Page 25 of Quinn, By Design

“Keep moving, Lucy, and thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m focusing on the colours in this latest batch of paintings. They remind me of a valley I know—sky, hills, forest, a meandering river—so I’ll make that my inspiration.” He stopped short of the steel roller doors, marking the end of the bay and the shed.

“What’s in these rooms?” Lucy gestured to two huge double doors on the left of the building. In her adolescence, this had been one large open space, difficult to navigate because of the amount of timber, old masonry and damaged furniture.

“Storage for what was left of Cam’s materials. Storage for mine.” He pressed switches on the back wall. The roller doors slid up to reveal back gates swinging open to allow the delivery truck to enter the property. With a circling gesture of his hand, he directed the driver to reverse into the bay.

“Right on time,” he murmured to Lucy. “Did you threaten them with hellfire if they were late?”

“I asked if we could have the first delivery of the day,” Lucy replied. “Why are you looking at me like I’m from Mars? I’m prepared to wait for a day when I can be first delivery. Nobody suffers.”

“If you say so.” He turned to the driver and his offsider. “Hi. I’ll get you to take the sideboard through to the front. Lucy, maybe you can lead the way? I’ll move the washstand into a storage bay while you’re sorting that piece.”

Lucy had calculated the washstand would be the fastest and therefore the first job. She had two wash basins and jugs in her car on the strength of her guess. Niall’s instructions seemed to overrule that. She held her tongue while she led the men through to the workshop, held it when they returned to the loading bay to find Niall had unloaded the washstand and moved it into Cam’s storage.

“Thank you.” Lucy signed the delivery receipt, waited for the truck to depart and the roller doors to hit the ground. “I thought we’d discuss the order in which you restore the pieces.”

“Let’s discuss.” Not waiting for her, he went into Cam’s storage, where he’d set the washstand in an open space. Then he hoisted three sheets of marble—as if they didn’t weigh a ton—from some sort of shelves on runners and placed them nearby. “We’ll have to replace the marble top. Which piece do you want? Have you chosen a wash bowl and jug?”

Miffed to discover she couldn’t immediately decide between the marble slabs, she scowled at him. “I’ve chosen two sets.”

“Why two?” He tucked his hands in his pockets, seemingly more interested in walking around the washstand and considering the marble slabs than in her uncharacteristic indecision.

“Because one set has a bowl to fit the exact dimensions of the table.” She wasn’t prevaricating.Well, maybe a bit.

“Verity is important in restoration.”

“Butthe second set belonged to Gran.” Lucy dug for patience because his teasing was an irritating prod to her indecision. She knew verity mattered, but Gran’s wash bowl and basin set had been sitting on the deep window ledge in her bathroom when Lucy had moved in. Decorative rather than useful. Gran had sat on the floor with Lucy and woven magic into that first history lesson, a story of function, design, and how easy it was to become attached to an inanimate object.

“Wild guess here, but your gran’s set doesn’t have its own washstand?” He moved a rippled pink marble slab closer to the table and stood back. “Breccia Oniciata from Italy. The other possibles are the Val Venosta, another Italian marble or the Rosa Patara from Turkey.”

“Right,” she muttered, off-balanced by his knowledge of marble. Keeping everything that belonged to her gran and grandpa meant she’d be living in a museum, not a home. “Replacing the marble means you can adjust the cut for the basin.” The idea sounded like sacrilege even as she said it. “A few millimetres. That’s all.” She watched his head swivel toward her.

“That’s a mighty decision.” His gaze was considering. “Use your gran’s set and it’s not restoration, plus you could lose the set when you sell. Use the alternative set and your gran’s things don’t have a basin. There’s a third option.”

“What?”

“Look for another washstand.” He sank to his haunches, the strength evident in his bunched muscles making Lucy’s mouth water.

“That’s another purchase.”

“Haven’t you stitched up the business loan yet?”

“We have room to breathe.” A stupid thing to say when the breath hitched in her chest saying the words aloud. A business loan to cover the bequests, as a buffer for mistakes with the business, and to provide seed funding for the foundation hadn’t come cheap.

“Youhave room to breathe.” He pushed to his feet, and the bleakness in his eyes confused her. “Sounds like you’re not ready to make a decision on the washstand yet. Although I’m betting the Breccia Oniciata is a perfect match for your gran’s jug and basin set.”

“Why did you decide on the sideboard first?” she asked, because she could hardly press him for information on his situation when she’d insisted her business was her business.

“Because the washstand needs discussion, whereas I can start straight away on the sideboard. Time is money, as they say. Sale of the sideboard will cover your first loan repayments. Isn’t that the deal?”

“That’s the deal.” It was a bit late for Lucy to start feeling uncomfortable about her request. She, not Grandpa, had enticed him into restoring more furniture. Although “enticed” had started to smell a bit like “taking advantage.” His eyebrows rose when she crossed her hands over her chest. “I’ll take the basin and jug sets home then.”

“Where I grew up, taking your bat and ball home the first time you’re asked to share—in this case your jug and basin—was called a tantrum, not a negotiation.” He gestured for her to precede him out the door.

Great.The noise of her boots hitting the concrete floor echoed loudly, while he moved with the silence of a big feline. Each heavy footfall sounded like a two-year-old pummelling her fists in a tantrum. Tiptoeing would make Lucy look even more of an idiot. She’d been given a lesson, several lessons, in his ability to read his customers and his expertise at his craft.

* * *

Niall pulled down hisgoggles and rolled his shoulders. The old railway clock on the far wall said it was a bit after one. Close enough. At the table, Lucy’s head was bent, her entire focus on cleaning the handles for the sideboard. Another plait, this time for safety, and still he resented her hair being confined. Bright light streamed through the window, highlighting the subtle tones lurking in her sun-kissed auburn hair. He sought and discarded words to describe its colour—burnished copper, dark cherry, or a deep red wine, the myriad colours of his favourite timbers.

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