Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 02 - The School for Mysteries (17 page)

Chapter  36

Neither Nick nor Phoebe stirred until Billy woke them on Wednesday morning. Somehow during the night Phoebe had gotten a pillow under her head and been covered with a quilt. Her cheese sandwich was on the kitchen table. The first thing she did after sitting up and wiping the slobber off the side of her face was take a big bite out of it. She was starving.

Billy said he’d woken them up in plenty of time to have hot showers, change clothes, and have some breakfast before they’d be dropped off in the City. Nick and Phoebe went their separate ways to do as he suggested. When they were cleaned up and changed they regrouped in the kitchen. Phoebe started back in on her cheese sandwich.

“I’ve never slept so well in my life,” said Nick.

“Me either,” Phoebe agreed. “It’s like when you’re a kid, sleeping in the car on vacation. Something about the road sounds and the movement.”

She felt great. Nick was obviously feeling chipper, too. It was wonderful to see him happy. They’d only known each other for a few days, but he seemed to be changing drastically hour by hour. It was a good change.

A half hour later they said their goodbyes to Billy and Andy and got off the bus in the concealment of the covered service entrance to the Frick Collection.

They were met by a woman who was apparently the counterpart of Arabella Devlin-Forrest. She introduced herself as Isabella Borbón y Polo-Villaverde and said she would be assisting Prince de Mars with his intra-city travel arrangements.

She pronounced Prince with a French accent. It sounded like
prawnce
, to Phoebe. Phoebe wasn’t crazy about the idea that Nick was a prince. She was even less thrilled with him being a
prawnce
.

When Isabella would have led Nick away, he said, “Can you give us a minute, please?”

The woman bowed and backed away. Phoebe didn’t know if walking in reverse was something she did for everyone or if it was only for royalty. Either way it was goofy looking, but it would certainly help to minimize the opportunity for anyone to notice if you had a large rear end.

Focus
, she told herself and turned toward Nick. He was looking at her with a wistful expression. She knew how he felt.

“If you’re worried about the interviews,” she said, “just remind yourself that one of your names is Fulk. With a name like that, you don’t have to take any crap off anybody.”

He smiled.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Phoebe said.

“This isn’t the last you’ll see of me,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, “Your mug will be on every television news show and every form of media known to mankind for the next few days. They might even name a highway overpass after you.”

He took both her hands and held them tight, then he hugged her for a long time.

Phoebe started crying. In two days they’d almost completely reversed roles. Now
she
didn’t want to leave
him
.

Nick’s back was to Isabella, but Phoebe could see the woman over his shoulder. She stood silently and waited a discreet distance away as they said their farewells. Phoebe suspected Isabella had seen a lot of emotional partings like this, considering her line of work, whatever it was—travel agent to people with hits out on them, perhaps.

Phoebe pulled herself away and stepped back, sniffing and wiping her face with her hand, “You’ve gotta go do your celebrity thing and I’ve gotta go be a secret agent.”

“I know that your new friend Thor is taller than me, stronger, smarter, and a lot better looking, but at least I am a mortal man. It’s pathetic, isn’t it, that my best selling point is that I will one day, die.”

Phoebe had to laugh.

“I mean, the guy never smiles, or even frowns. He’s something….weirdly spectacular. You don’t wanna go there.”

“Stop being silly, of course he’s a regular person. What else could he be?”

“What I’m trying to say is, I know it’s part of your nifty new job to go places with a man who makes Fabio look like a girl, but I’m just asking for you not to get involved with him right away. Don’t get engaged before I get back. At least give me a chance. When I’m rich and famous, I promise I’m coming back to get you,” Nick said. “So be ready to be swept off your feet by me in a couple of hours.”

Phoebe snorted as she brushed at the beautiful gray suede jacket Billy had given him. He looked great except for the black eye.

“I’m serious,” he said. “In a few minutes I’ll be meeting an agent and lawyer to sign what I’m told is an eight-figure book deal. Then we’re making the rounds of the studios here in town, and I’ll end up at some place where I’ll give back-to-back interviews by satellite to foreign media. So, in half an hour I’ll be rich, and then ninety minutes after that, I’ll be famous.”

Phoebe was laughing and crying at the same time as she struggled to neaten his disorderly curls.

“I know my hair isn’t as good as his,” he said grabbing her hands.

“Your hair is fine. I’m not crying over your hair.”

“Why else could you be crying? You haven’t even seen the place in Normandy yet. Our house was one of the only ones that looked better after D-Day. I’ll show it to you. We can take sleeping bags and a bunch of packets of instant hot chocolate. You’ll love it. It’s right on the ocean so there’s this continuous breeze wafting through, mainly because the windows don’t have any glass in them. It’s extremely refreshing because the wind comes straight off the North Sea at up to ninety miles an hour.”

He made himself laugh with that and had to let go of her so he could hold his ribs. “Laughing still hurts,” he said, wincing.

Nick reached for Phoebe again and gave her the world’s sweetest kiss, then he rested his cheek against hers and sighed into her ear. He whispered, “Don’t fall in love with the Elf King.”

He stood holding her for a last few moments, then slowly peeled himself away with great effort, and walked away with his new handler.

Chapter  37

Phoebe stood bemused, watching him go. They’d only known each other for a few days, but what a whirlwind it had been. When she recovered herself, she went to find whatever it was she was supposed to courier to parts unknown. The Frick mansion took up a full city block on Fifth Avenue between 70
th
and 71
st
Streets. The layout and proportions were lovely. The place had a wonderfully serene feel. Phoebe immediately decided it was her favorite house in the world.

Her unqualified approval faltered, however when she was ushered up the set of curving limestone stairs that would take her to the private areas of the house. A massive pipe organ was displayed on the first landing. Phoebe shuddered and had a flashback to St. Cloud. Pipe organs gave her the creeps. What was it with rich people and pipe organs? Was it some kind of Flintstone version of a Bose radio?

The word
organ
seemed repulsive when applied to something outside of a living body. There was a subtle implication that it might be like a lampshade made of skin or a necklace made of teeth or ears. If a kidney was an internal organ, was this an
external
organ?

Again Phoebe had to remind herself to focus. She tore her eyes away from the organ and noticed that just as St. Cloud had been, this house was open to the public and was filled with tourists. There were security guards everywhere here, though. One was positioned at the bottom of the staircase. No one was allowed upstairs without permission.

Phoebe was directed to a private office on the second floor of the mansion where she met Naintara Jain, a beautiful young Indian woman, sitting behind an antique desk wearing a brilliant red sari with golden embroidery along the edges.

Naintara stood and introduced herself with a charming British accent. She explained that the object Phoebe was to courier had just completed the process of being cleaned and restored at the Cloisters facility. She said Phoebe would be able to retrieve it on her way to Teterboro Airport.

Then Naintara thanked her, and said, “As soon as you are ready, we have a car waiting to take you.”

Phoebe couldn’t bring herself to try to say
Le Seigneur
with her accent, so she said, “The Boss,” as she’d decided to call him, “said I might be able to look at some paintings while I was here.”

“Of course,” Naintara said. She used her phone to summon the Chief Curator to give Phoebe a tour.

The Boss had been right. The Frick was the most amazing collection of art she’d ever seen in her life. There were no
also rans
in this place—no lesser works by renowned painters, or works that were obviously
from the studio of
the greats. These were prime specimens from the hand of the master himself, each one giving testimony to an artist at the zenith of his powers.

Phoebe loved the portraits best. There was a fabulous one of a Doge by Bellini, an extraordinary head and shoulders image of an unknown man by Hans Memling, two Titians, and three Vermeers. There were four Whistlers—two were studies in blacks and two were in whites. There were half a dozen palpably holy, religious scenes painted over a thousand years ago by unknown monks.

In the dining room Thomas Cromwell faced Sir Thomas More. Their portraits were hung on the same wall, but on opposite sides of the fireplace. El Greco’s astonishing St. Jerome hung between them, over the mantle. There were four Rembrandts—the
Polish Rider
, a self-portrait of the painter from mid-life, and two iconic portraits of other people whose beautifully lit faces and costumes shone out from a black background.

These people all looked familiar, too, but Phoebe knew it was because their faces had looked out at her from countless art books. Phoebe had minored in Art History. It made her feel dizzy to see so many singular originals inside one man’s house.

She was deeply and unexpectedly affected by the portrait of Sir Thomas More by Hans Holbein. There was something so moving about the slight beard shadow and delicate facial blush that were so realistically depicted on the great man. Phoebe felt as if he was alive and right in front of her.

This was
The Man for All Seasons
for goodness sakes—her idea of the perfect boyfriend. Meeting Sir Thomas like this, unexpectedly, a man Phoebe had always admired and had romantic fantasies about, made her burst into tears again. It was all too much—the new job, Nick, St. Cloud, Billy Benson’s tour bus, and now Sir Thomas More.

It was time to leave. She made her way back to the service entrance and found Christophe already there, waiting.
Good grief,
Phoebe said to herself, as she looked at him. He was at least 6’2”, but when you got up close to him he seemed even bigger. He radiated … something. It wasn’t anything aggressive or scary, it was more like intense determination. His stormy gray eyes stood out in vivid contrast to his dark eyebrows, dark eyelashes, and a tanned face.

And that hair…. a long, straight, silky looking mane of white blond mixed with golden blond. It blew Phoebe’s mind that he wore it loose without any self-consciousness. He didn’t fiddle with it. Anyone else would need a ponytail holder, but not him.

But the most remarkable thing about him wasn’t that he was spectacular looking. It was that even taking into consideration his height, physique, male attire, and his dark brown beard stubble, he still managed to give off an androgynous vibe. She looked at his face and tried to guess his age, but wasn’t able to come to any conclusions.

What she was sure of was the instant anyone, male or female, laid eyes on him, they would want to marry him. He neither smiled nor frowned. His beautiful mouth was in a straight line that indicated only calm neutrality.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go get the car,” He had a deep voice and he spoke with a lyrical accent Phoebe couldn’t place. Phoebe noticed when he walked, his footsteps made no sound.

When he was out of sight, the female African American guard posted at the door said, without moving a muscle, “Mm, mmm, mmmmm.”

Phoebe had to agree.

Christophe came back with a dark green BMW X7 SUV and they headed down Fifth Avenue. Phoebe openly gawked at the famous cityscape as he drove. She particularly liked the trees in Central Park.

She tried to keep track of where they were. They’d started out at East 70
th
Street. But they were in the 50s when she noticed he was glancing into the rear view mirror frequently. “Is someone following us?

“Yes,” he said. He drove around the block, then zigzagged through traffic. Phoebe had no idea where they were going until they passed Rockefeller Center. Phoebe recognized the building from television. Phoebe knew this was a building where Nick had an appointment. Christophe was apparently seeing something he didn’t approve of. He rolled his window down and openly stared at a Lincoln Navigator across the street. The windows were blacked out, so she couldn’t see who was in it, but whoever it was, they pulled away from the curb and drove off.

Christophe waited at the curb for about five minutes until Nick was brought down and they watched from across the street as he and his Frick handler got into the back seat of an Escalade and were driven to their next appointment. Phoebe was happy to see that he looked to be in good spirits. He was coping with the open spaces and the television appearances with calm courage and poise. Perhaps he was a prince among men, … or Martians.

Christophe pulled away from the curb and maneuvered through the crowded streets, this time heading up Madison Avenue for a few blocks. Then he turned and drove over to Park, went about a block, and pulled to the curb, “Don’t get out,” he said. “No matter what happens. Stay in the car.”

He jogged across the street, hopped up onto the sidewalk on the far side, and turned to face the luxury apartment building he’d left Phoebe sitting in front of. It was 740 Park Avenue. Christophe looked up, way up, then stood there, obviously focused on a particular window. He might as well have been carved of stone. The only thing that indicated he was human were the long pale blond tresses buffeted by the breeze.