Page 79 of Flirting with Forever

“I’m ready.”

“Very well,” said Peter. “’Tis simple. I want a studio, a dozen bolts of canvas, and enough lead white paint to fill the Thames.”

Thirty-four

“There’s a man upstairs in the loft for you,” Jacket said as he pressed the security button to call the elevator.

“Really?” Cam searched his eyes for a hint but found none.

Jacket had taken to greeting her in the lobby each night when she got off her bus, sometimes even with a much-appreciated glass of wine. Her bus entered Mt. Lebanon where the two big churches sat, at the peak of Washington Road. She’d exited there and walked the last quarter of a mile to her building, past the cemetery where her father was buried, past the hardware store, past the Japanese restaurant, whose sushi she and Jacket loved so much. It was a great way to unwind. The last couple weeks before the opening of an exhibition were always hard, and though everything was coming together, she was glad the long workday was over and all she had to worry about was getting Ursula into the sack, creatively speaking, with Peter. Not that it was all that hard, after all. She knew how persuasive Peter could be when he put his mind to it.

“A man?” she said, juggling the wine and her laptop bag. “Who?”

“Dunno. Didn’t give his name. Says he’s a friend of yours.”

Her heart did a lurch, and then she remembered Jacket and Peter had already met. Whoever the man upstairs was, it wasn’t Peter.

When the door opened in the penthouse, Cam saw Peter’s nosy apprentice, Mertons, sitting on the edge of her couch. For an instant she didn’t know what to say. She knew he’d arrived shortly after Peter, for Jeanne had told her so. She also knew Jeanne had brought him to Orbis Coffee. But that had been a week ago. Where he’d been since then, she had no idea. He was dressed in a somber gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie so subdued it made regimental stripes look like fluorescent tie-dye. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was an accountant.

She looked at Jacket, then back at Mertons, waiting for a clue on the backstory Jacket had been handed.

Mertons cleared his throat and stood. “Gregory Mertons. Do you remember our appointment? Sorry to arrive so late. I’m on my way to the airport.”

Was he supposed to be a pilot? A chauffeur? The new breed of British middle-class terrorist? She looked at the briefcase at his feet as well as a huge, oversized suitcase next to the fireplace. “Um…”

“I’m here to discuss the insurance you asked about. Whole life?” He returned to his seat.

“Riiiiiiight.” She dropped her laptop bag on the table, hugged the wine a little closer, and said to Jacket, “Sorry, I, uh, forgot.”

Jacket gave her a questioning look. “Insurance?”

She shrugged. “You’re welcome to join us. I’m trying to decide between whole life and term. I want to be covered, you know, with renewable or decreasing term, but I also keep thinking of the cash value. I asked Mr. Mertons to run a few different scenarios for me—”

“Seventeen, actually,” Mertons said, patting the briefcase at his feet.

“I might need your advice.” She smiled.

Jacket waved away the idea like it was a swarming cloud of locusts and broke into a jog. “Lots of work,” he said. “Wine’s in the kitchen.”

When she heard the studio door shut, she turned to demand an explanation, but Mertons had his head buried in the briefcase. Good God, she thought with a start, I’m not actually going to have to hear about insurance, am I?

He pulled out a piece of paper, nearly laid it on the table, then picked it up again. “I need to talk to you about Peter.”

She felt a charge of fear. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” Mertons regarded her closely over the top of his glasses.

“Oh. Good. I guess.”

“Have a seat.”

She sunk into the couch opposite him and put her wine on the table.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

She flushed. “Look, I don’t know what he told you, but sleeping with Peter doesn’t exactly make you his girlfriend. If anything, it makes you something a little closer to an idiot.”

Mertons examined a nonexistent crease in his tie. “I was talking about Jacket, Miss Stratford.”