Catherine Lanigan - Katia's Promise

“I can’t. Why doesn’t the guy just put them in a garage?”

“He has garages. Three of them. Carriage houses, actually, and they were already full of cars when I was a kid. I’ll do some checking around and find out what kind of valuation we’re talking about. But the way I see it, he’ll have to cover the cars and the museum, there will be liability insurance for the museum workers, and he’ll need an umbrella liability plan for the visitors.”

“What kind of cars?” Jack asked.

“The 1926 Bugatti is my favorite,” Katia replied with a smug grin.

Barry whistled appreciatively. “This is for real? Holy cow!”

Jack beamed with confidence, and Katia was struck with the notion that she’d given him back his charisma. “Can you get into that meeting tomorrow?”

“I...I think so.”

“Do it,” Jack commanded. “I like this idea of yours, Katia. All of it. I don’t have a problem moving to a small town if it will save our hides. Keep an eye out for office space while you’re there. And get me this guy’s business. I don’t care what it takes. A guy like that has to have friends, and if he likes us and our products, he’ll get them to come on board with us, too.”

“Good thinking,” Barry said with his first real smile of the day.

Katia should have floated out of Jack’s office on a cloud of victory. Instead, as she left the meeting, she realized she’d just slipped a hangman’s noose around her throat. Oh, she’d saved the day, all right. But she knew that if there was anyone Austin McCreary would never, ever do business with—it was her.

Katia wished she could rewrite the past, but that was impossible. She would have to figure out another way to change Austin’s mind.

CHAPTER FOUR

AUSTIN MCCREARY SHOVED his tennis racket into a battered brown leather cover, zipped it up and waited for Rafe Barzonni to come around to his side of the clay tennis court. Austin had been playing on this court, in his own backyard, since he was five years old. “Great game, Rafe.”

“Anytime, man. You still have the best court in the Midwest. Not to mention a killer backhand I’m never going to beat.”

“You’re just a glutton for punishment.”

“Self-inflicted abuse is not my thing, Austin. Seriously, I’ve seen guys at Wimbledon who look as good as you.”

“Ha!” Austin picked up a white hand towel from the wrought iron table and wiped the sweat from his face. His blond hair was dripping wet. “Tournaments are for young kids. Ones with lots of talent and support. I never had either,” he said, his voice filling with regret.

Rafe grabbed his own towel. “Sorry, bro. I know you have talent—for a lot of things. You just don’t want anyone to know it, that’s all.”

“You’ve got that right. Besides, you’re just bad enough to make me feel good,” Austin bantered back good-naturedly. “Honestly, I appreciate you being able to play this early in the morning. I’ve got fifty-some odd people due here at one, and I swear, I’d never get through it if I didn’t have a chance to work off some steam.” Austin slapped Rafe on the shoulder as they walked through the terrace door and into the kitchen.

At the sink, Austin’s sixty-one-year-old housekeeper, Daisy Kempshaw, was peeling an apple. Daisy was short, as thin as one of Austin’s rackets and capable of taking on both Austin and Rafe in tennis, a shouting match and just about any other confrontation. Daisy approached life on the offensive rather than the defensive. She was rough, scrappy and had the energy of six men.

“No strawberries and cream today,” Daisy announced before Austin had a chance to greet her.

“I didn’t ask for any,” Austin said.

“Wipe your feet, the both of you,” Daisy said. “I just mopped.” Then she pointed toward the hallway door. “The caterer is here unloading in the dining room. She’s taken up all my refrigerator space with her food, and there’s no room for you to eat breakfast with all her whatnots strewn across the nook table.”

Austin glanced at the round walnut table that sat in a huge beveled glass window area on the far side of the kitchen. It was stacked with boxes of serving pieces, rental glasses, china and linens.

“Good,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to use mother’s good china and silver for this event.”

Rafe picked up his small workout bag. “Well, I’m outta here. See you Saturday, Austin. Nine o’clock?”

“Perfect!” Austin shook his friend’s hand.

Rafe strode over to the swinging kitchen door and pushed it open.

“Ow!” came a cry from the other side.

“Oh, boy,” Rafe said. He stepped back gingerly.

Standing on the other side of the door was Olivia Melton, dressed in dark jeans and a chef’s coat, her hair pulled on top of her head in a tight knot. She held a tray of artistically arranged vegetables in one hand and pressed her other hand to her forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” Rafe apologized. “Are you hurt badly?”

“I’ll live,” she said.

Austin raced to the freezer. “Some ice will do the trick.”

Olivia shook her head. “No time. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m really sorry,” Rafe repeated. “I didn’t know you were there.”

Olivia waved him off. “It’s okay. I’m just in a hurry. I have work to do and not enough time to do it in.”

Rafe glanced at Austin, who shrugged. “Okay. I’ll see you, Austin.”

When Rafe had closed the front door behind him, Daisy threw Austin a judgmental look. “You better get showered, mister. Your folks will be here in forty-five minutes.” She checked the clock that hung over the kitchen sink. “Make that forty-two.”

“I’ll be ready.” He turned to Olivia. “I’m sorry about the accident. Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”

Now Daisy’s warning look was aimed at Olivia. “You? Uh, not a thing. I’ll have the buffet table set up in twenty minutes and the poached salmon to decorate. I’ll put the rest out after your speech.”

“And the bartender?” Austin asked.

“Liz is on her way,” Daisy assured him, continuing to peel apples for the fruit tray.

“Then, I guess we’re ready.”

Daisy speared him with another quelling glare. “We will be when you quit sweating on my clean kitchen floor.”

“Got it,” he said, rushing out of the kitchen and down the hall.

Just as he was about to climb the staircase, he stopped and poked his head into the living room. The noonday sun poured through the windows and illuminated the room with an ethereal glow. Austin and Daisy had moved the furniture to the perimeter, leaving a large open space for the guests to gather around the architect’s model of the car museum he intended to build.

The model sat majestically on a round Sheridan table. It was only balsa wood, glue, paper and cardboard at this point, but for Austin, it was real. Chase Tinsdale, the Chicago architect he’d hired, had transformed Austin’s vision into matter.

Austin’s grandfather, Ambrose, had built the McCreary mansion to be a close, though more modern, replica of the Hermitage, the home of his idol and favorite president, Andrew Jackson. To honor his grandfather, Austin had chosen the same architectural design for the museum.

For three generations, the consensus in Indian Lake was that the McCreary home was the most beautiful in town. The classic lines and elegance befitted the family’s name. To fashion the museum after the house was also Austin’s attempt at building a family brand.

To cut costs, Chase had eliminated the two flanking wings on the north and south sides, since the museum would be facing west. There would be three floors, accessible by elevator, and two sets of stairs, though they wouldn’t be as fancy as the cantilevered one in Austin’s home. Chase had also altered the original design to accommodate an extralarge elevator to move the cars around the building. On the main floor were a small café, a larger restaurant, a gift shop and administrative offices. The inner rotunda was large enough to display four cars. The second and third floors were designated for displaying cars, as well.