The Nightingale Before Christmas(3)
“And every room decorated in a different style?” she asked.
“By a different decorator,” I said. “And so probably in a different style. For example, as you can see, Ivy Vernier, the decorator in charge here in the foyer, is an expert in trompe l’oeil. Painting stuff so it looks real,” I added, seeing her blank look at the French phrase. A few weeks ago I might not have known it myself. I pointed downward. “That floor’s not really marble.”
“It’s not?” Jessica bent over, and then plopped down on the floor, the better to study it at close range. She began tapping on the floor, as if testing to see if it really was wood. “Wow. Can I talk to the painter?”
“She’s not here at the moment.” Ivy had gone home with another headache. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Was it, as she claimed, a combination of paint fumes and eyestrain from so much close work? Or was the pressure of our deadline getting to her? Or was she reacting to the stress of dealing with the other designers? Dealing with one in particular—
“She’ll be around a lot in the next two days,” I said aloud. “To finish up her work before our opening. She might even come back before you leave today, and if she doesn’t, I can give you her contact information.”
Jessica nodded, and took several pictures of the faux marble floor. And then several of the faux oriental carpet in the center of the marble.
“And on the walls she’s illustrating Christmas carols and the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen,” I added. To one side of the door, the Little Match Girl already sat shivering in sparkling painted snow. The three kings processed majestically up the wall beside the stairs, bearing the richest, most bejeweled gifts I’d ever seen. But the seascape of “I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing In” was only three quarters finished, and the painting of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” barely begun—how could Ivy possibly find time to finish?
I banished those thoughts and concentrated on the reporter, who was staring at the three kings. And reaching out to tap them.
“Careful,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Some of the paint might still be wet.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Wow. So what’s in here?”
She scrambled up and headed for the double French doors at the right side of the foyer.
“The study,” I said. “Done in a modern interpretation of the Art Deco style by Sarah Byrne from the decorating firm of Byrne, Banks, and Bailey.”
“Wow!” She was peering through the glass panes. And probably leaving a nose print. For a reporter, she hadn’t yet displayed a very impressive vocabulary. I hoped she’d find a few more varied expressions for her article. But I had to admit that, like Ivy’s painting, Sarah’s black, red-and-gold Deco-themed fantasy was worth a few wows. I coveted it, just a little. A good thing Michael and I were very happy with our Arts and Crafts style interior—decorated, naturally, by Mother.
Of course, if seeing Sarah’s room inspired Mother to do a little Art Deco experimentation, I could find a room in our oversized Victorian house for it. Michael’s office, perhaps? Or one of the guest rooms?
“This designer’s not around either?” Jessica stepped into the room and ran her finger over the dramatically curved arm of the closest of a pair of Art Deco armchairs upholstered in red velvet.
“She was here a minute ago,” I said. “Probably had to fetch something.” I was disappointed not to find Sarah around. If Jessica was going to interview some of the decorators, Sarah was one of the ones I wanted to steer her toward, and not just because I found her congenial. She was also articulate, upbeat, and funny. She usually wore a streak of some bright color in her blond hair—green, purple, red; whatever fit her mood—and dressed in odd but interesting clothes.
I was hoping Jessica would illustrate her article not only with pictures of the rooms but also a few of the more presentable designers. Mother’s cool blond elegance. Eustace’s dapper charm. Sarah’s puckish grin and funky retro style.
Yes, definitely a good idea to keep Jessica here till Sarah came back. I nodded with approval as the reporter drifted around the room, taking pictures.
“Try out the chair,” I suggested. “You’d be amazed how comfortable it is.”
She perched tentatively on the edge of the red-velvet seat and then smiled and relaxed back into it.
“Wonderful,” she said. “I would love to have a chair this comfy for studying back at my dorm room. Why do I suspect it might cost a little more than I want to pay?”
“It probably costs as much as your annual tuition,” I said. “And my husband’s on the faculty at Caerphilly College, so yes, I know how high tuition is. Those chairs are Sarah’s pride and joy. Authentic something-or-others.”