“Well, maybe you should take a break.” Paul placed a stack of envelopes and periodicals on the desk. “I brought in the mail.”
Alex sighed, contemplating the new arrivals. The last thing he needed—more bills. Normally the accountant handled the brunt of it; unfortunately, since the accountant had proved untrustworthy, the chore became Alex’s. Also, Alfred insisted that Alex become intimately familiar with all aspects of the Anderson empire, including little windowed envelopes arriving like clockwork to demand money. In retrospect, Alex appreciated Alfred’s insistence, for he’d never have known of the accountant’s duplicity otherwise.
He rolled his gaze upward again. Sympathetic eyes studied him. “You do look tired,” Paul said. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Alex didn’t feel quite right treating the man like a servant, but a cup of tea sounded good. “Please.”
“I’ll be right back.” Paul hurried from the room, faint traces of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He seemed to find pleasure in doing for others, an alien concept to Alex, and one requiring further study.
Thumbing through the stack of mail, Alex began triaging: stacking items requiring his immediate attention in one pile, interesting magazines in another, and items he couldn’t figure out in yet another. He knew without asking that Paul had already thrown junk mail, fliers, and sales ads into the recycling bin.
A small, square envelope caught his eye, hand-addressed in calligraphy to Mr. Alfred Anderson, from Edmond Strickland. If Alex wasn’t mistaken, it appeared to be an invitation of some kind. Well, no point in opening the gold-embossed envelope. His uncle was in no condition to attend a party. About to drop it in the trash, he paused mid motion when Paul returned, bearing a tray.
“What have you got there?” Paul asked, placing the tray on the desk and then pouring two cups of tea before adding precisely the right amount of sugar to Alex’s.
“An invitation,” Alex replied, turning the envelope over in his hands.
“Hmm… I didn’t notice earlier.” Paul took the envelope, opening it to peek at the card within. A smile of pure delight lit his face. “Edmond’s finally opening his new gallery and is having an open house,” he announced.
“I hate to rain on your parade, Paul, but you know there’s no way Uncle Alfred will be able to attend.”
“Well, he’ll want to know; they’ve been friends for years. As a matter of fact, I’ll show him over dinner. Knowing him, he’ll still want to go.” Setting the card aside, Paul sank into a chair and picked up his own cup.
Alex took a tentative sip. A single taste brought a smile to his face. Paul had added a touch of brandy, the way he liked it. He peered up into the smug face of his former adversary, who merely tipped his cup in a toast.
No denying the man made life easier, reminding Alex to eat, taking care of the household, every little gesture saying how much he cared. Paul also no longer avoided him, which would have made it more difficult to get anything accomplished. A more pleasant atmosphere existed in the house when they cooperated, like now.
Considering the invitation and Alfred’s recovery, Alex put his foot down. “Out of the question. He just left the hospital, there’s no way he can attend.”
“No way I can attend what?” Both men were startled to discover Alfred standing in the doorway, dressed in robe and slippers. They’d managed to keep him in bed for nearly twenty-four hours before he’d demanded access to his own house. Since then he’d cheerfully checked in on everyone repeatedly to ask what they were doing, obviously bored out of his mind. Retirement didn’t agree with him.
“Eddie’s gallery opening,” Paul said, jumping to his feet to help Alfred to a chair.
The old man rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you boys I’m not helpless?”
Paul dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering a quiet, “I know.” Expression brightening, he asked, “Would you like some tea? I’m afraid tea is all you’re allowed to have, though. No brandy. Doctor’s orders.”
“I believe I might,” Alfred replied, frowning at the “no brandy” comment.
Paul nearly raced from the room. He literally lived to do for others, and appeared happiest when preparing tea or cooking a meal for his loved ones. Alex remembered Paul’s cheerful smile when he arrived with the tea a short while ago. Was Alex himself now included on the list of loved ones? Though he hadn’t tried again, Paul also hadn’t taken him to task for the kiss in the garden. Interesting.
“Such a helpful young man, isn’t he? So efficient,” Alfred said. “He’s right, you know.”
Alex turned abruptly at his uncle’s comments, embarrassed at being caught staring at the door through which Paul had long since departed. “Right about what?” Many things fit under the heading of “right” when it came to the diminutive Sinclair.
“Right in saying I’d like to attend Edmond’s opening. He’s worked hard for this, and I regret I’ll have to miss his big night.” Alfred sighed. Suddenly, he fixed twinkling eyes on Alex, his face lighting up.
Alex froze, instantly aware the old man had hatched a plan. A plan involving him somehow.
“Alex, when was the last time you attended a gala?”
Thinking hard, Alex replayed the past few months and finally latched onto something that might be stretching the truth a little bit. “I did attend a club opening a few months back. The owner is a friend of mine.”
Scowling, Alfred shot back, “Club Inferno doesn’t count.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Club Infer—how did you know about the club?”
“I wasn’t a premier attorney in the scandal capital of the world for nothing, my dear boy. I have my sources.”
