soft, chenille throw around my shoulders, and began to rub.
“Warm yet?”
Staring into the fire, I put a hand on his, stilling it. “Yes.”
In that instant I knew that if I looked up, into his eyes, he’d kiss me. And if he kissed me, more would happen.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be physically closer to Bruce. I did. But for my own peace of mind, I had to push him away right now and find a way to question him about the women he’d known.
This wasn’t going to be easy to do without admitting the reason, but I had to try. Coming out with “By the way, did you know you’re a suspect in a murder investigation?” wouldn’t exactly inspire him to keep trusting me. Sure, I could try to explain it all away. But “I really didn’t mean to finger you in a conversation with my detective friend” wouldn’t inspire much confidence, either.
“I’m fine,” I told him stiffly. “You can stop now.”
I could feel the awkwardness of the moment, but Bruce did his best to respect my signals. Reluctantly, he removed his hands and moved to a covered basket warming beside the fireplace.
“I bet you’re hungry,” he said, smoothing over what I’m sure he felt was a gentle rejection. “And have I got a special surprise for you.”
I closed my eyes. God, I wanted to strangle Quinn. Because of him, I knew too much — and not enough. And it was killing me.
“Actually, maybe the dinner can wait?” I said. “I’m really dying to get a tour of this place.”
“Really? It’s a huge mess.”
“I don’t care. I love these old places. I was admiring your exterior, you know, that’s why I was standing out there in the snow so long.”
“Thanks.” He cocked an eyebrow. “For admiring my exterior.”
I laughed. “You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
“Well, anyway, you weren’t kidding about this place being archetypal Federal.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to believe, but there are about three hundred of these Federal row houses still standing in lower Manhattan.”
“Three hundred?”
“Not all are in pristine condition, some have been altered almost beyond recognition. But many have maintained their integrity.”
“You’ve been working with the preservation society, I take it?”
“Yes. And they do good work. For this place, they’ve already finished the researching, documenting, and petitioning of officials. The New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission will most likely agree and grant this place its deserved landmark status. What most concerns me — and the Village Society for Historic Preservation — is that more than half of the three hundred Federal row houses have no protection at all. The other half either lie within the boundaries of an official historic district, or else they have individual landmark designation.”
“More than half are in jeopardy? You’re kidding!”
“They could be lost at any time.” Bruce looked away, disgusted. “What a waste.”
“Do you know what year this one was built?”
“1830. You know the history, right?”
I nodded. Back then, people residing in the crowded colonial enclaves near lower Manhattan’s ports were looking to escape the regular outbreaks of disease, including cholera and yellow fever, so they came up here. The Village was only two miles north, but it was a vastly different world for them, bucolic, with fresh air and space, and they began building in earnest.
“These small row houses were an escape, weren’t they?” I said.
Bruce looked around the room a little cryptically. “It’s been one for me.”
The remark seemed to my ears loaded with meaning. “How so?”
He held my gaze a moment, as if deciding whether to talk about what was on his mind. Instead, he shrugged. “So…what do you think of this room?”
I kept hold of his gaze. He was changing the subject. We both knew it. For the moment, I let it go. For the moment.
“The work’s fantastic,” I said. “The fireplace mantel especially. Is that marble?”
“No. It’s wood, made to look like marble.”
I rose and moved to the hearth, ran my hand along the smooth finish, which was an unusual color — a sort of orange-tinted gold with deep yellow blended in a way to give the impression of carved marble.
“Remarkable. And you’re telling me this is authentic Federal?”
“Damn straight. Federal period designers liked to bring light and bright colors into their living spaces — that coloring is authentic and so is the technique. Strangely enough, they liked to play with the look of wood like that, making it look either like stone, marble, or even wood of another species.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks, Clare.”
“So…how about that tour?”
He started by explaining that this large parlor room had been two rooms when he’d originally bought the place. He’d knocked down the wall because the house’s original Federal scheme, although calling for a front and rear parlor, provided a sliding door between the two that could be open, as it was now, to turn the two rooms into one larger space.
We glanced in the kitchen, which was a total mess, and I laughed when I saw the only two new and possibly working appliances were a small, office-size refrigerator and an espresso/cappuccino machine.
“I like your priorities,” I said, walking over to the large machine. “And it’s a Pavoni. Good taste.”
“I’ll be honest with you, it was a gift from a client. I haven’t figured out how to use it yet. No time to read the instructions, you know? But I did buy a bag of your espresso blend and I have whole milk in that little fridge.”
I smiled. “I’ll whip us up some after dinner — and give you a tutorial. Good?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s my business, buddy. Let me show off.”
“Then let me show off mine a little more for you. Okay?”
I nodded and he took my hand. On the stairs, he told me the third floor was the attic, which had once been used for servant’s quarters.
“At the moment, those rooms are pretty stark and filled with nothing but paint cans and building materials, so we’ll skip them for now. But I think you’ll like the second floor.”
The second floor had two bedrooms. The smaller one was obviously the “before” picture, with peeling wallpaper, a stained ceiling, broken moldings, and a hideous pink shag carpet, possibly circa 1970, over the wood floor.
“Oh, yuck.”
“I take that to mean you think I have my work cut out for me?”
“Yes. That’s the technical definition of yuck.”
The master bedroom, however, was nowhere near yuck. In fact, it had been as beautifully restored as the downstairs parlors. He’d uncovered the old fireplace, refinished and polished the wood floor, restored the ceiling and its moldings, and even started furnishing the bedroom with a four-poster bed and matching bureaus. In the corner, I noticed a workspace with a drawing board and shelves beside it, full of books and blueprints. Propped on one shelf was a map of the Village and SoHo covered with arrows of different colors and little colorful circles.
I wandered over, curious. “What are these arrows?”
“The green ones show the direction of the traffic flow. The red, blue, and yellow circles refer to sanitation pick-up schedules — its three times a week in Manhattan and twice in the boroughs.”
“Sanitation pick up?” I repeated, trying not to picture Sahara McNeil’s legs sticking out from under a ten-ton garbage truck. “Why would you need to know that?”
“Those big trucks can stop traffic dead. If my crew has exterior work or needs to move equipment in and out
