“You’re a friend of Lucy,” I answer. “And I hold her opinion in the highest regard.”
“I have no doubt.”
* * *
After lunch, Amber cancels a meeting and takes us to her high-end apartment in the center of downtown New Carnegie, complete with vast windows and lavish modern decor. Champagne, ivory, and rose are her colors of choice, from the granite countertops in the kitchen to the sofas in her living room. It’s large, spacious, and brand new—a stark comparison to Lucy’s aging little apartment back in St. Morgan. Lucy seems unfazed by the display of wealth, and Amber doesn’t appear keen to suffocate her with it.
The longer I spend time with these two women, the more I understand how they get along so well. Despite their obvious differences, they share a common appreciation for success, hard work, and cleanliness. Lucy is a perfectionist, and Amber seems to share her tidiness, at the very least.
Even her street clothes are designer and 100 percent in style. That’s when she hits Lucy with her plan: specifically, she says, to play dress-up.
With me.
I am now a doll. I am not entirely sure how to respond to it.
“Are you sure? I mean, he already has a closet full of clothes—” Lucy begins.
“A high-fashion man can never have enough clothes.” Amber motions to me dramatically. “I mean to make him the best-dressed man in St. Morgan. The way I see it, whoever this Sullivan guy is could be taken down a peg, anyway.”
Lucy protests, “I’m not sure about that. Someone’s already tried to damage Atticus by tossing a brick through a window. Fanning the flames might make them bolder.”
“You’re telling me you don’t want to see this beautiful man in a suit?”
“No, I don’t,” Lucy says too quickly, then amends, “I mean, I do. I just want to be careful. I don’t want to give them any more reasons to hate him. He’s already more naturally intelligent than everybody there. If we rub it in they’ll get nasty.”
My gratification drive thrills at Lucy’s words.
Amber sighs. “Fair, fair. All right, then.” Lucy expresses relief too soon as Amber barrels onward, taking her purse from a coat rack and slinging it over her shoulder. “We’ll stick with business casual. I’ll get the car.”
“Amber, wait, I—” Lucy gives up as we’re left behind. “And she’s gone. Wow. I’m sorry. I should’ve guessed it’d be like this.”
“I’m not sure why you’re apologizing,” I reply. “It pleases me to see you happy, and you seem in far better spirits when you’re in her company.”
I speak with the utmost sincerity, as I cannot deceive. Something about St. Morgan, and Vautrin in particular, seems to veil the occasional brightness I see in Lucy when she’s in the classroom, talking about books and history and its context. When she talks about Ancient Greece or Rome, she is animated and vivid. Outside, among the other faculty, even in her own home, that excitement and passion are dim.
Amber seems to have the opposite effect, and she is illuminated again.
“I am.” Lucy tucks her hair behind her ear. “It’s really good to be home.”
I stand comfortably at rest, hands behind my back as I gaze down into her face. “If you do not wish for me to have a new wardrobe, I can always consider it a command and decline her attempts to purchase apparel on my behalf.”
“You don’t know Amber.” Lucy chuckles, shaking her head. “One way or another, she always gets her way.”
“And what about your way, Lucy?”
Lucy is quiet for a moment before she folds her arms, shifting on her feet.“I think I’d like to see you expand your wardrobe. It was really sweet of Trey to give you clothes, and they’re all in great shape, but you being able to select something yourself might be a nice experience for you. I’m just ashamed I can’t afford to spoil you like she can, not on my salary.”
There it is again—her inability to meet my eyes. But, oh, how I want her to. I take a step toward her, shrinking the distance between us, and my closeness causes her to tense.
“Don’t be. I admire the way you choose to live your life, Lucy. And I assure you, I’m perfectly content with what I have.”
My candor earns me her full attention. “What do you know about my life, Atticus?” Her tone is curious rather than defensive.
I cannot initiate, but that doesn’t mean I cannot touch to provide comfort. I reach out and gently brush my finger across her cheek as I push a stray pretty braid back behind her ear. I sense her shiver, but she doesn’t pull away, leaning into my touch instead.
I want to embrace her, but I refrain, willing myself to be content with this small, stolen touch. “Enough, from simple observation. You value knowledge and simplicity over comfort and monetary gain. Not everyone lives that way.”
Lucy motions around the room. “Clearly.”
