Free The Sixth Idea by P. J. Tracy Page B

lingered at the tree, rocking back and forth on his run-down motorcycle boots, looking up at the spruce that stayed lit day and night, looking a little lost.
    She paused at the kitchen door and sighed quietly. For the first week of Annie and Roadrunner’s absence, it had been almost restful at the mansion without the boyish barbs that defined Harley’s relationship with Roadrunner and the constant bickering between him and Annie. They’d gotten a lot of work done in the relative peace, and then he had become happily obsessed with Christmas decorations, like an empty-nest parent preparing for the return of collegiate children on holiday.
    But after two weeks, when he ran out of rooms to decorate, he started down a dismal slope, and now it didn’t feel to Grace like the productive peace of two partners; it felt like babysitting.
    â€œI miss them, too,” Grace said.
    He looked over at her sheepishly, then back at the tree. “It’s Christmas. Family time.”
    â€œThey’ll be home in a few days. And then you and Annie andRoadrunner will be at it again, sniping at each other. Everything back to normal.”
    Harley smiled and gazed up at the very top spire of the tree, which was still bare. “I still can’t figure out what to put up there for the final flourish. A star seems kind of obvious and pedestrian.”
    â€œYou’ll think of something.”

SIXTEEN

    A nnie Belinsky did a pirouette in front of the big baroque mirror in her hotel room, giving final approval to her wardrobe choice for the day’s big meeting, which had been conveniently scheduled so as not to interfere with her daily afternoon excursion to Bergdorf Goodman. When in New York City during the holiday season, it was absolutely paramount to spend any and all free time at Bergdorf’s, one of the best places on earth to Christmas shop, outside Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich.
    She tugged at the lapels of her jaunty, velvet-trimmed tweed suit, which had been beautifully tailored overnight to accommodate her very generous proportions. Normally, anything without fur, feathers, or beads was absolutely unacceptable, but business meetings were an entirely different thing altogether, requiring a certain modicum of austerity. Southern belles, no matter how sartorially fearless, knew how to dress perfectly for any occasion.
    She shot her snow-white French cuffs, arranged the cashmere scarf around her neck until it fell just so, then patted down her black bob before rapping on the door that divided the double suite she and Roadrunner shared. “Roadrunner? Are you ready?”
    â€œI’m ready, Annie. I’ve been ready for an hour.”
    Annie opened the door with a flourish. “What do you think?”
    Roadrunner was sitting awkwardly on a velvet fainting couch that was several inches too low for his gangly six-foot-eight frame. His knees nearly brushed his ears. His eyes grew wide and he gave her a little smile. “You look great, Annie. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes.”
    She gave him a sideways glance and a fondly impatient sigh. The man wore Lycra biking suits all the time, what did she expect him to say about her finery? Besides, his genius mind was always far too occupied with things much more important than social graces, which was why they made such a great road team, as it turned out.
    Annie could manipulate any situation with Southern charm and cunning, and Roadrunner was so technically brilliant he stunned any audience into silence when he spoke about his craft, even if he was wearing a Lycra biking suit. In fact, his complete oblivion to anything other than his work only enhanced his credibility in stuffy boardrooms, where people had certain expectations about appearances. He had the unadulterated innocence of a true savant, and in the end, Roadrunner always delivered the goods, goods that only he could conjure.
    Grace and Harley, on the other hand, were so intimidating in their own