The Brontë Plot Read Online Free Page B

think the woman had never seen green eyes. She’s definitely interested in you.” James swiveled toward her. “And she wasn’t feeling all that great. Maybe lunch then visiting you was too much.”
    Lucy’s call came just as they were cleaning up and James was wiping down the worktable. Within minutes she was organizing the delivery of three various chests, two Tahitian water jug lamps, two Stickley chairs, and a gorgeous oak dining table—all while James roamed the workroom and gallery.
    After the delivery truck pulled away, Lucy checked the gallery and shrugged on her coat. “You ready?”
    James stood by her desk, tapping a book. “Is this a book you’re selling?”
    Lucy followed his gaze and narrowed her eyes, annoyed she hadn’t hidden the book, hadn’t tossed it. She turned away to search for her keys. “No. My father sent it to me. It arrived in the mail today.”
    â€œYou rarely mention him, except tonight.”
    â€œNot much to say.” Lucy heard her tight voice and lightened it. “All my memories of him are wrapped up in reading and stories. He told stories all the time, lived them really. That’s what I meant, James, when I said I was acting like him earlier. He made up stories, told lies. He was a grifter.”
    â€œA con man? A real one?”
    â€œNot glamorous. Not like TV.” Lucy arched a brow. “He was always looking for the ‘coming thing,’ something really big, but he never worked for it and it never arrived. It usually involved some scam and because he had this beautiful English accent people innately trusted, he was able to pull off the initial steps. Then when the plan flopped or he got scared, we moved—until he left for good.”
    Lucy leaned against the worktable and gestured toward the book. “I call that my Birthday Book. Each and every year, I get a book—haven’t seen or heard from him in twenty years, but he keeps track of me because there’s this year’s book.”
    â€œWhen was your birthday?”
    â€œA couple months ago. This one’s a little late.”
    â€œNo communication? There’s no note? Nothing?” James opened the book and leafed through the pages.
    â€œNever. But it is his first nonfiction selection and it’s used. I’m assuming it was his, and maybe there’s some meaning in that.” Lucy pushed off the table and came to stand beside him. “I looked up John Ruskin. He was the Victorian era’s most renowned art critic. That’s new and intriguing. Or perhaps it means nothing at all and that’s my own bit of fiction.”
    â€œConsidering he’s sent a book every birthday for the last twenty years, I think you can read meaning and significance into that.”
    â€œPerhaps.” Lucy laid the book on her desk.
    â€œYou all set?”
    James grabbed his coat and Lucy set the alarm.
    As he walked out, she said, “You want to really earn sainthood? A bunch of friends are meeting at the Girl and the Goat tonight and they’d love to meet you.”
    James winked. “I’m all in.”

Chapter 3
    F our Book Days passed and Lucy barely noticed. Spring had hit Chicago, trees blossomed, and as the populace emerged from hibernation, clients clamored to “freshen” their homes. Sid ran himself ragged meeting the demand and Lucy struggled to keep only two steps behind.
    â€œI’ve got two new client meetings today.” Sid drummed his fingers on his red leather appointment book.
    â€œAnything I can pull for them?”
    â€œI don’t know enough yet. The Ryans saw that magazine shoot of the Cramer home and they’ve decided taxicab-yellow walls are the way to go.”
    â€œAren’t they? Always?” Lucy checked off the last of the samples she was cataloging and placing in bags.
    â€œIf you’re bold enough, yes. Nothing sets off art so well, but I’ll have