Page 11 of Quinn, By Design

“I don’t see any reason to apologise for appreciating beautifully made and preserved antiques.” Having made a visual assessment of the workshop, she started moving down the left side of the shed.

“You say ‘preserved’ as if that’s a calling in itself. Art isn’t something created a hundred or more years ago.” Niall and Cam had debated the topic endlessly, more for the lively conversation than because they disagreed.

“That’s not what I’m saying, although my personal preference is for late-nineteenth, early-twentieth-century art and furniture.” She stopped in front of the stack of individual frames he’d finished this morning. “This space is different to when I was a child.”

“Is that the last time you were here?”

“Chaos.” She ignored his question. “That’s my overriding memory. Furniture in pieces, dust everywhere. Although I realise now that’s because Grandpa wasn’t able to spend as much time here as he wanted.” She ran a finger along a bench and held it up. “You’re neat and clean, Mr. Quinn. The lighting’s better, you’ve installed ventilation, the fire security has been updated, everything seems to have a place, and the equipment looks newer and more sophisticated.” She’d identified in minutes all the key changes made since he’d moved in.

Her bravado told Niall she’d been anxious about coming here today, about him, but also about her memories. Chaos disturbed her. Being disturbed was on a continuum, from being troubled, to being unnerved, to being petrified. He guessed her instinctive discomfort with chaos had come before she’d entered her granda’s workshop as a child.

Continuing her inspection, she halted in front of a large tool board mounted on the wall. It housed an old plane, a tenon saw, and ancient chisels, worn down from constant sharpening. “Antique hand tools?”

“Some of those are Cam’s.” Niall crossed his arms and watched her.

“Are?” She swivelled to face him, her expression uncertain.

“Cam let me use them. But they’re yours, if you want them?” Niall’s da’s tools shared the same board, and he counted them among his greatest treasures.

“I’ll think about it.” She gripped her pearls and blew out a breath to steady herself before re-starting her inspection. “If I remember correctly, there’s a small kitchenette in the passageway between here and the warehouse storage.” She found it without difficulty. “I don’t remember this impressive security door.”

“It’s new. Like the keys and other improvements. To get the insurance coverage I needed, I had to make a few changes.”

“You or Grandpa?” The light of battle was back in her eyes, reminding Niall of Cam.

“This was one of the few battles I won with Cam. We split costs. Did you win many battles with him?” Niall had decided his brother was right. He’d fight back, until he gained enough facts to work out if he’d made a misstep with Cam.

She was opening a cupboard but turned to look at him over her shoulder. “He was very strategic. He’d usually made the move before you guessed the enemy was on your left flank.”

“Then you understand my dilemma.” Niall let Cam’s strategic rebellions sit unspoken between them. In some ways, the habit of playing his cards close to his chest explained any late changes to Cam’s will.

“Royal Doulton Art Deco and Minton Pink Cockatrice.” She held up his two dinner plates as if to make a point. “Do you have more than one piece of any design?”

“Not yet.” Niall appreciated her knowledge of crockery—pieces he chose for their beauty as well as their job-lot prices. “Don’t I get any points for recognising quality?”

“A few. Preservation is far superior to destruction.”

“Are we talking about my frames again?” Niall was starting to enjoy the way her mind worked.

She unwrapped the sandwiches. Solid slabs of a country loaf. “I went for cheese and tomato again. Pickles for me, none for you.”

“That works. What’s in the will, Lucy?”

“It seems I misspoke on Sunday.”

“I knew it.” The knot of guilt he’d carried in his gut since their last meeting started to unravel and snagged on a word. “‘Misspoke’?”

“He’s left funds to establish the Liùsaidh and Cameron McTavish Foundation.” She glanced around, then carried the plates across to a battered table beneath the window. Sun streaked through, magnifying each chip, scar and paint scrap on the table, a contrast to the smooth lines of his inland rosewood Boornaree fruit bowl.

“What foundation?” He took the chair she left free.

“A two-year scholarship for promising young woodworkers. In year one, the successful recipient is employed by McTavish’s to learn the antiques trade. Year two is a full-time mentorship with you.”

“Feck.” He took a large bite of his sandwich and started chewing.

“Do you subscribe to the thirty-two chews on average to break down food?” She stretched out a finger to stroke the edge of his crimson-toned bowl.

“Who makes that stuff up?” he muttered. When she opened her mouth to answer, he held up a hand. “That was rhetorical. Tell me the rest.”

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