My One and Only(91)

“That’s a little hotel in Beijing,” he said. “I wanted it to feel soft, you know, since it overlooked the botanical garden. The foyer is done in the shape of a gingko leaf…see?”

I nodded, charmed.

“And where’s this one?” I asked, pointing to the next photo.

“That’s a private museum in Budapest. That one was really fun. We used this curved facade out here, and again over here. There’s a solar-powered waterfall in the café, over here…” He moved on, pointing and commenting, like a kid during show-and-tell, his enthusiasm and love of his job lighting up his face. He belonged here, doing this.

“Nick? Gotta sec?” Peter appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.” He flicked his gaze toward me, obviously not sorry at all.

“Go ahead,” I murmured. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Back in a flash,” Nick said, leaving me alone.

Behind the desk were a few other framed photos that caught my interest—a nice one of Nick and Christopher, both in tuxes. Maybe at Nick’s other wedding.

Crikey. I’d almost forgotten about that. Somewhere in this city was the other former Mrs. Nick—and her much adored kid. Sure enough, here was another photo— Isabel, if I recalled correctly—standing next to Nick in front of the Guggenheim. And voila, another one. Nick, an attractive woman with a sleek blond bob, and Isabel, perhaps twelve, all smiling on a white-sand beach. A family vacation.

Guess Nick wasn’t always a workaholic.

Stifling the flash of jealousy, I stuck my head out the door. No sign of Nick. I wandered down the hall to the foyer. Two of Nick’s employees, a man and a woman, were in a huddle over the reception desk, their voices low.

“So apparently,” the man was saying, “they used to be married, and she cheated on him, broke his heart.”

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“I didn’t cheat on him,” I said clearly. They jumped, totally busted. “Anything else I can clarify for you?” I tipped my head and smiled my angel-killing smile.

The woman scuttled back to her desk. The man, unfortunately for him, was the actual receptionist. Nowhere to run.

“Worked here long?” I asked cheerfully.

“Five years,” he mumbled.

“So you know my sister, then?” I asked.

“I sure do,” he said. “Sweet kid.” He paused. “I’m Miguel. Sorry about the gossip. It’s just…well, we all love Nick.” He gave a rueful smile.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, opting for the high road (and considering it my random act of kindness for the day). I offered my hand, and Miguel took it.

“You don’t seem nearly as evil as Pete says.” He cringed. “Jesus, what’s wrong with me today? I’m not even drunk.”

I laughed. “So, Miguel, how many people work here?”

“About fifteen. We subcontract out a lot, depending on where the job is.”

I nodded. “So did Chris Lowery work here, too?”

“Sometimes,” Miguel readily answered. “Nick gets him stuff with our finish carpenters once in a while. He worked here full time a while back, but Nick finally fired him and wouldn’t take him back until he got sober.”

The word slammed into me like a cannonball, but the receptionist didn’t notice and kept talking. “He came back, let’s see…a year ago? A little less? Yeah, it was just after Christmas, and he looked great, you know?”

“Christopher’s an alcoholic?” My voice was flat and hard.

Miguel’s eyes widened. “I…did I say that? I…um…you know, maybe you should ask Nick.”

I stared at Miguel unblinking, my heart rolling in slow, deliberate thuds. Vaguely, I recalled Nick saying something about Chris having a hard time lately. Ah. Mystery solved. Did Willa know about this?

“Nick!” Miguel chirped nervously. “Speak of the devil! Hi! You guys going to lunch? Want me to make a res somewhere?”

Nick looked between Miguel and me. “Hungry?” he asked me.

I didn’t answer.

“Harper? Want to go somewhere?”

“Sure,” I said.

Nick cocked his head and frowned at me. “Okay. Let’s go, then. See you, Miggy.”

“Have a great time! Boss, will you be back later?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’ll check in, though.”

I didn’t speak as we left the building.

“Harper?” Nick asked as we walked down the street. “Everything okay?”

“Not really,” I said.

“Yes, I get the impression you’re ready to murder a kitten,” he said, taking my arm to steer me around a broken chunk of sidewalk.

I pulled my arm back. “I’m not going to murder a kitten, Nick. I’m just…”

“Just what?”

“Sucker-punched.”

He stopped. “How?”

“I just learned that my sister married an alcoholic who hasn’t even been sober a year.” It was difficult to keep my voice calm. “I have concerns.”

Nick looked at the sidewalk. “And somehow this is my fault, yes?”

“It would’ve been nice to know, Nick.”