Читать книгу The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal - Karen Whittenburg Toller - Страница 10

Archer Braddock beat the rain to the top of the steps of Number 37 Lancashire and raised his cane to rap smartly on the front door. He liked the sound of wood on wood, found the cheerful chiming of a doorbell both annoying and intrusive, but a knock…ah, a knock was resonant discourse, an “I-have-business-within” announcement. Hadn’t he always told Janey he could tell as much about a man by his knock on the door as by his handshake? If she were here now, she’d remind him that using a cane instead of his knuckles was cheating somewhat on that theory, but arthritis had long since taken the strength from his hands, and death had stolen away his Janey. Still, she was the reason he was outside this particular door on this particular day, waiting to be admitted. “Ah, Janey, Janey,” he murmured softly. “Happy Anniversary, my dear.”

The door swung open just as the cold, January rain started in earnest and without waiting for a formal invitation, he stepped into the sheltered entryway. “Archer Braddock,” he announced himself to the crisp, somber-faced butler. “I have a two o’clock appointment with Mrs. Fairchild.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” The butler closed the door and Archer doffed his hat, sending a fine splatter of raindrops across the marbled tile. “Did you have an umbrella, sir?” the man asked as he expertly assisted in the removal of Archer’s topcoat and gloves.

“No. No, I’m afraid not.” There was one in the car, of course. His own man, Abbott, would never have let him leave the house without being properly equipped for every conceivable shift in the weather—it was a matter of pride among butlers, it seemed—but Archer had forgotten the umbrella when he’d dismissed the car. He hadn’t wanted anyone, including his completely trustworthy driver, to know where his appointment was today or with whom.

“Your scarf, sir?” The butler stood ready to accept the gray cashmere muffler, and Archer allowed his hand to linger a moment in the soft folds before he pulled it from around his neck. It was a gift from Janey one long-ago winter and a present reminder that she was never far from his side…if only in warm memory. And today, more than ever, Archer needed to feel her near.

The butler carefully folded the scarf and set it beside Archer’s hat on a marble top credenza. “Mrs. Fairchild is in the study,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

Archer settled his balance over the cane and set off after the butler. Not so many years ago, he’d largely have ignored his surroundings, taken for granted the beauty of luxury, and already been focused on the meeting ahead. But seventy-eight summers had taught him life was in a big enough rush without him adding to it and so he walked slower now, by choice as much as necessity. He’d never been to Ilsa’s home before, never had occasion or reason to be there until now and he was—as silly as it seemed—a little nervous. But the quiet charm of her home put some of his more niggling doubts to rest. Touches of elegance such as an Aubusson rug in the foyer, a Picasso on the wall leading upstairs, vases of fresh-cut flowers on mahogany tables in the open foyer were interspersed with simple indications—an old woven basket holding garden shears and a pair of women’s flowery cotton gloves, a pair of half-glasses sitting atop an upended book—that the woman who lived in this house was not overly concerned with appearances.

The butler led the way across the foyer to an open doorway and announced crisply, “Mr. Archer Braddock.”

“Mr. Braddock.” Ilsa Fairchild rose from an upholstered wing chair before a cozy fire to greet him warmly. “Right on time. Please come in.”

Archer stepped over the threshold, calling himself three kinds of a fool for setting out on this errand, for being an old man who still wished to believe in fairy tales and magic, but he extended his hand to her with a deceptively confident smile. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “I don’t often make the trip into Providence.”

“I’m thrilled that you called. It’s wonderful to see you again.” She accepted his handshake and then indicated with a gesture that he should be seated in the matching wing chair across from hers. “It’s been…what? Five years since we worked together on the library fund-raiser?”

“About that,” Archer agreed. “There have been so many of them through the years, I’ve lost track of which was which. The library always was one of Janey’s pet projects, you know.”

“Mine, as well.” Ilsa resumed her seat, graciously allowing him time to settle his less-than-graceful body into the chair while she addressed the butler. “Robert? Would you please bring us some tea and—” she looked a question at Archer “—coffee?”

He sank onto the cushions, grateful to be sitting after his walk in the moist afternoon air. “I would appreciate a cup of coffee,” he agreed.

Robert nodded acquiescence and withdrew, closing the double doors and enclosing Archer in the welcome warmth of the room and Ilsa’s smile. She still looked like a youngster to him although he knew she was in her early fifties, at most only a year or two younger than his own son, James. Age and experience had mined her beauty, faceted her charm, replacing lustrous youth with polished grace. She was still beautiful, tall, elegantly slender, with hair that had once been the color of new copper, but had faded to a muted auburn. Her gray eyes held the light of laughter and the knowledge of sorrow, but mostly the deep-set twinkle of a true believer and that, above all else, was the reason he had come.

“I was in Amsterdam when I heard about Mrs. Braddock’s passing.” Ilsa leaned slightly toward him with sympathy and the understanding of a widow for a widower. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have attended the funeral.”

It would be two years in March since that day and still the word bothered him as much now as then. “Celebration,” he corrected gently. “Funeral has such a final sound to it and, well, the truth is, I prefer to remember that day as a celebration of her life. She would have wanted to go out on a high note, you know.”

“I wish I’d known her better,” Ilsa said. “But any woman who was so obviously adored by the men in her life had to have been very special, indeed.”

“She was the love of my life, and I knew it the first second I laid eyes on her.” Archer leaned against the firmly cushioned chair back, shifting the crook of the sturdy, cherrywood cane—yet another lasting gift from his Janey—to the chair’s curved arm. “I know the value of love and the benefits of a good marriage. That’s why I’m here. My dear Mrs. Fairchild…may I call you Ilsa? I find myself in need of a…matchmaker.”

ILSA WAS SELDOM surprised by comments made inside the privacy of her study. Her clients tended to be nervous, unsure and somewhat embarrassed about their decision to seek her services. Often, the person seated across from her had no real idea of what she could and couldn’t do for them, nor was there any clear understanding of what, exactly, a matchmaker’s role was in the twenty-first century. With experience, Ilsa had learned to be forthright in setting a businesslike tone for these initial meetings, in establishing her credentials and outlining her strategies. It prevented problems down the road, but usually the client needed to first feel at ease and the business aspect didn’t come into play until after Robert had served tea, and the social niceties were duly dispatched.

Archer Braddock was obviously not her typical client.

“You need a matchmaker?” she repeated, knowing her surprise echoed in the words. “For yourself?”

A hoarse rumble of amusement edged past his immediate smile and became a deep, satisfied chuckle. “Ah, Ilsa, it was worth the trip up from Sea Change just for that.” He lifted a wizened hand to his mouth, as if to cover his laughter, but when he let it drop back onto the arm of the chair, his amusement was still very much in evidence. “Thank you, my dear, for believing even for an instant that I could still fancy myself going a courting. But the truth is, I’ll be seventy-nine at the end of June and it’s too late in my life to go looking for love, even if Janey wasn’t—as my grandsons would say—such a tough act to follow.”

Ilsa could feel a blush warming her cheeks and had to wonder what it was about the Braddock men that made her feel like such an ingenue. James had had the same effect on her when they were in school together, and the few times she had encountered him since. And now within the first ten minutes, she had reverted to speaking first and thinking afterward with his father, too. Of course, it could have had something to do with the fact that the Braddock name was synonymous with wealth and power, not only in Rhode Island, but up and down the Eastern seaboard. Maybe even in the whole western hemisphere! But Ilsa was no stranger to the privilege of family name and fortune herself and suspected her reaction was rooted in a much more basic reality. James and Archer Braddock were old world gentlemen, possessed of an elemental charm, a warm, earthy attraction and a sincere, somewhat awed regard for women. Archer had spent half a century deeply in love with his wife, while James—the last Ilsa had heard—was still seeking his perfect match. Still, there was some indefinable quality in both men that women responded to, naturally and without hesitation. Ilsa recognized it, even if she couldn’t quite put a name to it.

Robert’s tap on the door and subsequent entry with the tea tray was a more welcome interruption than she wanted to admit. Occupying her hands with the china cups and making sure the coffee was just the way her guest preferred it gave her time to regain a professional mien. No matter how influential, famous and powerful the Braddock family undeniably was, Archer Braddock had come to her as a client, and she would treat him as such. Which meant, despite an almost overwhelming impulse to ask about James—where he was, what he was doing, if he were married or not—she would keep her thoughts to herself and listen. If she’d learned anything about the people who sought out her services, she knew that listening was the key to it all. It was her gift, the listening. That and the ability to detect a spark of attraction where none was supposed to exist.

She’d barely swallowed her first sip of steaming Earl Grey, however, when Archer nailed her with the unexpected yet again. “You remember James?” he asked, as if there were some possibility she could have forgotten him. “I believe the two of you were in school together at one time.”

Ilsa set her cup in its china saucer with a ca-clink. “Yes, he was two years ahead of me at Exeter. He was also at Harvard with my husband, Ian. I haven’t seen James in several years. How is he?”

“Engaged,” Archer said with a frown. “That’s his chronic state, when he isn’t married or getting unmarried, that is. I’ve given up hoping he’s ever going to find the right woman…they all seem right to him for the time it takes him to say, ‘I do.’ But I didn’t come here to talk about James. I came because I’ve heard some amazing stories recently about couples you’ve brought together, Ilsa, even though I had to do some serious sleuthing to discover the ‘professional matchmaker’ everyone was whispering about with such reverence was you.”

“I try to keep a low profile,” she said modestly.

“Appears you’re successful on all counts.” His cup rattled in the saucer as he set one within the other. “No one would come within a breath of confessing their own personal experience, but most all were willing to expound at some length on the miracles you’d wrought for others.”

“I have a knack for recognizing possibilities, perhaps, but that’s a far cry from producing a miracle, Mr. Braddock.”

“Please, call me Archer. Gives me a thrill to be on a first-name basis with beautiful women, and these cold winter days, thrills aren’t so easy to come by.”

She gave her smile as easily as her acquiescence. “Certainly, Archer.”

His nod of approval came on top of his next question. “So, Ilsa, if you’re not a miracle worker, how are you able to assist Heaven in making a match between two seeking hearts?”

She set aside her teacup and saucer, finally on solid ground. “I do an extraordinary amount of research,” she said. “I study everything I can get my hands on about a person, from old school records to favored hairstyles, preferred leisure activities, favorite and not favorite restaurants, personal convictions and private opinions. I take my time in discovering all I can about a candidate, and then I put all that information aside, and simply pay attention to the world that surrounds my client. Each of us come into contact with an amazing assortment of individuals throughout our lives, but most people aren’t paying attention and miss the opportunity to make a connection. I pay attention, and that’s why I’m successful. I can provide a list of references, if you’d like, although privacy concerns prevents me from revealing my client list.”

“Not necessary,” he said. “I did my own research before I made the decision to approach you. Despite the strict confidentiality you request from your clientele, I managed to attain enough information to be considerably impressed. Although I must say, I failed to gain even a glimmer of what you charge for your services. A fact that leads me to believe your fees must be rather substantial.”

“It’s no simple task to put a price on love, Mr. Braddock.” The truth was she charged what she felt her contribution was worth, based on the ability of the customer to pay and her core belief that a genuine “match” was worth a genuine sacrifice. “Could you do it?”

His smile was reflective, wistful, and admiring. “No,” he said. “I would never even try.”

She nodded, glad they agreed.

He nodded, too, then reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small stack of photographs and handed it to her. “My grandsons,” he said with no small degree of pride. “Adam, Bryce and Peter.”

Ilsa looked at the wallet-size photos one by one, then spread them in a row across the table beside her chair and examined them thoroughly again. Each handsome face was stamped with the same Braddock heritage—strong jaw, straight nose, regal brow—still evident in Archer’s aging features and in her own still vivid memory of James’s face. The three young men were clearly brothers, although individually quite different. Ilsa had seen their pictures in the society pages and on the cover of the tabloids, of course. The Braddock brothers were favorites of the paparazzi. Their history was the stuff of scandal, and although Ilsa knew only bits and pieces of it, herself, the public knew even less and was hungry for more. It was a testament to Archer and his wife that they had kept the world outside the gates of Braddock Hall, their ancestral home, and raised their three grandsons away from the public eye. But Ilsa could see, even from the two-dimensional photos, that James’s sons possessed that indefinable quality that would make them as irresistible to women as Braddock men had been rumored to be for a couple of centuries.

“Very handsome young men,” she said, glancing up from the pictures. “Do they have…seeking hearts?”

“Not so anyone could tell,” he answered tersely.

Those few words were enough to give her some valuable insight. “But you’re their grandfather and you pay attention.”

Their eyes met, his still a vivid green, hers a deep and perceptive gray. “Yes,” he said. “It’s no secret that James has made a hash of finding true love and a game out of marriage and divorce. Janey and I always hoped our grandsons would seek out a relationship similar to our own, one worthy of a lifetime commitment, but not one of them shows a single sign of being capable of recognizing love when it does come along.” He pointed out each picture as he named off the brothers. “That’s Peter. He’s the youngest. He’s dazzled by long-legged debutantes. The blue-eyed charmer there in the middle is Bryce. He’s our Robin Hood, robbing tomorrow’s joys for today’s pleasure. He prefers young women with big, toothy smiles and more bosom than brains. The oldest is Adam, who is all business all the time. He’s fascinated by any woman who carries a briefcase larger than his.”

“Intriguing.” Ilsa continued to study the pictures for a moment. “I’m surprised some enterprising mothers haven’t solved your matchmaking problems for you long before now.”

“Oh, they’ve tried, believe me. But my grandsons are nearly as slippery as they are suave. It would be a mistake to let them know you and I have even discussed their…future.”

“I am nothing if not discreet, Archer, and I consider myself a facilitator of romance, not an instigator. I initiate a meeting, allow the possibilities to present themselves, then step back and see what happens. Any intervention after that point involves a light touch and great deal of diplomacy.”

“I take that to mean, you don’t offer a money-back guarantee.”

“No, but I do have a rather astounding rate of success. If you prefer, your grandsons won’t ever know I’ve been involved in their match. On the other hand, that secrecy requires considerably more effort for the two of us. You’ll be my only contact and my best resource for information. Are you sure you won’t mind being involved in a somewhat clandestine alliance with me?”

His chuckle came again, rough and charming. “I may be an old man, but I’m not dead yet. My only regret is that Janey isn’t here to enjoy this little intrigue along with us.”

“I suspect she has a full-time job being your guardian angel.”

His wrinkled smile turned wistful. “You’re right about that.” He paused, then nodded, clearly ready to close the deal. “So are you up to the challenge of finding the right women for my grandsons?”

“I’m open to the possibilities, yes.” She met his eyes with a wry smile. “I may never have had three tougher cases, but your grandsons do have a certain cachet to recommend them. The Braddock name will mean something to the young women I introduce to them.”

Archer took a final sip of the coffee, then set his cup and saucer on the table beside his chair and reached for his cane. “It’s what the Braddock name means to my grandsons that will cause you the biggest headaches, I’m afraid. But let’s not set out on our adventure by worrying about the problems ahead. Let’s focus instead on the beginning of a promising new enterprise and the possibility that I might live long enough to see my first great-grandchild.”

Ilsa smiled, very glad to know this was the first of many meetings to come with Archer Braddock. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two with a list of information I’ll need. The research can take as long as three or four months, but things generally move rather quickly once it’s completed. I feel it’s very important to be thorough.” She rose and resisted the impulse to help him up.

He pushed himself out of the chair with only a slight stiffness of movement and shifted his center of balance with the cane. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear, but if I may make a small suggestion…begin with Adam. He’s the oldest, but I’m also rather worried that he’s missed so much in his life. He needs to fall in love with something other than Braddock Industries and he needs to do it very soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” They walked together, slowly but most companionably, to the door and across the foyer. Robert awaited them in the entryway, standing ready with Archer’s coat and scarf. “My staff is even more discreet than I am myself,” Ilsa said. “So you can feel comfortable if you ever need to leave a message with them.”

Archer slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapped the gray scarf around his neck. “Feel free to leave messages for me, too,” he said with a wink. “It won’t bother me a bit if everyone in my household believes I’m having an illicit affair in my old age.” He laughed and looked quizzically at Robert.

“Today is not a good day to be without one’s umbrella, sir,” Robert said, holding out a black umbrella. “I took the liberty of procuring one for you.”

Archer accepted it with an appreciative smile. “Discreet, efficient and exceptionally thoughtful. Thank you, Robert.” He turned again to Ilsa. “And thank you, my dear, for a delightful afternoon. I’m looking forward to your call.”

Robert prepared to open the door, but Archer paused, holding off the action. “If this works out as we hope, then perhaps you’ll consider taking James on as a client.”

Ilsa laughed, despite the way her stomach knotted just at the thought. “As I believe we established, Archer, I can’t work miracles.”

“Ah, well, I think that remains to be seen.” And with a tip of his hat, he stepped through the doorway, opened his umbrella, and walked into the drizzly Providence afternoon.