Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1925

L auren waved across the crowd to Elsa and Ivy, who wove their way back to her with freshly rented pairs of ice skates.

"Success!" Ivy declared upon reaching the bench where Lauren and her father sat. Plopping down beside him, Ivy began trading her shoes for skates.

Elsa sat and did the same. "Sure you won't join us?" Her cheeks were already pink with cold.

"Another time." Lauren sipped her hot chocolate. She needed to catch up with her father, and given his age, that was much better done on terra firma.

Straightening, Ivy adjusted her hat. "Will you be in town for Christmas, Mr. Westlake?"

"That's my plan," he told her.

"So will I." Lauren had been thinking about this for a week and a half. "You can join me at the Beresford if you like." Elsa had already invited her and Ivy to spend the holiday with her family, but she'd also made it clear that the invitation did not include Dad. After hearing his side of Aunt Beryl's story, Lauren decided she couldn't leave him here alone.

Elsa removed her fogged-up spectacles and wiped them clean. "You know, there's a lot to be said for staying home for Christmas. The only reason I'm going with my parents to the Caribbean is for the birds. Ivy's coming along to keep me sane." She replaced her glasses.

"I can't wait." Ivy's countenance glowed as she stood. She took a wobbly step, arms lifting from her sides unevenly for balance. "You ready for this, Elsa?"

"Are you kidding?" Elsa stood. "I was made for this." With a grin, she walked stiffly to the rink and stepped onto the ice. Pushing herself from the railing, she glided as far as she could before bending her knees and skating with the best of them. Out on the ice, among so many other staggering skaters, her limp was all but impossible to detect.

Dad looked at Lauren from over the top of his steaming cup. His smile seemed cautious, forcing lines into his cheeks. "Feeling better since I last saw you?"

She felt bruised, but she wasn't angry at him. Her father had not been the villain Aunt Beryl had made him out to be. She wasn't about to call him blameless, but he wasn't malicious, either. He had his regrets. So did she. Lauren entrusted all of this to a smile and nod, which he returned.

"Good. Now then, have you found more to write about for the Napoleon Herald ?"

"Joe and I met with three more Met patrons this week, and thankfully didn't find any forgeries in their collections. Plus, on my lunch breaks, I've been visiting various art dealerships to view their Egyptian antiquities with a goal of catching fakes before anyone purchases them. So far, Mr. Aaron Tomkins has been the only dealer to refuse me access."

"And?"

"I haven't found any new forgeries in the dealerships, but I feel better about having checked. Don't worry, Dad. I can think of at least four more topics to cover for future issues of your newsletter."

That seemed to satisfy him.

"One of our honorary fellows came for a tour of the Egyptian Art department on Monday," she added. She'd have told him sooner, but Dad had been gone again this week, and this was a topic best discussed in person. She wanted to see his reaction. "Theodore Clarke. Didn't you work with him years ago?"

Her father scratched the side of his nose. "I did. You conducted the tour yourself?"

She told him she had, with Mr. Robinson joining them. "We started with New Accessions. I showed him Hetsumina, and he seems bound and determined to find Hatsudora, her twin."

Sunshine reflected off the ice, and he squinted into it. "Does he? Well, that sounds like the sort of challenge he'd enjoy. I hope the Met team finds it first, though."

Lauren agreed. "Although, he did say if his team found it, it would eventually come into our holdings anyway. He's willing his entire Egyptian collection to the Met upon his death, but I bet he'd loan it to us before then for a special exhibition. He's loaned so much to us before."

"Generous." He tugged his hat lower, suddenly captivated by the skaters. "Did he happen to mention working with me once he knew who you were?"

Lauren reached for a response that would be truthful and tactful. "Mr. Robinson rushed him off for brunch right after he made that connection, so there was no time to chat about it. But I'm sure he's aware you're working in the area, especially since the Napoleon House is right there in his hometown." Suddenly, she wondered if his concern about his reputation in Newport had more to do with Clarke's opinions than he'd let on. "By the way, are you still staying at a hotel when you go? Have you thought about asking if he has a guest room you could occupy instead, just for the short term?"

Dad scoffed, as she expected he would. "Utter nonsense," he said. "Neither of us would abide being under the same roof, however expansive that roof may be. Whoever said ‘time heals all wounds' had never encountered Theodore Clarke. You have no idea what—" He cut himself off with a noise of frustration she'd never heard from him before. "Please, Lauren, leave it at that. Don't dig. Don't talk to your aunt, and if you can manage it, stay away from that man. Let these bygones stay buried."

A few hardy pigeons skittered along the ground, hunting for crumbs. Silently, Lauren watched them while Dad's flurry of words settled like snow upon her. The last of her hot chocolate had grown cold, and so had she.

Officially, Joe wasn't on duty. But he never stopped thinking like a cop. So when he arrived at the pond in Central Park, he took a few minutes to surveil the area.

Lauren had said he'd be able to find her here this afternoon. Hanging back by the trees, he scanned the skaters and saw children with parents or nannies. A few rowdy adolescent boys, their voices cracking, their horseplay harmless. Pairs of young women with ermine muffs must have hopped over from their Fifth Avenue homes.

And then there were Elsa and Ivy, whooping and laughing without a care what others thought of it.

Lauren wasn't with them.

His attention swerved off the ice, taking in the line at the food and drink vendor, another cluster around the skate rentals booth, looking for her signature turquoise blue coat, the one the same color as that little Egyptian hippo at the Met.

There. She sat with her father on a bench a short distance from the skating pond. Her nose and cheeks were pink, her scarf wrapped tightly about her neck and tied above one shoulder. Her chocolate brown hair was gathered in a knot, but the wind had pulled a few strands free.

Joe's gaze kept moving, analyzing, suspecting, until it snagged on a man with a newspaper occupying a bench diagonally across from the Westlakes. Who came to Central Park to read the news? It was too cold for that this time of year, unless he was waiting for a loved one who was skating on the pond.

The guy wasn't turning pages.

Moving closer, Joe confirmed his suspicion that the only thing this guy was reading—or trying to read—was lips. His line of sight was pinned on Lawrence and Lauren. He looked familiar, too. Broad shoulders. Dark hair on a small head that even his fedora couldn't disguise. Very large hands.

Joe would have enjoyed walking up to him and personally disrupting his attempted eavesdropping. But the momentary satisfaction wasn't smart for long-term strategy. If this guy knew that he'd been made, he'd run.

"Joe!" Lauren waved him over.

He could almost feel the spy staring holes into his back as he went to her. Fine. Good. Let him see that Lauren had a friend watching out for her. Let him notice the slight bulge at Joe's hip and figure that was a holstered gun.

All of this was pure conjecture, of course. And his gut had been wrong before.

Then again, it had also been right.

The Westlakes were both standing by the time he reached them. Joe shook Lawrence's hand. "Good to see you again," he said. "How are things progressing in Newport?"

"Could be worse." Then he launched into an update that lasted five minutes. "Well," he said at last, "this old man has had enough winter for one day. I'm heading back."

After he'd left, Joe pointed at Lauren's shoes. "Wrong footwear."

"What's wrong with them?" She kicked out a foot, then glanced at the iced-over pond. "Oh." She chuckled. "I needed to talk to my dad and wasn't about to make him balance on skates to do it. He managed to fall off a train platform, remember? He wasn't likely to stay upright on ice."

Joe angled to see the man with the newspaper on the bench. He wasn't there. Slowly, Joe surveyed the surrounding area and didn't see him.

Maybe he'd been wrong about the man watching Lauren.

Or maybe he'd found a better spot to hide. Joe puffed out a breath, squinting into the light bouncing off the snow.

"Do you still skate?" he asked Lauren.

"Not in many years."

"Shoe size?"

"Seven!" Ivy called out, and Joe turned in time to see her grin and wave from the rail before catching up with Elsa again. He had to admit, her timing was good.

Lauren laughed. "There's no point in you standing in line without me."

Minutes later, they'd both traded their shoes for skates and stepped onto the ice.

Joe knew his movements were a little stiff. But he wasn't trying to be graceful. His masculinity wouldn't stand for it. He did, however, intend to remain vertical. At least, if that spy was still around, he wasn't likely to follow them onto the ice. From outside the railing, he wouldn't catch their conversation, either.

With that in mind, he reached for Lauren's hand, but instead of tucking it in the crook of his arm, he simply held it and steered them both away from the edge.

They skated side by side, finding their rhythm, while Joe kept an eye on the perimeter.

"I'm really glad you came," she said. "You would not believe the conversation I had with my dad."

He looked down at her. "About Theodore Clarke?" he asked. She'd told him about the tour she'd given him the other day, including his insecurities since Tut's discovery and his comments about her parents. There was definitely more to learn there.

The wind whipped a strand of her hair across her eyes. She brushed it away, then relayed what Lawrence had told her.

"So will you leave it alone?" he asked.

"I don't know." Her brow furrowed. "Maybe I don't want to know what happened between them, especially if I'm to keep up a positive working relationship with Clarke for the Met. But I already replied to Dr. Breasted and asked him for more details about what might have caused the rift between him and Dad."

"Attagirl." In his line of work, secrets were made to be exposed.

She chuckled. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Lead the way."

"I've been thinking about Peter, and everything you told me from your chat with him on Tuesday. He certainly seemed like the most promising suspect for the Book of the Dead papyrus, but we were forgetting one important detail. Peter couldn't have forged that papyrus. Mr. Moretti said it came directly from Egypt, so it must have been forged before it reached the States."

Joe didn't like how much she trusted Moretti's word. "Lauren," he said. "You do realize that Ray Moretti could have been lying about that, or he could have been lied to himself. A buyer says he got it in Egypt, but he didn't. Maybe he didn't want to displease his boss, which I understand. What was his reaction, by the way, when you told him his papyrus wasn't genuine?"

"No one enjoys hearing news like that, but he responded as well as any other collector in the same position. He lost a small fortune on it."

"A small fortune to us might be small potatoes to him. In any case, doesn't he want to report it to the police?"

"Not as far as I know. Maybe he didn't believe me."

He pulled her closer, wrapped his arm around her waist, and spoke so only she would hear him. "Or he might not want to get the police involved. People like him have their own ways of handling things. Capisce ?"

She shook her head but couldn't hide a small smile. "Oh, I capisce plenty."

"No, no." He tried so hard not to laugh. "I say, ‘ Capisce ?' That means ‘Do you understand?' And you say, ‘ Capisco . I understand.' Except for I wonder if you really do."

"I've heard the rumors about the Morettis, Joe."

"Which ones?"

She glanced at him and skated a little faster, though she couldn't get away from him, joined at the hip as they were. "It's no secret that he owns an abundance of liquor."

No kidding.

"And he probably comes by it illegally."

"He probably does." Joe couldn't help the sarcasm. "What else?"

"I understand he owns a lot of businesses. He's successful enough to have an income that can afford both his Manhattan brownstone and the Long Island mansion. I've heard he hasn't paid all the taxes he owes. But that could just be the old money–new money rivalry."

"Looks like he has paid his taxes, actually."

"You looked him up?"

"I did my job. I wanted to check for ties to organized crime," Joe told her.

Snow fell in little feathers, landing on the apples of her cheeks and the dent in her chin. They melted there, leaving tiny droplets on her skin. He felt like they were in a Norman Rockwell painting. Except for the topic of conversation.

"Did you find any proof?" Lauren asked.

If Joe had proof, Ray Moretti would be in jail. "These guys are hard to pin down. Their strict culture of secrecy and family loyalty goes a long way in protecting them from charges that would otherwise stick."

"The Morettis have been valued patrons of the Met for years. His wife personally gives to several charities around the city."

"Do you ever wonder where that money comes from?"

"Hotels and pharmacies. Real estate—that's a big one—especially on the north shore of Long Island."

Joe wondered what it was like to be so na?ve. To accept what people said, to believe the best in them, to refuse to give credence to hearsay. "I forgot how easy it is for you to give folks the benefit of the doubt," he said. Not that he had any right to complain. Lauren had extended the same grace to him when they'd been teenagers, against her aunt's advice.

She narrowed a sidelong glance at him through the swirling snow. "Somehow I get the feeling you don't approve."

"I approve of you ," he said. He approved of everything about her, except her cavalier attitude toward the Morettis. Releasing her waist, he spun around to face her and held her hands instead. He skated backward, and she forward. "But sometimes you can be so focused on ancient dynasties that you don't clearly see the world you live in now."

Lauren dug her toe into the ice, stopping them short. "Are you going to tell me I'm too privileged? That I don't live in reality and have no idea how the world works?" She inched backward, changing their direction.

He didn't let her go. Other skaters faded in his periphery as he focused on the only one who mattered. "We know each other better than that," he insisted. "I care about you."

Her blue eyes softened as she squeezed his hands. "I care about you, too. I'm so glad you're back in my life. I keep wondering why we didn't do this sooner."

"I know why."

She locked her gaze with his, waiting.

"Do you remember when you said good-bye to me at Belvedere Castle, before you left for college?" Joe asked.

"Of course."

"I'd set up that picnic with a much different plan for that night. I was going to tell you how deeply I cared about you. Then you started talking about your plans for the future, and I wised up quick that I didn't fit in. I would only be in your way, and the last thing on earth I wanted to do was hold you back from your dreams."

Joe realized that he was still holding her hands, keeping her near. He released her, letting her skate backward at her own pace.

"I asked if we could write to each other, and you never did," she said. "I wrote you a couple of times, and you didn't respond."

How could she still not get it? He'd needed to get over her, and the only way to do that was to forget her. Writing letters only re minded him that she was out there, and that she'd never be his. "That's because I didn't want to be your friend anymore. I couldn't." He swallowed, and the rest of his confession stuck in his throat.

Her eyes widened. Hurt splayed across her face, and she skated faster.

"Wait, I didn't mean it like that." He pursued her, closing the distance between them. She was heading straight for a section of the pond that was barricaded with sawhorses.

"Lauren, wait!"

She didn't look over her shoulder, didn't know she was literally skating on thin ice until it cracked and gave way beneath her. With a cry of surprise, she fell through, but only up to her calves. Her right ankle buckled beneath her, but she regained her balance and held out a palm to stop Joe.

"Stay back!" she called to Joe, whose instinct was to lunge for her and bring her back to safety. "You'll break through if you come close." Her expression screwed tight. She must be in pain, or she wouldn't be standing there soaking in the freezing water, one knee slightly bent.

"Here." He took hold of a sawhorse and shoved it her way. "Use this." He hated how helpless he felt, watching her struggle to step out of the water and back onto the thin ice, balancing on slippery skates.

Grasping the sawhorse for support and to redistribute her weight, she made her way to the end of it, then accepted Joe's outstretched hand. He pulled her farther from danger, holding her steady against him. Already, she began to shake with cold.

"I can't believe I did that," she gasped. The snow that caught on her wet shins and skates didn't melt. "I twisted my ankle somehow, but now I can't feel it. My feet are numb."

"Make way, make way!" Elsa's voice cut through the crowd that was already forming around them. "We saw the whole thing."

"I've got to get her home," Joe said.

"Agreed. Come on, I'll help you get her off the pond." She and Joe kept Lauren between them while skating her to the edge and onto the closest bench. "Ivy's working on transportation, and I'll return the skates. Here." Kneeling, Elsa tore at Lauren's skate laces while Joe quickly changed back into his shoes.

Joe ripped off his coat and wrapped it around Lauren's legs, which were now without stockings, since Elsa had apparently peeled them off, too. He secured the coat in place by wrapping the sleeves around her legs and tying them. With numb feet and an injured ankle, she was in no condition to walk right now anyway.

"Get her home," Elsa said. "We'll be right behind you."

A shrill whistle cut through the air. "Joe! Lauren! Your chariot awaits!" Ivy waved at them from where she stood on the lane thirty yards away. Behind her was a horse-drawn carriage, popular with tourists, big enough for only two passengers.

"Ready, princess?" Joe lifted her arms and looped them around his neck. She held tight, and he lifted her with an arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees. He carried her to the carriage and settled her inside.

"The Beresford, Central Park West," he told the driver.

"What do I look like, buddy? A taxi?"

"You are now." Joe flashed his badge case to skip the argument. "Giddyup."

———

Lauren wasn't sure which was more shocking. The cold that had sliced through her skates and stockings or the fact that she'd been stupid enough to skate too close to the edge in the first place.

"Can you feel anything yet?" Joe held her coat-wrapped legs on his lap as the carriage trundled through Central Park. One arm around her shoulders, he rubbed his other broad hand over the folds of wool wrapping her lower legs, careful not to touch the injured ankle.

She shook her head. "Still numb." The snow fell thick and wet, and she burrowed closer into Joe's side. She was so very cold. Without a coat, Joe had to be freezing, too. "Do you want my scarf, at least?"

"Are you kidding? Forget about it." He squeezed her shoulders. "We're almost there, anyway."

The horse wasn't pulling past a trot, but the distance between the pond in Central Park and the front door of the Beresford was less than half a mile.

A minute later, the dear old beast exited the park, clip-clopping across Central Park West and slowing to a halt at the entrance of the Beresford on 81st Street. Joe paid the driver, hopped to the ground, and gathered Lauren in his arms once more.

As soon as they were inside the apartment, he helped her into her bedroom so she could change out of her skirt, which was wet at the hem, along with her coat.

"You should take a soak in the tub to warm up," he called through the door.

"Nonsense. It's just my feet that need it."

"Then don't put on stockings yet. We'll soak your feet."

After trading her damp skirt for a dry one with a hemline that fell to the knee, she grabbed a pair of stockings for later and hobbled back into the hall.

Wrapping an arm about her waist, Joe helped her to the living room and eased her onto the couch. "I'll take care of you," he said, and she believed him.

Clearly, he remembered his way around the place from his last visit. He found the dish pan they used to wash out their mugs, filled it with water, then brought it to where she sat.

"This is warm," he told her, "but not hot enough to burn you." He guided her feet into the water.

"I don't feel much of anything yet."

"You will." Rising, he went to the counter and started a pot of coffee. The redolent smell filled the apartment with a sense of comfort and humble domesticity. With the coffee percolating behind him, he returned to her and knelt. "It doesn't look like you sprained your ankle. You must have come down on it wrong. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Lauren agreed with his assessment. There was only a little swelling, and no bruising that she could tell yet. "I feel pretty stupid," she admitted. "I hate for you to have to go to all this trouble."

"It's no trouble," he said. "Do you mind if I—" He glanced up at her. "May I touch you? Your feet and ankles. No funny business, I promise." He held his palms up.

Her face heating, she nodded, wondering when her nerves would fire back to life beneath his touch.

Joe dipped his hands in the water and rubbed her feet and toes before massaging her ankles, too. He cupped water and laved it over her cold shins and calves, first on one leg, then the other.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For helping me."

He shrugged. "Ivy and Elsa would have if I hadn't already been there."

"You make it sound as though you're not necessary. But you are necessary. To me. And not just for this."

His hands stilled on her ankles, and he looked up at her. While she waited for his voice to surface, unsaid words seemed to ripple between them.

Then, as if remembering himself, Joe drew back from the water, went to the counter, and poured a mug of coffee. Coming back, he pressed it into her hands. "That should warm you a bit, inside and out."

Lauren wouldn't admit how warm she already felt. "Don't you want some?"

"Later." Bending a knee at the hearth, he stacked kindling among the wood. "Any better yet?"

She wiggled her toes. "Getting there."

"Good." He lit the fire and blew on the small flames.

Sipping her coffee, she tried to relax, but every sense still in operation seemed to be on high alert. The coffee smelled richer, the sofa cushions felt softer. Moments passed with the snap and pop of the growing fire the only sound between them.

"Oh." Lauren suddenly felt as though the water was far too hot for her skin. "That's enough, I think. I know the water is barely above lukewarm, but it feels like it's burning me." Setting the mug on the table beside her, she lifted her feet out of the water.

Kneeling again, Joe moved the basin aside, and spread a towel over his lap. She lowered both feet onto it, and he dried them.

"I didn't understand what you meant at first," she said. "When you said you didn't want to be my friend anymore."

"So I gathered. Words are not my strong suit."

His actions, however, spoke volumes.

Lauren leaned down and pulled her stockings back on, then patted the sofa cushion.

Joe sat with her, and she angled sideways to face him. She stretched out her legs across his lap, mostly to relieve the pressure from her ankle.

Mostly.

Pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa, Joe carefully tucked it around her legs and placed one warm hand to the bottoms of her feet. His other arm draped the back of the couch behind her. "I would have explained, but you were busy falling into the water." He twirled a wayward lock of her hair around one finger and let it go.

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "Try again?"

Joe looked away, as though measuring his next words. When he turned back to her, his eyes were an intense green, the color of new grass in the spring. "Ever since I met you, I wanted to be your friend. Then, when we weren't kids any longer, I wasn't satisfied with that. I wanted more. But I wasn't going to push. Your aunt and uncle clearly didn't approve of me, and you had big plans. You traveled abroad, you went to school. I joined the force. We moved on, right?"

"I suppose we did." The wedge in Lauren's throat grew sharp. "I've missed you, Joe."

He nodded, a half smile on his lips. "And then these cases threw us back together, and I told myself to be content with this miracle, that you were back in my life. I didn't even expect our friendship to pick up where we left off, and I still counted myself lucky that for however long these cases kept us together, we could be friends. That once we caught a few forgers, we might part ways again and go back to the way things were before. I've tried to be okay with that. But I can't. I'm not." His hand cupped the nape of her neck, his thumb drawing a slow circle beneath her ear.

Dusk fell outside the windows, and snow churned against the panes. Lauren's heart thumped against her ribs. "Tell me what you were planning to say that night at Belvedere Castle, when we were young and the whole world seemed at our feet."

Firelight flickered in his eyes. "I want to be more than your friend. I want to be the man who gets to take care of you, who makes you smile and sing and sigh. I want ... you know what I want."

She could tell he was all out of words, and the fact that he was so nervous endeared him to her all the more. But he didn't need to say anything else to make himself clear. He was right. She knew what he wanted. He needed to know that she wanted it, too.

Joe slid his hand to her cheek and leaned closer. " Capisce ?" His gaze dropped to her lips before bouncing back to her eyes, his question lingering there.

Her pulse throbbing, she looped her hands around his neck, fingers curling in the hair above his collar. " Capisco ," she whispered, and kissed the smile on his face.