My Fair Lacey

Chapter 9

Accomplishments

It was . . . awkward.

Lacey had returned to her bedroom and Professor Gold to his. Every morning they would have breakfast together, but there was no more banter, no more casual talk between them. Lacey continued to prepare his coffee and set out his paper, but they only exchanged the most politest of phrases.

It was like he had never offered her money for the use of her body.

It was like their interlude of passion had never occurred.

"Do you have plans this morning?" He often asked this. He usually allowed her mornings for herself – previously she would have spent this time with Jefferson but the man was off, where was it? - in Tahiti, with his new husband.

She shared that she was going out shopping with Emma Nolan.

"Emma?" He was interested. Other than the occasional sunbathing on his roof he had not been able to manage to cross paths with the lovely Miss Nolan. And he very much wanted to - the young woman was dating his son. He wanted to get to know her, make sure she was . . . a nice girl, maybe use her as a way to re-connect with his son, oh hell, especially use her as a way to re-connect with his son.

"You'd be welcome to tag along, but it is shoe shopping," she warned him.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his nose bridge, then he had an idea. "Why don't I treat you ladies for lunch? We could meet at a restaurant of your choice."

"That would be lovely. Say Curate at 1:30?"

"I'll get reservations," he promised.

Lunch #1

And it was nice. His first impression was that Emma was drop dead gorgeous. The second impression was that she was a bit of tomboy. And then, he realized that she was also smart and surprisingly sensitive.

"I believe I'm dating your son." She got right to the point.

"Yes, I've been told so. How is Neal?"

"Great. He tells me you two aren't particularly close."

Oh yes, she was one to get right to the point. "Not because that's what I ever wanted. Things happened between Neal's mother and myself and he . . . he was collateral damage. I never wanted him out of my life, but that's how it worked out." He'd decided that honesty would be the best choice with Miss Emma Nolan.

Emma had reached across the table and taken his hand. He'd nearly choked up. Surprisingly sensitive, indeed.

"I'd like Neal to get to know his father and for him to decide what he wants your relationship to be. Maybe you and I . . . and Neal can have lunch another day," she offered.

He was blown away. "Neal . . . and you . . . I'd love to have lunch with you." He remembered his other companion. "And Lacey, I'd want Lacey to come too."

"Like a double date," Emma said guilelessly. "Maybe next week?"

"As soon as you can arrange it," he told her.

Lunch #2

Another day, the same question. "Do you have any special plans this morning?"

"Yes, this morning I'm meeting your mother."

He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Shoe shopping?"

"No, I'm going gun shopping with her. She says she knows a nice place I can pick up a handgun and they have classes, so I can learn to shoot straight."

"You're thinking of getting a gun?" Should he be alarmed?

"Your mother suggested it. Single woman living in the city. Made sense to me."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his neck.

She waited. "You aren't going to suggest meeting us for lunch?"

"You did say that you were going out with my mother?"

"I did."

"Then . . . no."

Lacey looked at him, long and hard. "Just what is the problem with you two?" she asked. "I mean, she's not the warmest, fuzziest person I've ever met, but she's smart and clever and knows everyone."

He stared at his coffee. "My father seduced my mother when she was still a teenager. She got pregnant and they decided to get married. The marriage didn't last. Neither one of them wanted to deal with their young son. I got shuttled back and forth between them, eventually landing with a couple of maiden aunts, who were far better parents than either my mother or father."

"So, your mother was too young to really be a mother."

He snorted, "If the woman had been fifty-five when she'd had me, she would still have been too young. She's just not maternal."

"Well, some women aren't. You know, she's very proud of you."

"She never tells me that."

"She's afraid you'll be an ass about it."

He looked at Lacey. "You really think that?"

"You and your mother are a lot alike. You're both brilliant and you both have this caustic wit and neither one of you trusts people."

"Well, you can't trust people," he told her.

"Oh, you do sound so much like your mother. You don't have to trust her, but you should spend a little time with her now and then. She's the only mother you'll ever have." Lacey paused, then softly she said, "I can tell you, I would give anything for just one more lunch date with my mother."

"That's a low blow, Lacey," he countered.

She gave him a brilliant smile, "So, you will make reservations? One thirty would be fine. Your choice of restaurants this time.

He pushed around the remaining food on his plate. "All right," he reluctantly capitulated.

He'd thought having breakfast with Lacey was awkward. But lunch with his mother would be like having his nails pulled off by a set of red hot pliers.

"Hello, Mother," he'd greeted her. He'd plopped down across from her in the posh little restaurant.

As always, she looked fantastic. No sign of gray in her hair, no wrinkles on her face, ever part of her body toned and tempered.

"I halfway thought you'd bail," she told him, sipping on some white wine.

"I thought about it," he told her signaling the waitress and ordering a whiskey.

"So did I," she admitted.

They sat quietly not looking at each other.

Lacey was watching them both. She was drinking a cola. She finally spoke up, addressing Fiona Black. "I understand, you'll be going to the Governor's Ball?"

"Of course. It's de rigueur, required for me. Everyone expects me to come and, well, I usually enjoy myself, even though I've never been invited to sit at the Governor's Table with all the visiting dignitaries and old money people. Oh, that reminds me, Jefferson asked me to get tickets for you three. I'll have them ready in time."

"Why thank you, Fiona," Lacey told her. "That's very kind of you." They all heard Lacey's phone. She checked it and made a sad face. "Ohhh, I'm sooo sorry. Ruby needs to connect with me right away. Gotta go. It doesn't look like I'll be able to stay for lunch."She smiled brightly and excused herself. Gold was left alone with his mother.

"I think we've been set up," Fiona told him.

"Yeah, me too," he replied as he watched Lacey skitter out of the restaurant.

"Do you think this is some attempt by your Miss French to help us repair our relationship?" Fiona asked him.

"Absolutely. She likes for everything to be just . . . lovely," he shared.

"I like her, Rum. She's smart, really smart and genuinely nice. I think she's good for you, too. Not at all typical of the self-involved, pretentious people I have to deal with on a daily basis," his mother told him.

"I like her too," he said slowly. "In fact, as I told you, I'm in love with her."

"What the hell did you do to her the other night?" his mother asked him. "When she came to my door at three in the morning, she was devastated."

He dropped his eyes, "I offered her money for sex," he admitted slowly. "Ouch," he reacted to a sharp pain on his shin. He realized his mother had kicked him with her pointy-toed Manolo Blahniks. "You just kicked my shin!" he complained.

"You're lucky I can't reach any higher than your shin," she told him, her brown eyes flashing. "I can't believe . . . oh, hell, I guess I can."

"In my defense, I was really drunk," he tried to excuse himself.

"I don't care if you were high, wired, or stoned – there is no excuse for what you did. You have given her a groveling apology?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh Jesus! Do you mean to tell me that you haven't apologized?" she was appalled.

"Well . . ." he began.

"You haven't apologized," she repeated and shook her head. "I can't believe she went back to you."

"I know I . . ."

"No!" his mother told him. "You don't know anything! You are skating on thin ice, Rum. Listen to me. This woman is giving you a second chance. Why - I can't imagine. But I'm here to tell you, that if you don't pull your head out of your ass and properly woo her, she is going to be gone after the Governor's Ball – like shit through a goose and you won't ever see her again."

"But if I tell her how I really feel about her? If I apologize? If I do all that, she might still be gone," he said miserably.

"So, your choices here are: one – she's gone for sure, or two – you grovel, apologize, and profess your feelings and, maybe, just maybe, she might stick around."

"So, what should I do?" he asked plaintively.

His mother closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Lunch #3

He'd very nearly thrown up.

Emma had arranged for a lunch date for herself, himself, Lacey and . . . Neal.

He wasn't sure he'd even recognize his son. It had been so long. But when Neal walked through the door, Gold knew him instantly. He had his mother's eyes and his grandfather Peter's bearing.

He'd considered getting drunk before this lunch, but Lacey had counseled against this.

"Just screw yourself up to the sticking point and get in there," she'd told him through smiling teeth, speaking authoritatively.

He'd glared at her but nodded – she was right.

Neal seemed as nervous as he was. "Dad," he greeted his father.

"Neal," Gold returned the greeting. "This isn't easy for me. I very much want us to reconnect and I'm afraid I may try too hard and say something completely stupid." There - it was out there. All of it was out there.

Neal had nodded. "Emma and Lacey have been helping me get a bit different perspective on things. And I have to admit, as I've gotten older, I've begun to understand that perhaps my mother . . ." Neal paused.

"Was a manipulative bitch?" Gold suggested. "Oh wait, I probably shouldn't have said that. Lacey told me not to bad-mouth Milah. No matter how I feel about the shameless whore . . . I mean . . . the woman . . . she is still your mother. And at one time, I did love her." Gold rambled on.

Neal was actually smiling. "I'm old enough to accept that my mother is . . . " he hesitated.

Lacey suggested, "A piece of work?"

Neal and Gold both laughed.

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "Let's go at this slowly, Dad. All right? Mom will never understand, but she'll have to deal with it. I'd like to get to know my father. See what we might have in common – besides being able to attract beautiful women to our sides," he nodded at Lacey.

Emma laughed and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"That sounds . . . perfect," Gold told him. "We could do lunch . . . uh . . . maybe every other week, even an evening dinner now and then."

"We'll keep you and Lacey in mind for Thanksgiving," Neal suggested. "I'll have to forewarn you that Mom will be there . . . but there will be plenty of booze."

"I'd be willing to put up with your mother to be with you," Gold said warmly.

"Then it's a date, especially if you can bring Lacey with you," Neal told him. "She helped convince Emma to say yes to our engagement."

"You're engaged!" Gold said. "Well, congratulations!"

"Thank Lacey. I think Emma would still be just wanting us to be very good friends with frequent benefits if Lacey hadn't chatted me up."

Lunch #4

Lacey didn't have lunch at a restaurant planned. Instead, she and Professor Gold had eaten one of Ms. Potts excellent plain but delicious pot pie meals. They were sitting at his dining room table, Lacey with a new book to keep her light company and Gold with his burning conscience to give him indigestion.

It was still damn awkward. He was still trying to work up the courage to apologize, to tell her how he really felt, but . . . he hadn't succeeded.

On her part, Lacey really missed Jefferson during these moments. She had quickly realized that the man had been a buffer between them, softening Gold's bitter temperament and elevating her opinion of herself.

She still wasn't a hundred percent sure why she had gone back with the man. Oh yes, she knew she had been manipulated by guilt and sympathy. She had agreed to this experiment and would do her best at the Governor's Ball to show off his re-education talents. She prided herself on keeping her commitments. But really, they still needed to talk about what had happened between them.

She thought, she believed, she knew he owed her an apology for offering her money for sex. That had probably been one of the worst, most demeaning moments of her life.

But he hadn't apologized.

She wasn't sure about his feelings for her. She remembered that there had been that tiny remark right after they had had sex when he'd told he loved her and she could swear she had over-heard him telling his mother that he loved her, but he had never, in the bright light of day, told her, never directly spoke to her about his feelings. She just wasn't sure how he felt.

But she was sure about her own feelings. She was deeply, sincerely, and helplessly in love with the man. But, without having her feelings returned, she could not, would not stay in a one-sided, hopeless relationship.

They had seamlessly gone from lunch to a lesson there at the dining room table. She had put her book aside and was now sitting in his study, her eyes crossing, trying to be cooperative. At this particular moment, Gold had decided to test her on cutlery knowledge.

She readily answered his questions, "Professor Gold, I already know which fork to use. Mr. Madden's taught me every possible esoteric utensil in existence. I know about seafood forks, pickle forks, crab forks, butter knives, grapefruit knives, dessert spoons, lobster picks and snail tongs."

She continued, "Let me tell you what I know about glasses – there are sherry glasses, champagne flutes, absinthe glasses, snifters . . . shall I go on? I know the proper way to eat soup is to scoop away from myself. I can use a knife and fork to peel and slice a banana."

He paused. She knew more about this pretentious crap than he did, "Impressive," he admitted. "But who would serve a banana at a formal dinner party?" he wondered. "So, how about dancing?"

"Well, you know I know the waltz. Mr. Madden's also taught me the simple Box-Step, then the Lindy Hop, the Two-Step, and, well, I already knew the Shag."

"Oh," he was a trifle deflated. She knew more dances than he knew. He scratched his nose. "So, you're pretty comfortable with all of those?"

"Mr. Madden told me I was a natural."

"Well, he should know. Now, how about Topics of Conversation?"

"Mr. Madden's told me not to worry about that. He said that men will be starting up conversations with me and I would well to smile and nod as if I was actually interested in what they have to say."

"Yeah, well, that's probably right." Damn, but she was more prepared than he was. "So, do you have a dress picked out?" he asked.

"Mr. Madden selected one. It's a beautiful golden dress."

"Another Prada?" Gold asked.

"Versace, I think. It looks like something I could wear to accept my Oscar," she told him. "He also got me set up for hair and makeup appointments before he went away on his honeymoon."

Gold sat back. She was far and away not the street slut who'd come into his apartment with the wig and heels and heavy makeup. She now looked and acted . . . classy. He couldn't think of anything else he needed to do to get her prepared. "Then, I guess, you're ready," he finally said.

"Then, I guess, I am." Then she hesitated. "You know, I plan to leave as soon as the Governor's Ball is over."

She waited. He wasn't going to say anything. She sighed and got up, picking up her book, to return to her room.

"Lacey," he called to her back. She stopped but did not turn around. "Just so you know. I do think . . . I know . . . that you are a lady. A for real and for true lady. As you're well aware . . . I didn't always think that, but now . . . but now I know it's true. With all the time that we have spent together working on your transformation, I think that all I did was help you express yourself in a more conventional manner. I don't think I turned you into a lady - I think you've always been a lady, even when men as dull-witted as myself . . . and your father . . . and Keith . . . couldn't see it."

She stood quietly, "Thank you."

She realized that was his apology.

Not bad.

Now, if only he would share his feelings.

Leaving for the Governor's Ball

She was seriously nervous. Even after Professor Gold had told her she was ready, had given her his blessing, she was still nervous. This was the largest, poshest group of people she had ever been thrust into. A lot of money, a lot of class. She debated belting a quick one down before leaving home but changed her mind. She gathered her courage and made her way downstairs.

Jefferson, just back from his honeymoon, and Professor Gold were both waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Both men were dressed in traditional black tuxedos with creamy white shirts, as well as top hats. Jefferson sported a flamboyant red cape.

It was the most dressed up she had ever seen Gold and he wore it well. He was standing absolutely still, just gaping at her.

"Well, gentlemen?" she asked, pausing for their inspection.

"Bellissima," Jefferson told her. "You look lovely. Absolutely breath-taking."

Gold didn't say anything. She walked by him and took Jefferson's hand. She turned to Gold, "Coming?"

"I think he already did," Jefferson muttered. Gold followed the two out and they entered the limo Jefferson had hired to take them to the Ball.

"I swear, I was so nervous that I downed a glass of whiskey before I left the house," Jefferson confessed.

Lacey smiled at him. "I considered doing that, but I was afraid it would make my breath smell or I'd spill it on this gorgeous dress."

"The gold color suits you. You will be the most resplendent woman at this affair," Jefferson promised her. "Don't you agree, Rum?"

Gold hadn't spoken a word. He just sat staring at her. "She's lovely," he finally whispered. Maybe he should do more groveling here. Tell her what a POS he was, tell her, tell her how he felt, how he really felt, shout out his love for her to her, to everyone - then maybe, she would re-consider leaving him.

Was there anything he could say that might convince her to stay?

God, he loved her. He loved her so much. She had become everything to him.

The Ball

They entered the Biltmore grounds and were directed to the grand ballroom.

"Everyone's looking at us," Lacey whispered.

"No, my dear, everyone's looking at you," Jefferson corrected her. And almost immediately, they were stopped by a gentleman, requesting an introduction to Jefferson's companion.

"Well, Arthur, this is Isabelle Avonlea. I met her quite recently through Fiona Black, where she's been stashed for several weeks. Her family's been keeping her secret, having her incarcerated in some posh European girl's school."

"Swiss or English?" the man asked.

"In Spain," Jefferson explained. "She's only going to be with us a short time."

"Welcome to America, senorita," Arthur told her, taking Lacey's hand. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"I most certainly am," Lacey smiled.

"I expect to get a dance with you later," Arthur pressed.

"I'll look forward to it," Lacey told him with a kind smile.

And the evening went on this way. Gentlemen and ladies would stop by to get an introduction and whatever bit of the concocted story regarding Lacey's background that Jefferson would facilely make up. Lacey was asked to dance every dance.

Gold, who used his bum leg as an excuse not to dance and his association with Jefferson as an excuse not to congregate with women, made his way around the ballroom eavesdropping on conversations.

He watched as some petty dignitary approached Lacey and said something into her ear. She blushed and nodded, yes.

What was up? He watched and the same petty dignitary led Lacey over to sit at the Governor's Table.

If he were anywhere else, he would hop up and down and clap his hands together. His little protégé had been singled out and was now at the top of her class.

It only got better as the evening went on. Sometime between eleven and midnight, the gossip mongers had generally decided that Lacey was one of the Bourbon family, a minor royal to be sure, but nonetheless part of the remnants of the royal house of Spain, that she really was a countess.

Jubilant, he was ready to go. He didn't think he'd be able to beat this. But then . . . he couldn't find his Lacey.

He began a search. She wasn't on the dance floor. He began circulating the fringes of the room, searching onto the expansive balconies, the curtained side chambers and the handful of opened back rooms. And it was in one of those back rooms, a billiard room, where he found his Lacey-Belle.

His blood went cold.

She was with Killian Jones, a blaggard if he'd ever known one. He'd hadn't encountered his ex-wife at this soiree, but if her lover/husband was there, then he assumed Milah was around somewhere.

He had no kind feelings for Killian Jones. After all, this was the sonofabitch that had capsized his marriage. Jones was now married to Milah, dependent on her family's money, social standing and good graces to maintain his lifestyle. It took Gold only a moment of listening in to their conversation to realize that Killian, scoundrel that he was, had recognized Isabelle Avonlea as Lacey French.

"So," Lacey was saying slowly. "We would make this a bet. If you win . . ."

"Then, you'll become my Saturday night girl, with all benefits included, until such time as I say I'm done with you," Killian clarified.

Lacey nodded. "And if I win, you'll forget everything you know about me."

"I will."

"That's not enough," Lacey told Killian.

Gold was impressed but anxious – he knew her pool playing abilities and they were not that good – and, he had heard, Killian was a shark, a hustler of the first order. Yet, here was his Lacey, bargaining without fear – or perhaps without any real knowledge of her antagonist's skill level.

"What else would you want?" Killian asked her.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," she responded blandly.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars!" Killian was astonished.

"What? You're good for it. And, in return, I would promise not to call your wife or anyone in her family to tell them how I know you." She stared at him without flinching.

"They won't believe you," he said, but he seemed just a little concerned.

"Even when I tell them about that interesting tattoo you have in that . . . intimate place, a place only your wife and your doctor should be familiar with? We girls talk to each other Mr. Jones," she said softly.

Killian had the grace to laugh, "There is that, then." He considered briefly, assaying the likelihood that the young woman could beat him at pool. Finally, he nodded, "Very well, it's a deal."

"I get stripes," she told him and the pool game began.