Free The Brontë Plot by Katherine Reay Page A

don’t know . . . but this feels like mooore.” He drew out the last word, dragging the o across forever.
    â€œIt’s not just about James, it’s a lot of stuff . . . It’s me too.” Lucy felt her eyes sting. She willed them to stay dry. “And I’m sorry.”
    â€œFor what?”
    Lucy wanted to tell Sid everything—about the vases and the books—but she knew she couldn’t say another word. Not now. She didn’t know where or how she could possibly begin, or what to say if she did. A small voice inside asked, If Helen hasn’t told Sid about the books, should I? She simply lifted a shoulder and let it fall, hoping the defeated gesture would end Sid’s questions.
    Sid stood. “I won’t make the call.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œAs strange a scenario as this is, it’s here and it’s yours. Time to step up, mia cara ragazza .” At her frown, he raised a hand and continued. “You’re a good worker, Lucy, and I love you, but you”—he spread his arms around the room—“need more than this right now. You need an adventure. Your father’s family is British. Go visit the family manor. Experience something new.”
    â€œI don’t need new. And my family—”
    â€œLucy, if anyone needs new, you need new.” Sid hoisted the vase of flowers. “And that’s the end of our discussion, because I’m officially running late. Will you please grab some packing material to help secure this in my car?”
    Lucy grabbed a box and a handful of raffia stuffing and opened the alley door for Sid. “You’ll never survive without me,” she mumbled. “You should make the call.”
    He only chuckled.

Chapter 8
    T he crisp spring weather carried a strong wind that cut into Lucy’s thin coat and smacked her hair across her face. She craned her neck to watch the clouds’ shadows dance across the upward stretch of The Four Seasons Hotel and Residences. She could feel Sid’s You’re up as she pushed through the revolving door.
    Standing in the lobby, she assessed the damage. She no longer embodied Sid’s sense of “antique chic,” as he’d dubbed it yesterday, but instead evoked comparisons to another Muppet. Dressed in a cream-colored shift dress and matching coat, Lucy deemed the red-mopped Beaker the most accurate. Her hair, smoothed by a straightening iron only hours before, puffed and curled around her at least three times its usual volume. She flattened it as best she could and pulled it into a ponytail as the elevator zoomed her upward.
    Seconds later she stood on the thirty-sixth floor in a small hallway with few doors—denoting the sheer size of the units. The elevator closing behind her compelled her to step forward, shake out her coat once more, and ring the bell for number 3400.
    James’s grandmother, dressed in soft cream slacks and a periwinkle-blue cardigan, answered immediately.
    â€œYou’re here.” She stepped back, inviting Lucy inside. “Come in.”
    From the entry Lucy could see a full window overlooking Lake Michigan blocks away. “Your view is exquisite.” Lucy felt her breath release. She glanced to a table on her left. “These flowers . . . I was describing something very similar to Sid yesterday.” She reached out to touch a fully bloomed peony amid a loose arrangement of grasses and irises. “Who arranges your flowers?”
    â€œI do. I find it relaxing.” Helen held up her right hand. A Band-Aid wrapped her pointer finger. “One of the roses bit me yesterday.” Her hand dipped toward the living room. “Come sit. Your dress and coat are lovely, by the way. I used to own something like them. Escada? Early 1980s?”
    â€œI bought them at Kate’s Closet on Ontario. Who knows, they might have been yours?”
    â€œIf they were, I never carried them so well.”
    Lucy