Lydia Lane. Judith Bowen
a big chef’s cap, too. Kids loved that. When she was doing closets or helping a client organize other parts of his or her life, she added a slip-on apron that had a million pockets in it. Lydia had sewn the aprons herself, plus tunics for her part-timers, all of whom had families of their own and had booked off through the holiday season, until the middle of January.
The breakfast club ladies were full of post-Christmas gossip and entertained themselves while Lydia whipped up breakfast in the middle of Mrs. Laverty’s big kitchen. There were seven regulars, all longtime friends in their fifties, who rotated their meetings at each others’ houses every Friday morning. They’d played cards for a while, shopped and even hired a personal trainer for six weeks once. Now they were trying a no-fat breakfast club. This was the last one of the year, and Mrs. Laverty told her they’d decide next month if they were going to continue with the club or try some other activity.
The ladies were always dieting. Lydia prepared poached eggs with smoked salmon and grilled tomatoes with feta cheese and basil. She juiced man-goes, strawberries and kiwis for beverages and popped a batch of apple muffins in the oven for those ladies who preferred low-fat to no-fat. There were always two or three who caved and had muffins or coffee cake or whatever Lydia baked.
Then she rushed home to change. She’d been thinking about Sam all morning. She was curious about him. Where he lived, how he lived, what his daughter looked like. What kind of father he was—a wonderful one, according to his ex. Whether law school and responsibility had changed him at all.
She checked her messages when she came in the door, as was her habit.
“Lydia? Sam here. Listen, my daughter would really like to meet you. What about joining us for dinner this evening so Amber could be there? Nothing fancy. Six o’clock? If not, see you at two.”
Well. Lydia was moved. She did want to meet Sam’s daughter. See what kind of child had been produced by the union of a sexy Portuguese-Canadian tough guy and a delicate, Barbie doll TV-host mom. And, of course, she’d be spending time with Amber if Sam offered her the job.
Eight years old? The girl was probably either a terror or hopelessly adorable.
So afternoon businesslike was out and casual social evening was in. Lydia opened the door of her overstuffed antique armoire—she’d order built-ins when the movie money came in—and started pulling out and discarding outfits. She had an impression to make—on two people—and she wanted it to be exactly right.
SAM LIVED in a three-story brick Victorian on Parry Street, a block from High Park. It was one of those roomy older houses meant for a big family. The streets in the area were lined with mature elms and maples and Lydia passed a group of children playing hockey under the streetlights as she inched along in her minivan, which she’d retrieved from the garage that afternoon.
By this time of day, in midwinter, it was nearly dark. Luckily, she was able to park right in front of the Pereira house. Her mechanic had told her the van needed major repairs—a valve job, among other things. She didn’t want to think about it.
She reached over to the passenger side to grab the mixed bouquet of flowers she’d brought as a neutral-but-appropriate offering to her host and prospective client. Wine, she’d decided, was too personal and presumptuous for what was essentially a business meeting. She also retrieved her leather project case, a converted briefcase in which she kept notes and plans concerning the individual projects she had on the go, both the ones she was doing herself and those she’d farmed out to part-timers. With the Christmas holidays underway, she was on her own, and her agenda pages were dismally empty.
She had mixed feelings about accepting Sam’s revised invitation. She wanted the job, but she also wanted to remain on strictly business terms with Sam, something that might be harder to do while sitting down to a meal with him and his daughter. On the other hand, she was anxious to meet Amber in an informal setting. Father and daughter were both part of this project. Candace didn’t want Lydia just to straighten out Sam’s life and organize his shopping and menus, she wanted her to function as something of a role model for Amber. Not that a month or two of her influence would make much difference with a child who’d be at school most of the time Lydia was around.
And of course, she’d be working for Sam—not Candace—if the job was offered. Sam was the person she needed to convince.
She got out of the minivan, which had ping-pinged all the way over—the valve problem, apparently—and balanced on the icy sidewalk. It had snowed the day before but the sidewalk leading to the Pereira residence had been neatly cleared, the snow piled on either side. At the bottom of the steps that led to the front porch, Lydia noticed a professionally lettered sign, with an arrow pointing to the side of the building: Sam T. Pereira, Barrister & Solicitor. His home office obviously had an outside entrance. There was a buzzer, but Lydia raised the old-fashioned brass door knocker—incredibly tarnished, she noted—and rapped smartly.
The door was opened almost immediately. Lydia felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Sam Pereira! And ten times handsomer than she remembered.
“How you doing, Lydia?” He grinned and extended his hand. “You look great.” Was he going to kiss her?
She quickly thrust the flowers at him. “Here. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. You don’t look so bad yourself.” The understatement of the year.
“Flowers?” He seemed dumbfounded, then pleased. “Hey, how about that? You can give Amber her first flower-arranging lesson.” He held the door wider and Lydia stepped in.
The vestibule was warm, and Lydia could smell smoke from a wood fire crackling somewhere. There were no pictures on the wall and only a vinyl boot mat at the door, no carpet of any kind. He kept smiling at her, which made her blood jangle from her knees to her earlobes. Lydia fumbled with the buttons on her coat. He reached out one hand, still smiling, “Here, let me take that.”
Lydia pulled off her boots and allowed Sam to take her jacket. While he hung it in the hall closet—crowded beyond belief with coats, hats, umbrellas, tennis rackets, boots and school bookbags, to name just part of its burden—she slipped into the low-heeled black suede shoes she’d brought with her.
“Very nice,” he murmured as he turned to her again, eyeing her embroidered twin set and trim gray slacks. She’d thought the outfit faintly festive and yet businesslike at the same time.
She ignored the comment. “Well?”
“Come in,” Sam said, leading the way. Lydia picked up her project case and followed him. He was wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt, short-sleeved, which showed off his biceps. Despite the law degree, he still resembled a neighborhood tough, from the shaggy dark hair to the well-muscled physique. He even had a vestige of the swagger she remembered.
“This is my daughter, Amber,” he said proudly as they entered the kitchen. “Amber, this is Lydia Lane.”
“Hi!” A sweet-looking girl with dark hair and brown eyes was stirring something in a bowl. “Dad and I are making supper.”
Dropping the flowers on the counter, Sam turned to Lydia and whispered. “Do you want to be Ms. Lane?”
“Lydia, please,” she returned quietly.
“You can call her Lydia, honey. Uh, Lydia—” His warm dark eyes swept over her again. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Fruit juice? Water?”
Lydia hesitated a split second. “A glass of wine would be very nice.” She moved closer to the girl. “What are you making, Amber?”
“Some salad.” The girl stirred whatever she had in the bowl. Stirred salad? “It’s our special salad, me ’n’ my dad’s. We make it all the time. Even for picnics in the summer and at the lake when we go fishing.”
“I see.” Lydia stepped a little closer and saw that the girl was stirring shredded green cabbage, flecked with a few grated carrots and a bit of red cabbage. She noticed the empty cellophane bag marked “coleslaw” on the counter beside the bowl. “That looks yummy.”