Waiting for Mr. Darcy (2 page)

“So how's my godson?”

“He's good.”

“Is he excited about grad school?”

“I think so. He has a new girlfriend.” Alicia rolled her eyes a little.

“What's wrong with her?”

“Nothing, she's a perfectly nice young lady.”

“But…” Lauren said.

“She's just blah. There's nothing to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's not ambitious.” Alicia sighed. “She seems content being a legal secretary, even though she has an associate degree in criminal justice.” Alicia shook her head.

“So what's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Alicia shrugged.

“Not every woman can be as driven as you, Alicia.”

“Now if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Point taken.”

“I'm going to leave it alone. It's his life and he loves her just the way she is.”

“Now if you'd only follow that advice when it comes to Gabby and me, we'd be set.”

Before Alicia could respond 52-year-old Ron Wilder, a slim, brown-skinned man, knocked on the door, out of breath. Ron was one of the executive features editor at
Everyday Elegance With Alicia
.

“Ron? What are you doing here?”

He caught his breath. “I wanted to be sure to get these papers to you.” He handed Alicia a folder.

“Thanks, Ron, but you could have messengered them up to the house.”

“I know, but I think Barbara needs your signature on them now.”

Alicia looked the papers over and signed them. “Here you go.” She handed them back to him. “Ron, you know Lauren.”

“Oh, hi, Lauren, I didn't see you there.”

“Obviously. How are you, Ron?”

“Not bad.” He took a deep breath. “I guess I'd better run back to the office. Have a good vacation, boss.” He turned to Lauren. “Nice seeing you again, Lauren.”

Lauren waved as he dashed out. “You know he has a crush on you, don't you?”

“Don't be silly. He likes Barbara. Why else would he run over here to get papers signed for her?”

“I don't think that's the case, Alicia.” Lauren shook her head.

“Stop with your speculating already,” she said, grinning. Alicia looked at her watch. “I'd better get going. The car will be here in a minute.” She paused. “What are you wearing?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course. I might not like him but that doesn't mean I don't want him to drool over the mere sight of you.”

“I'm wearing the Goddess Dress by Abby Z in chocolate brown.”

“Nice.”

“Are you doing anything special tonight?”

Alicia stood up. “Gabby's supposed to come over for dinner. If things wrap up early you're welcome to join us for dessert and coffee. We haven't had a meeting of the Austen Aristocrats in a while.”

“Thank you for the invitation. However, if things go well, dessert is covered tonight.”

“Entirely too much information.” Alicia kissed her on the cheek. “Tell Ken I said hello.”

“You know you don't mean that.”

“Of course I do. I'm nothing if not polite. Even if he is a three-timing bastard who doesn't deserve you.”

“Alicia.”

“Sorry.” Alicia knew to back off. “You know I only want the best for you.” She kissed Lauren on the cheek again.

“It's a good thing I love you like a sister.”

“I know.” She waved as she left the production booth.

Lauren stared at her cell phone.
Do I call him again?
“Oh, the hell with it.” She dialed the phone.

Just then Norman knocked.

“Lauren?”

“Yeah, Norm.” She closed her phone.

“Simon wants to see you on set.”

“I'll be right there.”
Simon saved me from myself. I need to relax and get ready to go to dinner.

* * *

It had been a long day at the Blanchard Gallery and it showed on Gabrielle's face the moment she sat down on the sofa in her office. A natural blonde with blue eyes, Gabby was a curvy size sixteen and although she looked more like a benefactress than hip gallery owner in her navy blue suit, complete with pearls and an updo to match, she'd made it look sexy all day long. She'd seen fifty up-and-coming artists over two days who were competing to fill a mere fifteen slots for her gallery's annual exhibit of new artists, and she couldn't wait to get some peace.

“Gabby?”

“Yes, Robin?” She pressed the intercom button.

“I have to go into the file room for a few minutes.”

“No problem. We're done with artists for the day.”

Robin Pope was Gabby's executive assistant of seven years. A beautiful bronze-skinned woman of thirty-four, she was married to a successful architect on the West Side. A graphic designer herself, she'd given it up to take a job that would be more conducive to her ultimate goal, having a baby.

Although she wasn't an artist herself, Gabrielle Blanchard, nicknamed Gabby, had had an appreciation for and love of art since she was a little girl growing up in her family's posh townhouse on the Upper East Side. Yet Gabby was different from the rest of the pretty blonde, reed-thin girls she grew up with. She was always a little more “voluptuous,” as her dad put it. Her mother, however, didn't subscribe to her father's terminology or lax attitude about her size. Bunny Blanchard put Gabby on every diet known to man before she shipped her off to Miss Porter's Boarding School in Connecticut, where she met her best friends, Alicia and Lauren. They were big girls, too.

“Ms. Blanchard?” a male voice asked.

Gabby opened her eyes. “Yes?”

Her assistant Robin rushed in. “I'm sorry, Gabby. I told him you were done seeing artists and he snuck back here anyway.”

Gabby's eyes focused on the man who'd interrupted her solitude. He was very tall and thin with a rich, dark, cocoa brown complexion, but he didn't fit the usual artist mold. She was used to seeing artists in chic bohemian clothes and not expensive Italian suits.

“Are you representing a new artist?” she asked, puzzled.

He laughed as if he'd heard this question before. “No. I am the artist.”

Her assistant Robin looked equally puzzled. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Gabby was intrigued. “It's okay, Robin.”

“I'll be at my desk if you need me,” Robin said as she walked out.

Gabby stood up and straightened out her suit. “So Mr.…?”

“Clark. My name is Nigel Clark.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clark,” she said, putting her hand out.

He shook it. “Please call me Nigel.”

“Okay, Nigel. You can call me Gabby, but I'm still sorry to say that I've already picked the artists for our exhibit.”

“I know I'm late getting here but I would really like you to look at my work. I brought one of my paintings with me.”

“I don't know what good it will do. Our next new artists exhibition is next year.”

“Maybe so, but I would really like it if you took a look. I've heard terrific things about your gallery, and your reputation for having a good eye for the next big thing precedes you.”

Gabby smiled in spite of herself. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Nigel.” She picked her glasses up from the desk. “Bring it in.”

“Thank you,” he said as he left the room.

I hope I don't regret this,
she thought, crossing her arms.

The minute he walked through the door, her eyes were drawn to the canvas. It was a scene depicting life in Africa with all its hustle and bustle. Gabby was captivated by the vivid way he captured his subjects with color. The painting spoke to her.

“Is this Cotonou, Benin?”

“Yes.” He seemed genuinely surprised she recognized it.

“My ex-husband and I visited West Africa many years ago and Cotonou was one of our stops. It's quite a city. Is that where you're from?”

“No, I was born here. My mother is from Cotonou. She came to the States to study and then she met my father.”

“I see. Do you often go back to visit?”

“I used to visit my grandparents every spring but they passed away when I was in college.” He sighed. “I can still see the place in my mind.”

“I can see that.” Gabby pressed the intercom button. “Robin.”

“Yes?”

“Call Victor and tell him we have one more artist for the exhibit.”

“Okay, but you know he's going to complain.”

“Victor complains if it's Tuesday. He'll get over it.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.” Nigel flashed a megawatt smile.

“You're welcome. Just be sure to see Robin on the way out and she'll give you the details.”

He put his hand out. “You won't regret this.”

“I'm sure I won't.” Gabby leaned back in her chair.

“I guess we'll be in touch. I'll see you.”

Gabby watched him leave.
He's good looking, talented and charming. He should do well with our patrons, particularly the female ones. He can brush my canvas anytime.
Gabby raised her eyebrow.
This is business, Gabrielle,
she chided herself.
What would Bunny think?

* * *

The car pulled into the winding driveway of Alicia's little piece of heaven in Scarsdale. At over 4,500 square feet, the stone/stucco Tudor-style home suited Alicia's image, even if it was too much house for her with its six bedrooms, six bathrooms, powder room, gourmet kitchen, pantry and every other amenity imaginable. It was private, sort of, with the exception of the Becker place next door.

Harrison opened the car door. “Hello, Alicia. How did it go today?”

“Not bad. It's hard to believe we're going on hiatus.”

He closed the car door. “Time does fly by.”

At sixty-four, Harrison Kendall was Alicia's executive personal assistant, which, as far as he was concerned, was a glorified way of saying butler. The only hint of Harrison's age came from his silver hair. He was average height with just a hint of post-middle-age-spread around the middle. He had a tan complexion, which he credited to his Italian mother. Alicia met Harrison and his late wife Martha, who'd had a more progressive form of MS, at her neurologist's office just after her own diagnosis. It didn't take long for them to become fast friends, and, with no children of their own, they treated Alicia like a daughter. When Martha passed away, Alicia invited Harrison to live with her under the guise of being her second set of feet and hands in the house.

They walked into the foyer. “So how are you feeling?”

Alicia looked at her watch. “Wow, you went a whole three minutes before you asked. You're getting better,” she said facetiously.

“I know you like to make light of it, Ms. Alicia, but your neurologist did say you need to be mindful of your body and rest every now and then.”

“I am resting. We are on hiatus for the summer.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do. I'm fine. I promise.” As she walked into the living room her right foot dragged a little. She plopped onto the sofa. “That's much better.”

Harrison zeroed in on it. “I'll get your cane.”

“What for?”

“You're beginning to drag your foot because you're doing too much.”

“What am I doing now if it isn't resting? Leave the cane where it is.”

Harrison ignored her and took it out of the closet. “I'm leaving it right here for when you get up.” He set it next to the sofa.

“Fine. Has my son called?”

“Yes. He's coming up this weekend.”

“Great. Is it just him or is she coming, too?”

“Her name is Sally.”

“Yes. Sally. Is she coming?”

“He didn't say.”

“So there's hope.” She grinned.

Harrison shook his head. “No woman is ever good enough for a woman's son.”

“You got that right.”

“But your late husband's mother loves you.”

“That's because I'm special.” She smiled as she flipped the television on.

“Your parents called today.”

“They did? Why didn't they call the studio or my cell phone? They knew I was at work.”

“They're roaming the countryside in that Winnebago you and Samantha bought them.”

Her father was a 70-year-old retired schoolteacher and her 69-year-old mother was a retired cafeteria lady. They had been married forty-eight years. While most of their friends had sold their homes to move into expensive retirement communities or down South, they'd stayed in their home in Amityville. Alicia's parents still had quite a bit of zip left in their step and enjoyed being on the move, but they didn't trust the cleanliness of hotels or other people. Therefore a Winnebago seemed the perfect gift to give them the comfort of home while allowing them to have an adventure.

Alicia laughed. “It's what they wanted.”

“I know.”

“Where were they calling from?”

“They were at the Grand Canyon.”

“That sounds nice. I bet they're having a great time.”

“They are, but they really called to check on you.”

“You told them I'm fine.”

“Yes. However I wouldn't be surprised to see their Winnebago pulling into Scarsdale sometime this summer.”

Alicia chuckled. “Oh, won't the neighbors love that.”

“Oh yes.” Harrison picked up her briefcase. “Can I get you anything?”

“Just a seltzer with a twist.”

“No problem. What about dinner? I'm planning steaks.”

“Good. Gabby's coming for dinner.”

“Great. What about Lauren?”

“Lauren is having dinner with Ken at Ricardo's.”

Harrison's ears perked up. “Dinner at Ricardo's. Is there something going on you haven't told me?”