How Sweet It Is (3 page)

Balancing the tray on one palm, Finn took the knocker in his hand and rapped it against the heavy seventeenth-century door.

It took Marcel several long moments to open it. His eyes widened and he smiled in delight. “
Mon vieux! Quel surprise.
”

“I bring you an espresso and croissant every morning,” Finn replied in the French he’d perfected over the twenty years he’d lived in Paris. He entered the attic studio and held out the tray.

Marcel took it from him, grinning impishly. “Yes, but I don’t like to take it for granted.”

Following his friend into the living area, he said, “Anne-Marie asks that you return her dishes back to her café when you finish with breakfast.”

“That’s because Anne-Marie can’t get enough of me.” Marcel winked as he lifted the tiny cup and downed it in one swallow. Then he said, “What are you doing today?”

His friend always asked this question, and Finn always shrugged and said, “What do you think I’m doing today? I’m restoring a piece of furniture that was commissioned to me.”

“One day I hope that question will have an interesting answer, but not today.” Marcel sighed as though the fact weighed greatly on him.

“What I do concerns you too much.” He started to sit on a chair but then moved to the ledge by the window. He wasn’t a small man, and all of Marcel’s furniture was rickety.

“Because I care about you and what you do.” Picking up the croissant, the older man bit the end off and waved the rest at him. “You’re the son I never wanted.”

Finn smiled. Marcel had the delusion that he took care of Finn. In reality, it was the other way around and had been since the day they’d met at Art Kfé, the jazz cave a couple blocks away. Marcel had been playing with the band. After their set, Finn had struck up a conversation with the man, and they’d found out that they shared a love of music, New Orleans, and strong coffee.

Marcel had started coming around and Finn would buy him a drink or dinner, knowing that the man made little money. But Marcel was living his dream, being true to his heart and music, and that was something Finn respected. So when the man needed a place to stay, Finn let him use the attic studio over his own flat—it’d been sitting empty anyway. Marcel called it the world providing.

Three years later, Marcel was still there. Their arrangement worked. Marcel needed a roof over his head more than Finn needed a paying tenant. As a bonus, he got to hear Marcel playing his trombone. There was nothing better than hearing the horn’s sweet crooning unexpectedly throughout the day.

“Have you been painting?” Marcel asked out of the blue.

Finn frowned. “What makes you ask?”

The older man shrugged expressively. “Because lately all you do is fiddle with other people’s work. You don’t create your own. You need to create.”

“You play other people’s music instead of making your own,” he pointed out.

Pursing his lips, Marcel shook his head. “It’s not the same thing.”

“No?”

“
Non
,” the man said definitively. “Music is not the same. Every time I play someone’s song, I make it mine. I say it in my voice and express it with my emotions. When you fix furniture, you must copy what the original master did. It’s time for you to become the master,
mon vieux
.”

“This argument again.” He smiled. “You know I’m not looking for riches.”

“No, but you are looking for recognition.” Marcel’s gaze narrowed with cunning. “You cannot deny that you seek infamy.”

He couldn’t deny it. The last thing his overbearing father had yelled as Finn had walked out the door twenty years before was that he’d never have money or respect. Finn didn’t want money—his family was corrupted by it the same way some families were corrupted by alcohol. Respect he would have though, if only to prove that his skills were worthy.

Marcel pointed a long finger at him. “You’ll gain infamy through the stroke of your brush, not through fixing chairs.”

Crossing his arms, Finn shook his head. “I won’t sell my art. You know I’m firm on this.”

“Firm.” His friend waved dismissively. “All men know firm comes and goes.”

He arched his brow.

“Though
you
may not, because when did you have a woman last?”

“I thought we were talking about art, not women.”

“They are linked. Look at Picasso.” Marcel poked him in the chest. “You could surpass Picasso in all ways if you stopped being so stubborn.”

Finn couldn’t help grinning. “Did you just compare me to a misogynist?”

“You leave me no other options.” He held his hands up as though helpless. “You don’t love your wife, do you?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“
Exactement!
Why do you not have a wife?”

He sighed. “Not this again.”

“You’re wasting your life,
mon vieux
. It’s criminal for someone with your gifts not to paint all the time, and you should have a woman who loves you, and a family.”

“The way you do?” he asked dryly.

Marcel lifted a finger in the air. “I am a cautionary tale. Look at my wretched existence and do the opposite.”

Finn pushed off the ledge and stood. “From where I stand, your life is fairly delightful. You have your music, no drama, and freedom. What could be better?”

“Family. People to love. Someone to grow old with.” Marcel’s brows lowered into one bushy line. “You underestimate how important those things are until you’re older.”

His uncle Henry had always told him that a soul was the only thing one needed in life, and that everything else came second. The soul was the thing to be safeguarded at all costs.

Uncle Henry would know, too, considering his brother James, Finn’s father, had tried to steal his soul and sell it.

“
Alors?
” Marcel said, gesturing with his hands. “You have nothing to say?”

He knew better than to argue about this with his friend. They never got anywhere. It was worse than discussing politics. So he changed the subject. “How is Madame Janine?”

Marcel both blushed and scowled. “That woman. She believes she owns me.”

“She does own you.” She owned a restaurant up the street and her
magret de canette
held Marcel in thrall. “If you don’t want her to be possessive, don’t go to her restaurant. You let her feed you. You’ve become her stray.”

“Because her duck …” Hand on his heart, Marcel sighed in deep pleasure. “Sometimes in the dark of night, I think I could marry her for that alone. Alas, I’m married to my music.”

“Are you playing tonight?” Finn asked as he opened the door.

“At Art Kfé.” Marcel grinned. “Claudette will be singing tonight, too. Shall I tell her you’ll be there?”

“No.” Marcel liked to stir things up, especially on Finn’s behalf. Doubly so if pretty women were involved. Finn gave his friend a severe look, knowing it was useless. He closed the door on Marcel’s laughter, jogging down the worn stone steps to the ground floor.

Going around to the store in front, he unlocked the metal gate and pushed it open. He unlocked the door to his workshop, his phone ringing as he let himself in.

Mumbling a curse under his breath, he ran to answer it. “
Oui?
” he said into the receiver.

“You never answer your phone,” a familiar voice grumbled.

“Because I know it’s you, Philippe,” he replied smoothly to the art historian.

“I bring you work. You should be on your knees, thanking me, because otherwise you wouldn’t have your fancy home.”

His fancy home was a seventeenth-century building that frequently had plumbing and electrical problems. But it housed him, gave him an expansive workshop, and allowed him to help Marcel. Yes, he was grateful for Philippe, and they both knew it. “So are you annoying me this morning for a reason?”

“Yes.” There was a rustle of papers. “A colleague of mine has an emergency. She needs your services badly. I told her you’re unbearable but, quite frankly, you’re the only one who can properly restore her relic.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Finn murmured.

“It’s in London. I’ll text you the information. She’s expecting you tomorrow.”

London.
Finn shook his head. “I hate London.”

“You want to secure your name as a foremost expert in restoration, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll get past your dislike of London and go see Madame Potter.”

He shook his head. “Nothing is worth returning to London.”

“Not even King Edward’s Chair?”

He stilled. King Edward’s Chair was one of Britain’s greatest treasures. All the monarchs since 1308 had sat on it during their coronation. To be the person selected to restore it was an honor beyond any sum of money. “Why does it need restoration? It’s under lock and key at Westminster Abbey.”

Philippe chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. Go to London. Abigail Potter will give you all the details.”

As soon as Finn hung up, he received the text with Abigail Potter’s information. He leaned against his worktable, studying the message.

The Coronation Chair hadn’t been used since Elizabeth II had been crowned in 1953. It wasn’t accessible to the public. Nothing should have happened to it, and if something had, it’d have been all over the news.

It wouldn’t hurt to go to London, just to appease his curiosity. He didn’t need to take the commission.

Except that it was the greatest honor any restoration expert could receive: the chance to restore such an important piece. It was the sort of project that would secure his name in the art circles.

Everyone would know his name.

Especially his father. It’d kill James Buchanan for Finn to have that sort of recognition.

“I guess I’m headed back to London,” he said into the emptiness of his studio, used to the silence that followed.

Chapter Three

Chloe stared at the chemical compounds on the test in front of her. If she rearranged the letters, she could spell “oh no.”

Oh no
was right. So far, she’d answered two of the twenty problems. She was pretty sure her teacher had put those questions on there specifically for her, so she wouldn’t feel like a complete failure.

She looked to the front row, where Hunter Vicks sat. He was filling out the test in
pen
. Of course he was. Not only was Hunter Vicks gorgeous, but he was brilliant, too—in everything, but especially science.

If Hunter was a character in one of her stories, he’d turn right now and give her a reassuring smile. She’d have given him the ability to freeze everyone except the two of them, and he’d walk back to her and kiss her.

She thought about kissing him a lot.

Maybe if she thought more about science, she wouldn’t be doing so poorly in class. She looked at the test again, even if it was hopeless.

“Class is just about over,” Mrs. Watley said, closing her book. “Finish what you have left and bring your papers up front as you leave.”

Excellent. Chloe picked up her bag and headed to her teacher’s desk. She set it upside down on top of the other tests and rushed away.

“Chloe, wait just a moment, will you?” Mrs. Watley called out.

She stopped and looked longingly at the doorway. So close. Sighing, she turned around and trudged to her teacher’s desk.

To give her credit, Mrs. Watley waited until all the other students had filed out before she lowered her voice and said, “I’m concerned about you, Chloe.”

That’d make one person in the world who cared about her. Not knowing what to say, she just nodded.

“What happened on this test?” She held up the mostly blank page Chloe had turned in.

She shrugged. Nothing had happened, and that was exactly what was wrong. Except what could she say?
So sorry—my parents screwed up and ever since I’ve been a mess?

Her teacher looked pained. “Didn’t you study?”

“I did.” The problem was with time: it hadn’t stopped. Around the beginning of the school year, when her mum had started losing it, Chloe had fallen behind in her classes. With the other ones, she’d managed to catch up.

With science, she couldn’t. Each term had built on the last, and now in the fourth term she was so lost she couldn’t find her way back. It’d steadily gotten worse. Like a castle that was being built on loose sand, she kept crumbling.

She gripped her journal closer to her chest, wishing she were anywhere but in front of her teacher’s disappointed gaze. She was disappointed enough in herself—she didn’t need someone else’s added to her burden.

“I’m worried about you,” her teacher continued. “This isn’t like you at all. You’re failing out of my class, and I don’t understand it. You were doing well until this year, and you’re so bright. Is it your home situation?”

Shifting her weight again, she pretended not to understand. “Home situation?”

Mrs. Watley held her hands out. “It’s no secret your parents are divorcing.”

“Actually, they’ve officially divorced,” she corrected, resettling her bag on her shoulder. It’d been a few months since the divorce had gone through. She was relieved that Charles was gone—things were much more relaxed at home.

Except Viola had been acting more and more strange instead of being just as relieved. It scared Chloe, but it made her angry, too, because the mother was supposed to be the one who kept it together, not the kid.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Mrs. Watley said softly, her expression sympathetic. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, feeling something close to horror. If she wanted to talk about it, she’d talk to her aunts or Rowdy—not her science teacher.

Mrs. Watley nodded. “In any case, we need to do something about your performance in class. You’ve been selected to attend the Young Writers program at Stratford-upon-Avon, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” It was the only good thing that had happened the past couple months. She hadn’t told anyone except her grandmother, because her grandmother was a writer, too, and understood. She hadn’t told Viola yet. Not that her mother was interested in what was happening in her life.

“If your fourth term grades don’t meet the requirements, you won’t be able to attend,” her teacher said, genuine concern furrowing her brow.