The year of the Lucy

"No." She smiled. "No. Lucy was a special friend of mine. A staunch supporter."

"Was?"

"She died of cancer when Nick was two. Seven years ago."

"… 'But she is in her grave, And oh, the difference to me.'"

"You read Wordsworth?" Mirelle blinked back the tears that threatened to embarrass her.

"There are times when Gideon does not supply the traveler's reading needs."

"When did you get back to town?" she asked, remembering her manners. He looked tired, she thought, particularly about the eyes.

"Last night."

"You look it."

"Your compliments are going to my head." He accented the phrase histrionically.

"I'll change. I'll be very quick. Oh, there are more bits and pieces in the living room. They might give you some ideas," she told him as she ran from the studio.

Humming to herself as she fumbled in her closet for a dress, she was pleased that he wasn't annoyed about the soldier. She'd worried that he might be annoyed. When she came back downstairs, he was critically appraising the Running Child.

"That's Tonia at three," she said.

For a long moment, he regarded her through half-closed eyes before he smiled.

"Not bad. I timed you at just twelve minutes. I've been kept waiting longer with less result."

She dropped him a mock curtsey. He extended his bent arm.

"To lunch, madame?"

"To lunch, monsieur."

She directed him to the only other restaurant of which she had any knowledge. Over two drinks, she tried to get a rise out of him and managed not to fall for his little ploys. He told her of his trip, four good jokes that he'd picked up and one hilarious incident with a pompous ladies' club chairwoman. He didn't once mention the commission or her work but it did not seem to her a deliberate evasion.

After their lunch, however, he turned north, away from her development, then eastwards.

"I'm taking you, little spider, to see the web," he explained when she pointedly refused to ask where they were going.

"A bold course to direct my over-fertile imagination in appropriate directions."

"My dear girl, I would not for an instant consider directing your imagination. What impudence."

She caught a subtle undertone to his voice, but then he was turning into the driveway of a two-storey house.

"You don't know a good gardener, do you?" he asked with a weary sigh, gesturing at the neglected lawn and seared shrubbery.

"The exercise would do you good," she said with a heartless laugh.

"I'm a pianist, not a planter. I don't know a petunia from stinkweed."

"Sniff!"

"You are unkind," he said with mock petulance.

"Completely, but, at one dollar an hour I might lend you a knowledgeable yardboy."

"Robbery!"

His house, however, showed every evidence of order and attention. The entrance hall was attractively papered in a large black and white scroll design, and led into a white living room, carpeted with a rich, predominantly blue oriental. A white concert grand piano of a rather old-fashioned style dominated the room. A low, long sofa, upholstered in blue brocade, was opposite, a low coffee table, also of the Queen Anne style, in front of it. A second Queen Anne armchair completed the furnishings of the room. Over the fireplace was an excellent impressionistic painting with a predominance of reds. The dining room, seen through the archway from the living room, was also furnished elegantly in the same period, blue carpeted, with gold brocaded chairs around the table.

"It's a beautiful web."

"But sterile," he said, bluntly critical.

"I'm not sure I sculpt Queen Anne, though."

"No, Mirelle," and again he favored her with that quizzical look, "you are not the nymphs and shepherds type."

He guided her back to the hallway and opened a door that in most houses of this type would have led to a family room. It housed two more pianos, and an extensive library of music folios, books and albums was shelved on one wall. On the other, shorter inside wall, were photographs, autographed by the artists to Jamie.

"My artists," he said with a facetious bow to the display.

Several faces were immediately familiar to her. One of them was unquestionably Caruso, yet the inscription was also to Jamie.

" 'Friend of my early struggle'?" She translated from the Italian and stared at Jamie. "Surely not you?"

Jamie laughed, delighted by her confusion. "No, my linguistic sculptress, my father. He was concert master for many years at the Metropolitan. A good deal of the music here is his, and many of the photos. Unfortunately I never had the pleasure of accompanying Caruso or Gallicurci as he did."

"So you come by your musicianship second generation?"

"Yes, and I discovered who you've been reminding me of when I was browsing through some of Dad's old programs…"

He moved to reach an album down but she grabbed his arm.

"I don't want it rubbed in," she said.

"You come by your art second generation, too," he said, mildly surprised by her reaction. "Did it hurt so badly, Mirelle?"