Read Online One Good Friend Deserves Another by Lisa Verge Higgins - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Verge Higgins
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“Gabriel de Bragança e Ligne de Sousa Teixeira.”
“Please don’t make me call you Mr. de Bragança e Ligne de Sousa Teixeira. Not before my second cup of coffee.”
“Sure.” Dust motes drifted to the floor as he continued to pull the wire from the ceiling. “As long as I don’t have to call you Helen Vivien Livingston Wainwright.”
She pinked up, then found interest in the drops of coffee that had slipped onto the lid of her cup. She wondered when he’d figure out that one of her last names was also on the museum. It was an embarrassing truth that one of her ancestors had donated this house and all its contents to the county, and that her mother, because of her birth, was one of the lifetime trustees.
“Ah,” she said wryly. “My dirty secret is out. I really should scrap that nameplate.”
“I thought I was in the wrong office. I went looking for you this morning to warn you I’d be shutting down the electricity. The security guard set me straight. Such a big name for a little blonde.”
Wendy coughed to cover the sound of her indrawn breath. She had been called many things in her life—athletic, healthy, and big-boned. They were all euphemisms for her essentially tall, show-horse figure. She managed through biweekly tennis games to keep herself lean. But no one had ever called her a little blonde.
“But what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he persisted, “is why everyone here calls you Wendy.”
“It’s a family thing. None of us go by our real names.”
A rumble of laughter echoed in the exposed rafters. “Aliases?”
“Self-preservation. Imagine facing your schoolmates with a name like Jeremiah Warner Livingston Wainwright the Third.”
Gabriel paused as the wire snagged. “Really?”
“We call him Trey. In other ways though, the names just get silly.” Her mind ran over the sweeping cast of characters in her extended family. “My mother is Elizabeth—but we call her Bitsy. I’ve got an Aunt Oatsie,” she added, “a sister Birdie, and a Cousin Boop.”
“You’re making this up.”
“There’s a reason why half my relatives are in therapy.”
She didn’t mention that she and her relatives were all descended from robber barons and governors, and the family tree bent under the weight of senators, shipping magnates, and even one vice president. Since one achingly painful incident in college, she made a point to keep that information under wraps—particularly around eligible men.
“But Wendy is not an unusual name,” he persisted. “It’s from Peter Pan .”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Her father had called her Wendy for the way she controlled her stuffed animals in the storylines she set up for them. Off to Neverland again, he’d say, coming into her nursery to find her in the middle of some complicated plot twist. He sometimes called her brother Peter Pan, but for a completely different reason.
Then her gaze drifted to Gabriel’s toolbox where she spied a tattered copy of William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury ,the bookmark a little deeper into the story than it had been last week, when she’d first noticed it. Curious. He was a reader, this electrician. And The Sound and the Fury was one of her favorite books.
She felt a tingle of curiosity. A sure indication that it was time to move on.
“Well,” Wendy said brightly, turning toward her office, “if you’re going to be working here all day, I’d better close the gallery.”
“Don’t.”
Her shoes scraped against the floor as she halted abruptly.
“The kids like it so much.” He jerked his chin toward the statues. “They get an art and anatomy lesson, all in one.”
She glanced around the room and remembered last week’s group from the local all-girls private high school, who’d stepped into the gallery squealing in a pitch high enough to break glass. But as assistant curator, she had liability issues to consider. “They’ll have to be satisfied with the view from the hallway. I have
“Please don’t make me call you Mr. de Bragança e Ligne de Sousa Teixeira. Not before my second cup of coffee.”
“Sure.” Dust motes drifted to the floor as he continued to pull the wire from the ceiling. “As long as I don’t have to call you Helen Vivien Livingston Wainwright.”
She pinked up, then found interest in the drops of coffee that had slipped onto the lid of her cup. She wondered when he’d figure out that one of her last names was also on the museum. It was an embarrassing truth that one of her ancestors had donated this house and all its contents to the county, and that her mother, because of her birth, was one of the lifetime trustees.
“Ah,” she said wryly. “My dirty secret is out. I really should scrap that nameplate.”
“I thought I was in the wrong office. I went looking for you this morning to warn you I’d be shutting down the electricity. The security guard set me straight. Such a big name for a little blonde.”
Wendy coughed to cover the sound of her indrawn breath. She had been called many things in her life—athletic, healthy, and big-boned. They were all euphemisms for her essentially tall, show-horse figure. She managed through biweekly tennis games to keep herself lean. But no one had ever called her a little blonde.
“But what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he persisted, “is why everyone here calls you Wendy.”
“It’s a family thing. None of us go by our real names.”
A rumble of laughter echoed in the exposed rafters. “Aliases?”
“Self-preservation. Imagine facing your schoolmates with a name like Jeremiah Warner Livingston Wainwright the Third.”
Gabriel paused as the wire snagged. “Really?”
“We call him Trey. In other ways though, the names just get silly.” Her mind ran over the sweeping cast of characters in her extended family. “My mother is Elizabeth—but we call her Bitsy. I’ve got an Aunt Oatsie,” she added, “a sister Birdie, and a Cousin Boop.”
“You’re making this up.”
“There’s a reason why half my relatives are in therapy.”
She didn’t mention that she and her relatives were all descended from robber barons and governors, and the family tree bent under the weight of senators, shipping magnates, and even one vice president. Since one achingly painful incident in college, she made a point to keep that information under wraps—particularly around eligible men.
“But Wendy is not an unusual name,” he persisted. “It’s from Peter Pan .”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Her father had called her Wendy for the way she controlled her stuffed animals in the storylines she set up for them. Off to Neverland again, he’d say, coming into her nursery to find her in the middle of some complicated plot twist. He sometimes called her brother Peter Pan, but for a completely different reason.
Then her gaze drifted to Gabriel’s toolbox where she spied a tattered copy of William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury ,the bookmark a little deeper into the story than it had been last week, when she’d first noticed it. Curious. He was a reader, this electrician. And The Sound and the Fury was one of her favorite books.
She felt a tingle of curiosity. A sure indication that it was time to move on.
“Well,” Wendy said brightly, turning toward her office, “if you’re going to be working here all day, I’d better close the gallery.”
“Don’t.”
Her shoes scraped against the floor as she halted abruptly.
“The kids like it so much.” He jerked his chin toward the statues. “They get an art and anatomy lesson, all in one.”
She glanced around the room and remembered last week’s group from the local all-girls private high school, who’d stepped into the gallery squealing in a pitch high enough to break glass. But as assistant curator, she had liability issues to consider. “They’ll have to be satisfied with the view from the hallway. I have
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