Trust on Trial
Dylan leaned against the counter of The Black Tulip, watching Nico charm a pair of wealthy customers interested in Federal-period silver.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, but the shop was busy and he resisted the urge to check it. Once the customers moved to examine dining chairs, Dylan checked his phone:
Julia: Just arrived at the warehouse. Contractor removed a section of plaster we were planning to preserve. Having a minor preservation crisis. Plz send antique-lover solidarity.
Dylan smiled and replied:
Dylan: Contractor crimes against history! Full solidarity from the antique trenches. Can the plaster be restored, or is it a total loss?
“The Carmichaels are ready to purchase the teapot and chairs,” Nico said, interrupting Dylan’s typing. “Judging by your expression, you’re texting Savannah.”
Dylan shook his head and pocketed his phone. As Cecilia Barnes, a highly sought-after interior designer in Providence, sat down to discuss options for a client’s home, she said, “Nico tells me you’re meeting someone special soon.”
Dylan shot a look at Nico, who was pretending to dust a bookcase nearby. “As you know . . . Nico has an overactive imagination.”
“Don’t blame the messenger,” Nico chimed in.
Cecilia leaned forward. “It’s nice to see you interested in something besides furniture, Dylan. I know how hard the past several months have been. God knows how much I miss Tobias!”
Dylan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He picked up one of the catalogs from his desk and looked at Cecilia. She was perched casually on the edge of his desk, her rhinestone glasses twinkling in the light.
“She’s an architect specializing in historical preservation,” he said, a little too quickly. “We have some things in common. That’s all.”
“Oooh, I see some possibility,” she said, smiling.
“Should we go over these?” Dylan said, clearing his throat. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“That we do,” she agreed, sliding gracefully off the desk and taking off her rhinestone glasses with a flourish, letting them dangle from one hand. “You know, Dylan. Ghosts are infinitely patient. They’re happy to sit around in their swimming trunks until they get your attention.”
He looked at her for a beat, then his eyes started darting around the room. “That’s, that’s . . . good to know. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
He swallowed hard and grabbed the top catalog.
“Forget the catalog, dear. I’m thinking three Buddhas from the Angkor Empire for a widewall in a great room.”
“But Cecilia . . .”
“With documented histories, of course. My client has resources.”
“Of course.”
After Cecilia left, Dylan checked his phone:
Julia: Plaster crisis averted. How’s your day?
Dylan: A little trickier than expected.
Julia:Oh? Is it a top-secret kind of tricky?
It wasn’t like Dylan not to respond. This gave Julia some pause.
Later that evening, as Julia sat on her sofa with a glass of wine, her phone chimed with an incoming call. Her brother’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hey, James,” she said, tucking her feet beneath her.
“Hey, sis.”
