kind of child had been produced by the union of a sexy Portuguese-Canadian tough guy and a delicate, Barbie doll TV-host mom. And, of course, she’d be spending time with Amber if Sam offered her the job.

Eight years old? The girl was probably either a terror or hopelessly adorable.

So afternoon businesslike was out and casual social evening was in. Lydia opened the door of her overstuffed antique armoire—she’d order built-ins when the movie money came in—and started pulling out and discarding outfits. She had an impression to make—on two people—and she wanted it to be exactly right.

SAM LIVED in a three-story brick Victorian on Parry Street, a block from High Park. It was one of those roomy older houses meant for a big family. The streets in the area were lined with mature elms and maples and Lydia passed a group of children playing hockey under the streetlights as she inched along in her minivan, which she’d retrieved from the garage that afternoon.

By this time of day, in midwinter, it was nearly dark. Luckily, she was able to park right in front of the Pereira house. Her mechanic had told her the van needed major repairs—a valve job, among other things. She didn’t want to think about it.

She reached over to the passenger side to grab the mixed bouquet of flowers she’d brought as a neutral-but-appropriate offering to her host and prospective client. Wine, she’d decided, was too personal and presumptuous for what was essentially a business meeting. She also retrieved her leather project case, a converted briefcase in which she kept notes and plans concerning the individual projects she had on the go, both the ones she was doing herself and those she’d farmed out to part-timers. With the Christmas holidays underway, she was on her own, and her agenda pages were dismally empty.

She had mixed feelings about accepting Sam’s revised invitation. She wanted the job, but she also wanted to remain on strictly business terms with Sam, something that might be harder to do while sitting down to a meal with him and his daughter. On the other hand, she was anxious to meet Amber in an informal setting. Father and daughter were both part of this project. Candace didn’t want Lydia just to straighten out Sam’s life and organize his shopping and menus, she wanted her to function as something of a role model for Amber. Not that a month or two of her influence would make much difference with a child who’d be at school most of the time Lydia was around.

And of course, she’d be working for Sam—not Candace—if the job was offered. Sam was the person she needed to convince.

She got out of the minivan, which had ping-pinged all the way over—the valve problem, apparently—and balanced on the icy sidewalk. It had snowed the day before but the sidewalk leading to the Pereira residence had been neatly cleared, the snow piled on either side. At the bottom of the steps that led to the front porch, Lydia noticed a professionally lettered sign, with an arrow pointing to the side of the building: Sam T. Pereira, Barrister & Solicitor. His home office obviously had an outside entrance. There was a buzzer, but Lydia raised the old-fashioned brass door knocker—incredibly tarnished, she noted—and rapped smartly.

The door was opened almost immediately. Lydia felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Sam Pereira! And ten times handsomer than she remembered.

“How you doing, Lydia?” He grinned and extended his hand. “You look great.” Was he going to kiss her?

She quickly thrust the flowers at him. “Here. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. You don’t look so bad yourself.” The understatement of the year.

“Flowers?” He seemed dumbfounded, then pleased. “Hey, how about that? You can give Amber her first flower-arranging lesson.” He held the door wider and Lydia stepped in.

The vestibule was warm, and Lydia could smell smoke from a wood fire crackling somewhere. There were no pictures on the wall and only a vinyl boot mat at the door, no carpet of any kind. He kept smiling at her, which made her blood jangle from her knees to her earlobes. Lydia fumbled with the buttons on her coat. He reached out one hand, still smiling, “Here, let me take that.”

Lydia pulled off her boots and allowed Sam to take her jacket. While he hung it in the hall closet—crowded beyond belief with coats, hats, umbrellas, tennis rackets, boots and school bookbags, to name just part of its burden—she slipped into the low-heeled black suede shoes she’d brought with her.

“Very nice,” he murmured as he turned to her again, eyeing her embroidered twin set and trim gray slacks. She’d thought the outfit faintly festive and yet businesslike at the same time.

She ignored the comment. “Well?”

“Come in,” Sam said, leading the way. Lydia picked up her project case and followed him. He was wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt, short-sleeved, which showed off his biceps. Despite the law degree, he still resembled a neighborhood tough, from the shaggy dark hair to the well-muscled physique. He even had a vestige of the swagger she remembered.

“This is my daughter, Amber,” he said proudly as they entered the kitchen. “Amber, this is Lydia Lane.”

“Hi!” A sweet-looking girl with dark hair and brown eyes was stirring something in a bowl. “Dad and I are making supper.”

Dropping the flowers on the counter, Sam turned to Lydia and whispered. “Do you want to be Ms. Lane?”

“Lydia, please,” she returned quietly.

“You can call her Lydia, honey. Uh, Lydia—” His warm dark eyes swept over her again. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Fruit juice? Water?”

Lydia hesitated a split second. “A glass of wine would be very nice.” She moved closer to the girl. “What are you making, Amber?”

“Some salad.” The girl stirred whatever she had in the bowl. Stirred salad? “It’s our special salad, me ’n’ my dad’s. We make it all the time. Even for picnics in the summer and at the lake when we go fishing.”

“I see.” Lydia stepped a little closer and saw that the girl was stirring shredded green cabbage, flecked with a few grated carrots and a bit of red cabbage. She noticed the empty cellophane bag marked “coleslaw” on the counter beside the bowl. “That looks yummy.”

“It is,” the girl said with a shy smile, giving the cabbage an extra stir. “Very yummy.”

“Tonight’s our big night to cook, right, honey?” her father said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of wine. “Riesling do, Lydia?”

“Just fine.” Her curiosity was aroused. “What else is on the menu, Amber? I’m presuming you’re the cook here and your dad’s just the helper.”

The girl giggled. “Yes. Dad!” she said importantly, addressing him. “I need the bottle out of the fridge, the stuff for the salad.”

“Ta-da!” He plunked a bottle of creamy coleslaw dressing on the counter and Lydia watched the girl glug at least half the bottle into the grated cabbage and start stirring vigorously again. “We’re having chicken and salad and little buns out of the fridge.”

Little buns out of the fridge? Sam poured wine into two glasses.

“Have you got a vase?” Lydia could see that no one was going to do anything about the flowers. She had the feeling it wasn’t because they weren’t appreciated, just that no one realized they’d die if they weren’t put into water immediately.

Sam reached into a cupboard over the refrigerator and brought down a dusty cut-glass vase. “Never been used,” he said with a smile, giving it a quick wipe with a paper towel. “I think it was a wedding present. I have no idea why Candace didn’t take it with her. It’s not my kind of thing.”

Lydia knew he was joking but his casual mention of his ex unnerved her. “Knife?”

“In the drawer.” Sam regarded her curiously.

Lydia pulled a carving knife out of the drawer he indicated and sawed off the bottom inch of the stems. The knife was dull. She ran warm water into the vase and thrust the flowers in, arranging them very hastily. It didn’t matter; they looked lovely. Shaggy and wild. She moved one cluster of chrysanthemums to a different part of the arrangement, then set the vase on the counter near Amber. “There!”

Sam silently handed her a glass of white wine.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No, thank you.” He picked up a glass himself and gazed admiringly at the flowers for a few seconds. Then, with a smile, he gestured toward the family room, which opened off the kitchen. The fireplace, with a fire blazing in it, was the source of the smoke she’d sniffed earlier. Sooty chimneys. She glanced around the room quickly. A very dead Christmas tree sagged in one corner. Other than that, it was a pleasant, comfortable room, but sadly in need of care. Dust on most of the horizontal surfaces, fingermarks on the woodwork, and the mirror over the mantel didn’t look as if it had been cleaned in a while.

Sam raised his glass and smiled. “To old friends.”

“To old friends,” she repeated, although it wasn’t at all true, and took a sip of the reisling, which was crisp and cold. They’d never been friends. She didn’t think she’d even spoken to him until now.

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” he asked. “You being Steve Lane’s kid sister?”

“Mmm.” Lydia perched on the edge of the loveseat that fronted the bay window. “Isn’t it? Steve and I aren’t that close anymore. He lives in Winnipeg, has a family.”

“I know. You’re what, three or four years younger than him?”

“Five.”

“Then Candace having you on her show like that.” He shook his head and smiled. He still had a killer smile…. “How are your parents, by the way?”

“Mom’s fine. She has a new boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” He looked rather shocked. “What about your dad?”

“Oh!” She realized he thought her mother was having an affair. “He lives in New York State. Albany. They’ve been divorced for ten years. Right after I graduated from high school, actually. I thought Steve might have mentioned it.”

“No.” Sam shook his head and studied her over the rim of his wineglass. Lydia wished he wouldn’t stare. She didn’t really want this visit to become personal in any way. Maybe she could hurry things up in the kitchen. “Do you want to talk business? Or is there anything I can do to help with the meal?”

Sam laughed. It was a very familiar sound, one that sent little skips of sensation down her spine. “Hell, no. It’s our usual Friday night supper, when we don’t eat out, that is. Cabbage salad, those pre-made biscuits in the refrigerator roll. Amber loves them—”

The buns out of the fridge.

“—and some chicken from a churrasqueira on Bloor Street. That’s my part.” He checked his watch. “I’m expecting the delivery kid any minute.”

“I thought you said this was your big night to cook,” she reminded him, taking another sip of wine. She sat back, feeling slightly more comfortable. What had she been so worried about? Sure, he was sexy and handsome as ever, but now that the initial shock had worn off, she knew she was fine. She’d met handsome, sexy guys before. Even the circus guy was handsome and sexy, although he sported a few too many tattoos for her taste.

“Hey, we are cooking—biscuits and salad.” He set his glass on a table beside him, the surface of which was littered with magazines and newspapers. “What can I say? At least it’s not pizza.” He made a face and she smiled. “Candace was pretty impressed with you the other day. She thinks you could probably do a lot for me.”

“And you don’t?”

He picked up his glass. “Damned if I know. I’ve had five housekeepers this year. Or six, I can’t remember. I’m game to try anything.”

“I’m not a housekeeper,” she warned.

“No.” He watched her carefully for a moment, then took a sip of his wine. “I understand that. But I’m not sure exactly what you do.”

“I teach people how to look after themselves in their own homes. That might sound strange, but a lot of people just don’t know how to do it anymore. They lurch from one crisis to the next, whether it’s no bread or milk in the house at breakfast time or no clean laundry when they need it. They’ve never learned the organizational skills to create the kind of quiet, efficient surroundings they want to live in and to maintain those surroundings with the least possible effort. They haven’t learned how to balance their busy lives with the requirements of a smoothly running household. And that’s what I teach them.”

“Wow.” He actually looked impressed, which Lydia found encouraging. It was her standard pitch. “The kind of things moms do,” he murmured.

“Some moms.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Maybe your mom. And mine, when Steve and I were little. In the past, yes, these were the skills passed down from mother to daughter. Life has changed.”

“Sure has.”

She crossed her legs. “People are different, too. It’s not one size fits all. Everyone wants a different kind of home. I try to design systems to suit my individual clients.”

“Sounds interesting. We’re not too formal here, as you’ve noticed.”

“Yes. Some people like formal surroundings, with everything in its place, and others prefer to live more casually. The trick is to organize your home so that you like it and you have some control over it. That way, in the end, you actually save time, which you can then spend enjoying your home or being with the people you love and everyone’s happier all around. It works, believe me.”

Sam laughed and Lydia’s fingers tightened on her drink. “Almost too good to be true. I’ve tried cleaning services. Live-ins. Housekeepers…” He glanced around the cluttered family room. “Hell, I’ve had so many housekeepers I’ve got the employment service on speed dial. No one ever stays. Seriously, I have no idea why. Then, when things get really bad, my mother steps in. She’s our lifesaver. Right now they’re in Portugal—”

“And it’s hardly her responsibility, is it?”

“No,” he said slowly. “Of course not. She’s raised three kids. She doesn’t need to be worrying about my household as well as her own.”

“Exactly. You’re a grown man. You should be able to look after yourself.”

He stared at her. Lydia wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds. “You’re right. I should be able to handle this. So tell me what you’d suggest for a hopeless case like me.”

Whew! For a few seconds there, she wondered if he’d taken offense. She reminded herself just how desperately she needed this job. “Nobody’s hopeless.”

“Promise?” He grinned. “Is that a money-back guarantee?”

“First we’d have some detailed talks about what exactly you want to achieve here.” She waved one hand to include the room. “Throughout the house. Then I’ll start teaching you whatever is necessary to accomplish that. Everything from the basics of how to wipe down and sanitize a kitchen counter to how to do laundry—” Lydia smiled but noticed that Sam didn’t “—to more complicated stuff like, oh, I don’t know—ironing tablecloths properly, making brioche, freezing perfect ice cubes. Depends on how much you want to do—”

“Hold on!” Sam held out a hand. “Forget brioche. Basic stuff, yes. Fancy stuff, no.”

“Like laundry?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe…”

Lydia wanted to laugh, considering what Candace had told her about Sam’s overworked laundry service, but she managed to maintain a straight face. “Basics are critical, of course, but you’d be surprised how much of a difference what you call the ‘fancy stuff’ can make to people’s lives. The happiness it can create. The serenity.”

“Yeah, I heard you talk about that on Candace’s show.” He looked at her as though he expected her to leap right in with a demonstration. She found the admiration in his eyes exhilarating and cautioned herself that she wasn’t here to be admired, pleasant as the sensation was. This wasn’t a social occasion.

She could hear sounds from the kitchen. Banging sounds. What was going on in there? “Do you want to talk about specifics now? Shall I give you a quick example?”

“Sure. Chicken’s not here yet.” Sam glanced at his watch, then leaned back and put his feet up on the leather ottoman in front of him.

“Okay.” He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her attentively. “Shoot.”