As the Crow Flies, page 15
Isabel was quiet for a moment and then said, “I’m sorry to use my phone at a dinner table, but…would you mind if I did for just a minute? It’s important business.”
“Of course. Go right ahead.”
Isabel kept her phone in her lap as she busily typed away, and a minute later she smiled and put her phone down. “Thanks.”
They talked nonstop over dinner, and by the time either of them thought to glance at a watch, they had little more than an hour to preview items up for bid. Isabel motioned for the check, but Liz had apparently arranged to pay the bill when she first arrived.
“Liz,” Isabel said, disappointed, “I wanted to take you to dinner.”
“Are you crazy? It’s the least I could do after your hospitality the other day. Come on. Let’s go. You can take me out for coffee later.”
With no time to spare, they left the restaurant and made a dash for Sotheby’s. Arm in arm, they shared Liz’s umbrella, laughing and splashing their way through the pouring rain in nearly identical trench coats.
Chapter Fifteen
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time the auction ended. Isabel was high bidder on the items she set out to acquire, and Liz couldn’t help but marvel over her. In the restaurant, Isabel had been adorably self-conscious, as endearingly awkward as a teenager, but at the auction Liz had seen a different side: a confident and calculating businesswoman one wouldn’t want to cross in a business deal. Watching her in action was enlightening, and being at an auction house such as Sotheby’s was, as always, like being in a museum as they perused items up for bid. Especially Icart’s Martini. It was wonderful to see it in person. There were several floor bidders, and Liz participated in early bidding, but at fifteen hundred dollars she had to resist the impulse to continue. In the end, she watched the other bidders lose as well when the print sold to an absentee high bidder for twenty-eight hundred dollars.
Seemingly satisfied with herself, Isabel held Liz’s gift bag in one hand and dug the other deep into the pocket of her London Fog as they waited in the parking garage for an attendant to bring the car. When it finally came down the ramp, Liz looked in wide-eyed shock at the silver horse on the grill of a shiny black convertible.
“Isabel! You drive a Mustang?”
“Mm-hm. A sixth generation.”
“Wow. My dad has two vintage Mustangs.”
“Really?” Isabel’s eyes grew as wide around as Liz’s. “He collects cars?”
“We’re all collectors. It runs in the family—except for my sister, who only collects designer clothes,” she said, too fixated on the approaching Mustang to elaborate.
If sex appeal and sensuality could be attributed to cars, this one dripped it. It was the sort of sports car Liz imagined herself driving, but her van proved more practical these days for transporting antiques. It was the only practical thing in her life.
“You are full of surprises, Isabel,” she said as the attendant pulled up and got out. Isabel handed him a tip and stood by the open driver’s side door as Liz moved slowly around the car. She trailed her fingers over the sleek exterior as she circled and began singing the song “Hey Pretty,” by Poe.
The attendant smiled at Liz and winked at Isabel as he walked away.
“I know that song,” Isabel said to her.
“It should be your theme song while driving this car.” Liz ran her hand over the hood and came full circle, until only the open car door separated the two of them.
“If you can sing and drive at the same time, you’re welcome to drive it to wherever we’re having coffee. And then I’ll take you home.”
Liz looked at her, excited. “Seriously? You’d let me drive your Mustang?”
“Sure.” Isabel backed away from the door and gestured for Liz to get in.
“I haven’t driven a stick shift in years.”
“It’s an automatic with paddle shifters.”
“Fancy. And in that case I will not refuse, but…hey, pretty,” she said, looking playfully into Isabel’s eyes, “if you’re going to take me home, why don’t I just drive us there now, and we’ll have coffee at my place.”
Suddenly Isabel quickly averted her eyes and stared down at her shoes, and Liz sensed her quiet panic. “Isabel, I don’t bite. And I’m only a few blocks from here. One hour and I’ll send you on your way…although I’d still rather you stay and not have to travel home.” She smiled tenderly at her nervous companion. “I make really good cappuccino…and I baked some brownies to die for this morning.”
Isabel seemed to consider the invitation. “Do you put walnuts in your brownies?”
“Excessive amounts.”
The corners of her mouth turned up, and she shrugged. “Then okay, I guess,” she said, her voice hesitant and barely above a whisper.
Thank God for walnuts. “Great. Then let’s get this party started.” Liz flashed a sly grin as she slid into the plush driver’s seat. Isabel made her way around to the passenger side, and as soon as she got into the car she took the Scottie nodder from its bag and placed it in the center of the dash.
Dancing in place and humming the song again, Liz buckled her seat belt and smoothed her hands all over the car’s interior. “What a fucking sexy car!” she said, then immediately put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry…I curse when I get really excited.” And when she saw Isabel looking at her with amusement, she rubbed Isabel’s chin between her thumb and finger. You’re as fucking sexy as your car, Liz wanted to say, and when I’m done driving it I’d love nothing more than to drive you—all night long.
Instead, she let go of Isabel’s chin and spoke to the Scottie on the dash. “You’re going to have so much more fun living in Isabel’s Mustang than you did in that boring store window, don’t you think?” She tapped its velvety nose, and the dog’s head nodded in agreement. “See?” she said to Isabel. “He agrees.”
Isabel laughed, which made Liz want to take hold of her chin again and kiss her on the lips. Taking a deep breath, she put the car in drive, pulled out onto 72nd Street, and then made a quick right onto York Avenue. “How’s the Mustang’s safety record these days?”
“Good, although I’m not exactly sure how it rates. I tend to choose cars based on performance, not safety.”
Like I choose my women, Liz thought. “Oh, Isabel, this car is so turning me on! I’d like to open it up on the highway with the top down one of these days,” she said as they drove around the slick city streets of the Upper East Side. “And you really are full of surprises—operas and auctions and Mustangs! Who would have thought you’d be driving around in a muscle car—a street machine, as my dad calls them.”
“What Mustangs does he have?”
“Not just Mustangs. He actually owns an auto body shop and for years has done restorative work on vintage cars. He was also an amateur race-car driver, although I shouldn’t say amateur because he used to rally race, and that can be harder than being a circuit driver. Anyway, he’s made a small fortune restoring and selling classic cars, but he keeps several in his own collection. I’m not sure what all he has right now, but I know he still has an ’81 Camaro, which I used to drive in high school…a ’72, or maybe it’s a ’73 Dodge Charger…a ’57 Ranchero…and the two Mustangs, a ’67 convertible and a `68 Shelby—”
“No! A Super Snake?” Isabel got so excited that she uncharacteristically hollered the words. “Is it white with blue stripes?”
Liz glanced over at her and laughed. “My, my, my…the young lady certainly knows her Mustangs. I’m impressed, Isabel. My father would be, too,” she said, happy she’d found a way to break through Isabel’s reserve.
“Some Super Snakes have sold for hundreds of thousands.”
“My dad has argued that over the years. Whenever my mother complained about him spending so much time and money on vintage cars, he’d tell her that the return on his investments would be their retirement money. My mom buys a lot, too, mostly Depression and Vaseline glass, which she sells on Etsy and eBay. She loves going to estate sales and antique flea markets, so on Sundays after church my dad drives her around in one classic car or another. He likes turning heads and talking cars with people while she shops.”
“God, I’d love to race a classic Shelby.”
“Race?” Liz raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Well, maybe not race another car, but I’d love to experience driving at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. What could be more exhilarating?”
Having sex with Isabel would run a close race in the exhilaration department. Liz gave her a playful glance. “So you like to go fast, huh? Do you ever get pulled over driving this?”
“All the time.”
“Ha! I bet you do. Any speeding tickets?”
“Only one,” Isabel confessed. “Most troopers expect to pull over a young guy with an attitude, and when they find a woman in a business suit, they don’t know what to do, except let me go with a warning.”
“Well, just so you know, I wouldn’t let you go,” Liz teased. And as she began circling her building, looking for a parking space, the wheels began turning—the ones in her head. She was planning a trip to Maine next week to do some furniture hunting and see her parents. Their home was in Paris, but they also had a seasonal lakefront cabin a few towns over in North Waterford. If she could figure out a way to get Isabel to make the trip with her, maybe she could talk her father into planning a surprise for Isabel. He knew all the people at the speedway in New Hampshire. It was only an hour’s drive, and…yes, her wheels were turning. She smiled over at Isabel, gripping the steering wheel in secret excitement as she broke out in a few more bars of Poe’s song.
Isabel didn’t sing along, but she appeared captivated by Liz’s animated and high-spirited personality, her ability to let loose and have fun. Parking wasn’t fun, though, and after circling three times, Liz pulled up in front of her building and honked at the doorman.
Ben, a stout and jovial man, squinted at the car but didn’t recognize Liz until Isabel rolled down the passenger window and he bent down to see Liz in the driver’s seat. “Ms. Bowes, is that you?”
Ben was used to Liz coming and going with women. One time he’d shook his head in amazement and asked how she managed to get more female visitors than all the single men in the building put together. “It’s because I’m way prettier than all the men in this building,” she’d told him. Ben had laughed and wholeheartedly agreed with her.
“Hey, Ben,” she said, “I need a solid. Can you guard this car with your life for about an hour—move it if you have to?”
“No problem,” he said with a broad smile. “Leave the keys.”
Liz got out first and looked at him as he stepped off the curb to admire the front of the Mustang. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she said.
“What, the car or the young lady in the passenger seat?”
“Both.” Smiling, Liz waited for Isabel to get out, then handed her the keys and let her lock the car. “I trust Ben,” Liz assured her.
“If you trust him, I trust him,” Isabel said, passing him the keys.
“Take your time, ladies. If anything comes up, I’ll ring you upstairs.”
“Thanks, hon,” Liz said. She slipped him a folded bill and then grabbed Isabel’s hand and led her into the building.
When they got off the elevator and into the apartment, Liz set her bag on a hall table and turned on the lights. She watched Isabel take in the spacious living room’s bold but inviting color palette: lime green, black, and white. A tweed area rug with all three colors covered a good portion of the dark-stained floors, and against the left wall was a curved deco-styled sofa upholstered in a tapestry of overlapping green leaves on a black background. Sheer black curtains covered a sliding door to the terrace, and in front of them stood an artificial birch tree, its interwoven lights accenting a luxurious zebra-print chaise lounge. Floor lamps and an oversized glass cocktail table completed the grouping, all of it facing a mounted television and an exquisite art-nouveau bookcase that took up half the wall. All in all, the opposing styles and bold colors merged in a strikingly exotic arrangement that lent a botanical liveliness to the room.
“Wow…this is striking,” Isabel said. “And I want to look at everything. But first I need to use the bathroom, if I may.”
“Of course. First things first.” Liz smiled as she hung their raincoats on an oak coatrack and then led her down the hall to a doorway just past the bedroom. “I’m going to start coffee, so when you come out, give yourself a tour.”
Afraid of terrifying Isabel by taking her into the bedroom, Liz grabbed the opportunity to sneak in while her guest was in the bathroom. She turned on the Tiffany-style lamps on the mission nightstands, their red and white and amber glass illuminating a romantic fusion of 1920s Spanish revival and American Craftsman furniture. A dark-oak Stickley bed rested against creamy walls, a delicate red-and-white floral quilt balancing the heavy wood and adding a feminine feel to the room. On her way out, she passed the dresser and switched on an electric hurricane lamp, its glow highlighting the large Maxfield Parish prints of scantily clad women hanging on either side of the dresser’s large mirror.
Liz dashed into the kitchen and had the espresso maker going by the time Isabel emerged. She saw her disappear into the bedroom for a moment and then watched her come out and wander down the hallway, pausing to study the Icart and Erte prints of even more sultry women before slowly making her way toward the living room and kitchen.
Isabel wandered through the living room and over to the nouveau bookcase, stopping to run her hand along the wood and examine the book titles and treasures contained within. When Liz looked up again, Isabel was leaning against the kitchen archway, tucking a strand of dark silky hair behind her ear, then folding her arms. “You certainly are an instinctive connoisseur,” she said over the noise of Liz frothing milk. “I love the way you integrate styles.”
“Why, thank you. The thing I love about revival styles is being able to create a feeling of being transported when you walk into a room.”
“Well, you have a wonderful visual feel for blending eras,” Isabel said. “A flair for juxtaposition, I guess you’d call it.”
Liz turned off the machine and twisted her lips thoughtfully. “Hmm…an instinctive connoisseur with a flair for juxtaposition. I like the sound of that.” She filled two cups halfway with espresso and began adding steamed milk. “Maybe I should use it as a slogan on my business cards.” She smiled at Isabel. “Cinnamon?”
“Please.” Isabel moved around Liz, looking at the mix of new and vintage dinnerware behind glass cabinet doors.
“My decorating philosophy,” Liz explained, as she took out a tray and gathered plates and napkins, “is based on a firm belief in the attraction of opposites. I think it can be applied to anything from furniture to relationships. I love blending two distinctly different pieces, pieces that would appear to clash, like Victorian and modern, say, and see how each complements and accentuates the unique aspects of the other.”
“You said you design interiors?”
“Sure. It’s what I do,” Liz said, setting their cappuccino and dessert on the tray. “I worked for two firms after graduate school, but since I like to incorporate antiques, hard-to-find and sometimes one-of-a-kind pieces, it made more financial sense to deal in furniture. For me, there’s a greater profit in being a dealer who designs than a designer who buys from dealers. Not to mention lower costs for clients.”
“So you’re for hire?”
I’m for anything you want me to be. “What did you have in mind?”
“The empty guest cottage. The kitchen was just updated, but I have no idea what to do with the rest of it.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love to get my hands on that cottage. I’m thinking contemporary farmhouse meets seaside cottage.”
“Western Massachusetts is a little far from the sea.”
“You’ll think it’s right outside your door when I’m done with it.”
Isabel bit her lip for a second. “I think I’d like that. And I’d like to do business with you.”
“I’m not doing business with you, Isabel. But if you’re up for picking out paints and colors and shopping and decorating, we’ll do it together. It would be an exciting weekend project. A pleasure project.”
“I don’t know how good I am at decorating, but I’m up for it.” Isabel moved past the cabinet, and when she spotted the print of the lady sitting at a bar with a Scottie at her feet and two terriers on a stool, she tapped on the frame. “Ah, here’s your Martini print! I was wondering why I didn’t see it anywhere.”
“Yep, that’s it. Small, but I love it. Seeing that original tonight was incredible, wasn’t it?” She picked up the tray and gestured for Isabel to follow. “Come on. Let’s get comfortable inside.”
Isabel looked around the living room as she sipped her cappuccino and bit into a brownie, complimenting Liz on all of it. She seemed far more relaxed than she’d been at dinner, but even now she sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa.
Liz smiled at her and patted the throw pillows. “Isabel, slide back and get comfortable before you fall off the edge.”
“I’m fine, really,” she said, one corner of her mouth turning up in a self-effacing smirk. “Some people like living on the edge…I prefer to sit on it.”
“Ha!” Underneath her reserved exterior, Isabel Laraway had a good sense of humor. “Judging from the car you drive, I’d say you also like to ride on the edge, too.”
“Sitting, riding—I figure as long as I’m seated, not too much can go wrong,” Isabel said before biting into her brownie again.
“Enough walnuts for you?”
Her mouth full, Isabel nodded and patted her lips with a napkin, and Liz realized that just the fact of being here, alone with Liz in her apartment, represented a huge step for Isabel. As long as they were talking about subjects in general—books, art, cars, cats—Isabel maintained good eye contact, but when addressing anything of a personal nature she shyly looked away, as she did now when she asked Liz, “Do you live here alone?”
