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“Nick, what’s the matter?” Fiona asked, rising from her chair.
It was just after two-thirty. She’d been sitting at the dining table in their flat, stealing a quick bite of lunch, when her husband burst into the room, red-faced and breathless. His suit was rumpled. Perspiration glazed his forehead. He held a robin’s egg blue bag in one hand.
“Are you unwell? Does something hurt you?” she asked, hurrying to him.
“Yes, something does.”
Fear sunk its sharp talons into Fiona. “Should I fetch Dr. Eckhardt?” she asked. “Is it your heart?”
“No, it’s my aesthetic sensibilities,” Nick replied.
“Nicholas Soames!” she cried, swatting at him. “Don’t frighten me like that!”
“May I have some tea? I’m parched,” Nick said, kissing her cheek.
A tray was resting on the dining table. It held a teapot, teacup, and a plate of finger sandwiches. Mrs. Beeton lay next to it. Nick dropped his bag on the table, sat down, and snatched a salmon and cress sandwich. As he gobbled it, Fiona poured him a bright, fragrant Darjeeling from the pot .
“I should pour this over your head,” she said, handing him the cup. Nick’s health was delicate. She worried about it constantly. “What happened?”
“I saw the pudding. In Tiffany’s !” Nick exclaimed, as if he’d spotted a man-eating tiger rampaging through the city.
“Yes, so?” Fiona said, putting the teapot down. She didn’t understand why this would upset him so much. And then she did. “Nicholas,” she said, her voice heavy with dread. “You don’t think—”
Nick gulped a mouthful of tea, then said, “I don’t think…I know . Milton Duffery bought a diamond ring. I saw him do it with my own eyes. First, he courts Mary. Next, he buys a ring. You’re good with equations, old girl. Add that one up.”
Fiona’s blood ran cold. “I told you he was making inroads. You didn’t believe me,” she said accusingly.
“Well, I do now.”
“This is faster than I’d imagined,” Fiona added, feeling blind-sided. “They’ve only just started seeing each other. He’s behaving like some love-sick young swain.”
“The pudding is not love-sick. Or young. Or a swain. The pudding is a dull and self-seeking pragmatist,” said Nick, reaching for another sandwich. “Who hopes to find himself an economically advantageous arrangement—cook, housekeeper, and wife, all in one.”
As Nick ate, Fiona sat down across from him, her brows knitted together in solemn concentration. This new development was not good; it would force her hand.
“I’m going to talk to Michael,” she said.
“You tried that already.”
“I’ll try again. ”
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening. After supper.”
“How? We’re not having our Saturday supper. Mary’s going out with the Duffery. Did you forget?”
“We are having supper. I’m going to cook it.”
Nick’s eyes grew as round at two pie plates.
“Just stop,” Fiona said. “It’ll be delicious. I borrowed Molly’s cookbook.” She nodded at Mrs. Beeton , lying open on the table.
“And I shall be borrowing Milton Duffery’s magnesia.”
Fiona glowered at him. Nick ignored her.
“Do you know that he was talking about biliousness again? In Tiffany’s!” he said, affronted. “Is it a wife the man wants or a gastroenterologist?”
“What were you doing in Tiffany’s anyway?” Fiona asked, glancing at the bag. “You were supposed to drop the deposit off at the painter’s.”
“I meant to. I did,” Nick said, doing his best to look remorseful. “But I ran home to tell you about the pudding instead.”
“Oh, Nicholas, you are impossible,” Fiona scolded. “I promised McTaggart he’d have half of his money today. What if he takes another job?”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“And remind him that I asked him to come not this Tuesday, but a week from Tuesday, at five-thirty, after the shop closes. I’m paying him extra to start and finish all in one night, so we don’t lose any business.’
“First thing tomorrow, I promise,” Nick said. Then his faux-contrite expression melted away and a Cheshire-cat grin replaced it. “Don’t you want to know what I bought at Tiffany’s?”
“Cufflinks?”
“No.”
As Fiona watched him, he reached for the bag he’d placed on the table, pulled out a beautifully wrapped box, and handed it to her. Then he sat on his hands like an over-excited child.
“For you,” he said.
Fiona gave him a quizzical look. “For me? Why?”
“Just open it, Fee.”
Mystified, Fiona carefully removed the ribbon and wrapping paper and set the leather box down on the table. Then she eased the box’s lid back and gasped. She shook her head, overwhelmed.
“Is this…this isn’t…”
“For you?” Nick said. “Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“ Like it ? Nicholas, I…I don’t even know what to say,” Fiona whispered. “It’s beautiful . It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“For the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Nick said.
He stood up, lifted the necklace from its velvet bed, and fastened it around Fiona’s neck.
“There,” he said, settling the dragonfly just under the V of her collarbones.
Then he leaned back to appraise its effect. “Stunning, old shoe. Go look.”
Fiona rose and hurried to the mirror hanging over the fireplace. Her eyes widened at her reflection. Never in her life had she imagined she would own such an exquisite piece of jewelry. She touched the delicate dragonfly. Her eyes met her husband’ s in the mirror.
“Nick... why ?”
“To say thank you.”
“For what?” she asked, turning to him. “Is this about the Van Gogh? You sold that painting, not me.”
“Thank you for loving me, Fee.”
“Oh, Nicholas. Of course, I…you don’t have to…”
Fiona’s words fell away. She wanted to tell him just how much she loved him, and that she always would, and that Vincent van Gogh had nothing to do with it, but a lump rose in her throat and she couldn’t talk at all.
“Thank you,” she whispered when she finally found her voice again. “But you shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, I should,” he said, and she was surprised to hear that his own voice had turned husky. He touched the back of his hand to her cheek. “Because I love you. And I believe in love, Fiona. Not pragmatism. Not convenience. Not sensible arrangements. Love . Everything else be damned.”
Fiona thought of the handsome young man Nick had loved, the man he’d lost. Nick still kept his photograph. “Even after everything that happened? After losing Henri?” she asked.
“Yes. Even after everything. Do you regret one moment you spent with Joe?”
“No,” Fiona said softly. “I must be mad, but I don’t.” She squeezed his hand. “Nor do I regret one moment I’ve spent with you .”
“Then you are definitely mad.”
Fiona laughed and kissed him and the two sat down again, poured more tea, and finished their sandwiches. As he ate, Nick’s eyes strayed to the cookbook lying on the table .
“Do you really think you can soften Michael up with a family supper?” he asked, reaching for it.
“I hope so. Mary won’t make the first move, so he has to.”
“It might just work,” Nick said, paging through the book.
“But if you are to defeat the pragmatic pudding, you must devise an effective plan of attack. Your battlefield will be the kitchen table, Mrs. Beeton will be your general, and Michael’s favorite dishes will be your artillery. Now, what does he like best?”
Fiona looked at her husband as he pored over recipes.
He had spent all of his earnings on her necklace; she knew he had.
And he shouldn’t have. They’d both had some measure of success in their business endeavors, but they also still shouldered heavy financial burdens, and he could have used the money to pay down debt or acquire more stock for his gallery.
She almost told him so, she almost told him to be pragmatic himself and return the necklace, but she bit her tongue, knowing better than to try to change what she loved about him.
Nick seized the bright, beautiful moments in life as a way of defying its darkness, and to ask him to stop would be like asking a butterfly to fold its brilliant wings and turn back into a caterpillar.
He had taught her so many things in the short time she’d known him, but there was one lesson that had lodged deeper in her heart than all the others, one that she would put to use now, as she tried to help Mary and Michael: That win or lose, love is always worth the fight.