Сьюзен Виггз - The Lost and Found Bookshop

“Well, two hours of hair and makeup will make anyone a natural beauty.”

“Stop it. You’re always beautiful. I’m getting misty looking at you, because you’re channeling Blythe. In the best possible way.”

The door to the downstairs apartment opened and Grandy stepped out, leaning on his cane. He was dressed in his best suit, and there was a boutonniere in his lapel. Bertie had taken him to the barbershop for a luxury shave and a haircut, and he looked like an elder statesman—white-haired and distinguished.

When he spotted Cleo by the door, he stood stock-still. For a moment, Natalie thought he was having a stroke or something. “Grandy?”

He took Cleo’s hand and gave her the happiest smile Natalie had seen on his face since the plane crash. “My darling May,” he said. “I wish I could say something profound about your beauty, but I am rendered speechless.”

Natalie cringed. Cleo, bless her, simply smiled and said, “Sorry, dude. That’s not the way I roll.”

“Grandy, it’s Cleo,” Natalie said. “Not May Lin.”

He paused, then dropped Cleo’s hand and shuffled toward the door. “Is she coming, then? I haven’t seen her yet today.”

Natalie held the door for him, her heart wrenched by his confusion. “May is gone, Grandy. Tonight, we’re guests of honor at the Chinese American Heritage Society. It’s about the vase, remember?”

He nodded vaguely, then walked out to the curb, waiting patiently as the driver opened the door. “Where’s Mr. Gallagher?” he asked.

Natalie breathed a sigh of relief, hoping her grandfather’s mind was coming back into focus. “Peach will meet us there. And you’re the one who’s being honored tonight, since you opted to restore it to the Tang family. Not everyone would have done that. You did a good thing.” She’d made sure Grandy understood the value of the piece he’d given away. He had assured her that he had no interest in profiting off someone else’s possessions.

She scooted into the back seat of the limo and patted his knee. “Here we go.”

Cleo and Bertie sat across from them. There was a tiny bar with a crystal decanter and matching glasses, a bucket of ice, and a selection of beverages. “Let’s have a toast,” said Cleo. “Sparkling water only, so if we spill, it won’t stain.” She poured and they clinked glasses.

“To Andrew and the magnificent vase,” Bertie said with exaggerated dramatic flair. “May its long, strange journey end well.”

Their arrival was heralded by white-gloved doormen at the grand entrance of the huge neo-Gothic mansion. A special attendant brought Grandy in his wheelchair up a side ramp. When they stepped into the main ballroom, Aisin Tang met them at the door. The president of the society was dazzling and distinguished, effusively thanking Andrew, then turning his refined charm on Natalie and the others. A couple of photographers moved in to take pictures.

“He’s fabulous,” Cleo whispered in her ear. “Check and see if he’s single.”

“Stop it,” Natalie hissed.

“I’ve heard he’s loaded, too,” Cleo went on. “He should give you a reward or a finder’s fee, right?”

“I brought that up with Grandy,” Natalie told her. “He’s not having it. He says it’s enough to restore the lost treasure to the family.”

“The loaded family.”

“Stop it,” she said again. “And just so you know, they aren’t loaded. I checked. Besides, I’m not here to—oh my gosh.” She spotted the governor, surrounded by a well-dressed cadre of admirers. She’d heard his daughter’s wedding had gone off without a hitch. Her days at Pinnacle seemed like another life, when a make-or-break business deal had meant so much to her.

Along with the politicians, there were Hollywood types and Silicon Valley millionaires—possibly billionaires, Cleo pointed out. All gorgeously coiffed and expensively dressed, chatting and mingling with familiar ease. More photographers trolled the room, discreetly capturing shots of people who seemed to be having a conspicuously good time. The tables were festooned with tasseled jewel-toned silks, gold-painted porcelain china, and crystal stemware.

“I am way out of my element,” Natalie said. “I feel like a total fraud, an interloper.”

“Bullshit,” Cleo said. “You have every right to be here.”

“These are not my people.” Natalie watched a woman walk by wearing a necklace that was probably worth more than the vase. “I’m a working girl. A bookseller. I have nothing in common with them.”

“Too late to turn back now, Cinderella,” said Cleo. “Quit looking so panicked.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” She eyed Cleo’s feather tattoo, her swath of pink hair, and the way she carried herself, as though strutting in a couture runway show.

Surveying the polished crowd, she saw Bertie and Grandy sampling canapés of caviar and truffles and tried to relax a little. Then she thought about Peach and tensed up again. This was not his crowd, either.

“Now what are you worrying about?” asked Cleo.

“He is going to be so out of place here,” said Natalie.

“Who? Peach?” Cleo grinned. “Think he’ll wear his tool belt?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged him to come. I mean, he deserves to be included, but is he going to feel totally awkward?”

“He’s a big boy. He’ll deal.” Cleo fanned herself as a gorgeous woman walked by, shadowed by a glittering entourage and stalked by a photographer with a big black camera.

“I don’t see him.” Natalie craned her neck toward the door. “Maybe he changed his mind. Does he even have something to wear?” When told to dress up, most guys—even grown men—defaulted to pleated chinos and a clip-on tie.

“Don’t worry until I say it’s time to worry.”

Natalie tried to follow Cleo’s advice. But now that she was here, everything seemed so stiff and formal and awkward. She pictured Peach in his workman’s garb, and then in his house band outfit of ripped jeans and tight T-shirt. That was his comfort zone. Not this. Maybe he wouldn’t show at all, she thought. Maybe—

“Oh boy.” Cleo looked over Natalie’s shoulder at the ballroom entrance.

Natalie turned to see. In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn’t even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded.

Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look—a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal.

He was every crush she’d ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she’d stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have. Which made her a horrible person, burning with envy over his wife, the aptly named Regina.

Two waiters with trays nearly collided, hurrying over to serve him. He politely smiled and shook his head, declining the proffered champagne and dim sum, then scanned the room. She could tell the moment he spotted her and Cleo. His eyes lit and he quickened his stride as he came over to join them.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. “You both look beautiful.”

“Mr. Gallagher, I presume,” Natalie said, trying to believe she wasn’t flirting.

“You’re looking rather toothsome yourself,” said Cleo. “I like saying ‘toothsome.’ It doesn’t mean what people think it means.” She tipped her glass to them, and a photographer stepped forward, asking for their names.