Keeping His Promise (Year of the Billionaire Part 3) (3 page)

We were at dinner one night about two weeks 'post Tristan' as I had come to think of it. My father mentioned that a friend of a friend had a bookshop on the upper west side that was looking for an assistant manager.

"It's a really small place that specializes in rare books--antiques and first copies, I think he said."

"First editions, you mean?"

"That's it, first editions." He fished a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "All he gave me was an address. If you feel like it would interest you, why don't you check it out." He handed the paper to me. It was on Broadway, upper Westside.

The next day I put on a nice pair of slacks with a light turtleneck and my favorite, well worn but still classy blue blazer. There was a good autumn chill in the air and I threw a wool scarf around my neck for extra color and the warmth it provided.

The store was one of those narrow, tiny places with a classic green canvas awning stenciled boldly on the top with the word "Books" and across the apron on the front "Rare and Used Volumes". It was wedged between a florist and a dry cleaners and right across the street from Zabars. That was a great sign; I could always count on a good lunch from Zabars even if it would eat up half my paycheck.

I could see that there was a tiny apartment over the shop and wondered if that's where the owner lived. It was certainly a very cool location. It made me a little uneasy that the bookshop was only about a dozen blocks from the Dakota. But Tristan wasn't likely to be walking the streets of his neighborhood and I put that little coincidence down to harmless.

The wizened old man who poked his head out when the bell tinkled as I opened the door looked to be about a hundred and ten years old. He was as dusty and antique as the books lining the shelves and piled everywhere. I picked my way through the mess and introduced myself.

Crusty as he appeared, Mr. Clemson was sharp as a tack. It didn't take me long to have enormous respect for the catalog he carried around in his head. "That's the trouble, though, you see. My head isn't
going to be around forever. My grandson keeps needling me about a website and computerized records for all of my friends." He swept a gnarled hand at the stacks. The skin was yellow and fragile, like much of the paper in the room. He led me to the back of the store where, to my utter surprise, he swung open a door to an immaculate modern office about the size of a walk-in closet.

"I've got all the stuff here, but I just can't face it. At my age, I don't want to
have to learn all . . . this. I'd rather be reading." He looked at me through rheumy eyes that belonged on an aging spaniel. I wanted to pet his bald head and get him a cookie.

I handed him my resume and pointed out the experience working the Tanglewood system and some other computer work I had done. A couple of simple websites were listed as part of my experience also.

Mr. Clemson waved the paper away. "I'm not interested in what you've got written down on that paper, Miss Harding. Take a look around you. Tell me if you know what needs to be done and if you think you are willing and able to do it. Take all the time you need. We're not going anywhere soon."

The way he referred to his books and himself as 'we' was charming. He rattled back into the bookshelves where he nearly disappeared, so camouflaged was he by the similarity between himself and his beloved volumes.

An hour later, having taken a good look at the computers--state of the art--and the program manuals--straightforward and practical--I was sure I could accomplish what his grandson rightly thought should be done to move the shop into the 21st century.

"Mr. Clemson?" I think I startled him out of a catnap. "I'm quite sure I can do what needs to be done here."

"Miss Harding, I believe you. When can you start?"

We discussed the details of the job. He offered me a generous salary, considering the fact that the shop couldn't possibly be making a lot of money. It wouldn't be enough to get me my own apartment for a while and the commute into Manhattan wasn't something I was looking forward to especially with winter approaching, but I was thrilled to have it.

As I was getting ready to leave the shop I asked Mr. Clemson if he lived above the store.

He snorted. "You must be joking! Have you taken a look at the stairs? That's a young person's apartment. It hasn't been occupied in years. I got tired of the last tenant traipsing in and out of the shop at all hours. There's no separate entrance for it, you see." He laughed. "The young pup was always arguing with me about the utilities, too. The store and the
apartment are on one meter."

"I see." I was going to go for it. A lucky day shouldn't go to waste. "Would you consider renting it to me? I could pay out of my salary. I'd never be able to claim the subway was late or get snowed in and I'd always be around." I was prattling and I knew it, but it was such an opportunity! I smiled my most charming and persuasive smile.

Mr. Clemson tried to look stern, but I could tell instantly that he liked the idea. "It gets cleaned every so often, so it isn't knee deep in dust. But some of the furniture is older than these books. You want to take a look at it?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Clemson. Yes, please."

He rooted around in his roll top desk and produced an ancient key. "Help yourself," he told me.

I sprinted up the stairs and unlocked the heavy wooden door. The tiny apartment smelled like old books, just like the shop. The living, dining and kitchen area looked out over Broadway and the bedroom and bathroom were tucked away in the back. The old oak floors creaked under my feet as I poked around. The couch could have come out of some ol
d time gentlemen's club. The golden leather had the patina of smoke about it. With a good dose of leather conditioner, I knew it would come back to life beautifully.

The two matching wingback chairs framed a fireplace, long converted to a gas heater, but it gave some charm to the room as did the high tin ceilings and the wonderful French windows. The kitchen area was tiny and I squealed with delight when I recognized the stove as the exact same one in Rachel Ray's kitchen on TV. The refrigerator was from the fifties also and matched the curvy lines of the Chambers stove. I figured I could rise to the challenge of appliances that were that cute.

Every last piece wooden furniture looked terribly old and dry, but otherwise classic in form and function. The dropleaf dining table was a masterpiece of space saving straight out of the 1800's.

A bright rug, a few pictures and a new mattress looked like just about all I would need to set up housekeeping. In the kitchen cabinets I found a complete set of pink depression glassware
, old enamel bowls, iron skillets and a couple of copper pots. I was sure Mr. Clemson didn't know the treasure trove he had in there. He was lucky the last tenant didn't make off with the dishes. It was an antique hunter's dream.

I tried to put on a poker face when I came down the stairs, but it was impossible. "I love the place! It's so perfect." I sucked in some air and braced myself. "How much will you rent it to me for?"

He seemed to have trouble with that. "I wasn't really thinking about renting it at all. How does $500 a month sound? That would include utilities. I can't be bothered with separating the bills."

Five. Hundred. Dollars. For a cute upper Westside apartment? It was a gift. I could easily afford that on what Mr. Clemson had offered me. I wanted to hug him. But instead I just said, "Thank you so much. You won't regret it."

"I've already got that internet thing, but I don't know how to get that upstairs. If you want TV you'll have to do that yourself."

"That's fine, Mr. Clemson. I can put WiFi in for next to nothing. I probably won't need cable if the internet's good. I can watch plenty on line if I want to."

"I don't know why you'd want to watch anything with all these books here waiting to be read."

"You're absolutely right. I intend to take full advantage of this wonderful library." That seemed to make the old guy happy and we settled a few more details before I was on my way. I was to start in
ten days which couldn't be soon enough for me.

As I rode the subway home, I couldn't help but smile at all my fellow commuters. I had scored a wonderful job and an apartment
at the same time. My commute was going to be going down a set of stairs. Sweet.

Four

I couldn't wait to tell my parents about the job, the apartment and darling old Mr. Clemson. On the way home from the subway stop, I used the remainder of the twenty bucks Dad had given me that morning to buy some cannoli and cream puffs. Mom, Dad and I all had a weak spot for sweets and we'd celebrate with the pastries.

Up the stairs, two at a time, I
went happily through the front door with my box of goodies and my news. I froze when I saw Tristan seated, back to me, at the dining table with Kwan, George, Hoc, Archie and my parents. I felt my knees and just about every other part of my body go rubbery. My heart, my betraying, treacherous heart, began to beat against my chest walls and I could feel the heat of a blush working its way from my ears to my neck. The golden curls over his collar made the tips of my fingers itch to touch them.

The rational part of me wanted to run back out the door and wait in the shadows until I saw him leave. But my eyes had been starved for the sight of him. He had transformed yet another chair
into a kind of throne where he elegantly draped his aristocratic frame. It wasn't a conscious thing, it was just who he was. All eyes, including mine were focused on him. He was ever comfortable in front of an audience.

"You shouldn't taunt them," he was telling my father. "They're going to come spoiling for a fight. Let them make the first move."

"This frightens me, Tristan," my mother said.

"Jazzy, we've got all the angles covered. Tristan's thought of everything," my father assured her. "These guys need to be in jail and we're going to put them there."

I sucked up my courage and made my presence known. As casually as I could muster, I strolled over to the table and put the box of goodies down in front of my mother.

"Hi everyone," I said brightly. It sounded brittle and fake inside my head, I hoped the others didn't hear it that way. "I brought
yummy things from Ferretti's Bakery." I didn't; I couldn't look him in the eye. I went to the kitchen for something to drink and nearly cried when I saw that my mother had a stack of eight plates in position next to the stove. There was a big hot casserole covered with foil, a bread basket with a cloth, and two bubbling pots--one with water and the other with Mom's escarole steaming away. It was obvious we had company for supper.

"Well, sounds like we have a plan, Tristan," my father said as he rose from the table. "I'm starved. Let's get this table set for dinner." Mom came into the kitchen and I yanked her into the pantry out of earshot of the men.

"Mother, why did you spring this on me?" I hissed.

"
It was spur of the moment. Should I have called you?" She acted innocent, but I was sure the whole scene was no accident.

"It would have been nice to be forewarned."

"I didn't think it made that much difference."

"How can you say that? Of course it makes a difference."

My mother turned to me. "Raina, you came home the night after the kidnappers released me and went straight to your room. From that point on, you have not spoken one word about what happened between you and Tristan, if anything happened at all. You left me to speculate. I chose to believe that it wasn't important enough for you to discuss."

"So you assumed it was totally cool to force me to sit down to dinner at our table with him?"

"I'm not forcing you to do anything. Please yourself."

"Are you mad at me because Tristan and I stopped seeing one another?"

"No. I'm hurt that you didn't see fit to take me into your confidence. I thought we were closer than that." I saw her lip quiver and it hit me in the gut.

"Mom, I'm sorry. It's so complicated an
d I . . . I really didn't know what to say. I haven't even sorted out how I feel yet."

"Did it ever occur to you that I might have been able to help you sort it out?"

"Yes, it did."

"Then why not talk to me about it?"

"Truth?"

"Truth."

"I'm embarrassed. I think I really screwed up. I think I acted like a stupid adolescent."

"Well, we can't spend all night in the pantry discussing it now. Help me with dinner." She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. "Just try to act normal."

I gave her a weak smile and followed her back into the kitchen
. Easy for you to say, Mom. Act
normal.
I wasn't sure I knew what normal was anymore. The day had gone so well. My life seemed to be righting itself. And now this. I watched Tristan out of the corner of my eye as I put the garlic bread into the basket. I knew it was inevitable, but I wanted to crawl into the dishwasher and hide when I saw him approach me in the kitchen.

"Anything I can do to help?" He casually put his hand against my shoulder and the sizzle shot down to my toes. I wanted to scream "don't touch me!
" Instead, I told him to take the foil off of the chicken parm. I couldn't tell if it was the oven or his body that was producing so much heat. He stood only a few electric inches from my side.