Finding It Read Online Free PDF Page A

Chesterfield sofas—like Jane Austen and James Bond collaborated on the interior design.
    Poppy leads me down a hallway, around a rope barrier, and through a set of plush velvet drapes.
    “Welcome to Délais!”
    The restaurant is swanky. Super swanky. With an elaborate plastered ceiling, glossy parquet floors, walls covered in an expensive silver metallic paper, and sleek black walnut tables, the dining room has the same Austen meets Bond vibe as the lobby. An eclectic collection of art covers one wall from ceiling to floor—photographs, portraits, landscapes, post-modern paintings.
    “Wow!” I whisper, awed by the sumptuous candlelit scene. “This is outrageous.”
    “Outrageous good or outrageous bad?”
    The waver in Poppy’s voice prompts me to shift my gaze from the art wall to her face. She’s nibbling on her perfectly lacquered lower lip, and a tiny crease mars her otherwise porcelain smooth forehead. I can’t believe what I am seeing. This cool, collected, cultured woman has a chink in her confident armor. What could poised and polished Poppy Worthington have to stress about? It’s not like she’s toting a ginger ’fro and enough baggage to fill the Louis Vuitton flagship store.
    “Outrageous good, Poppy!” I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers. “It’s like you opened a restaurant and cool cocktail lounge in the Louvre.”
    She stops biting her lip, but specters of self-doubt still hover behind her eyes. If we were better acquainted, I’d hug her and say , “Believe, Sister! ’Cuz you got it going on.” Since I’m not sure perfectly pressed Poppy would appreciate such an exuberant public display of affection, I give her hand another little squeeze.
    “This is the first hotel to be renovated since I assumed control of the Worthington Brand, and I am taking it in a totally new direction. Many don’t share my vision. They predict my changes will tarnish the Worthington’s golden reputation.”
    Poppy’s looks down at her lap.
    “You’re a visionary, Poppy. Visionaries always have detractors, those frightened by change. Look at Michelangelo.”
    “Michelangelo?” she says, looking up.
    “He was a visionary—painting naked saints and sinners on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—and he had his share of detractors. The Pope took one look at the masterpiece and lost his holy mind. He didn’t appreciate seeing St. Paul with his peter hanging out, so he ordered Michelangelo to paint fig leaves over the saints’ and sinners’ genitalia. True story.”
    “Thanks.” Poppy sniffs. “But I am no Michelangelo.”
    “Oh, I am not so sure about that.” I glance around the restaurant. “You’re an artist, Poppy Worthington, and this is your masterpiece.”
    “You can’t know how much your praise means to me. You’re precisely the demographic we had in mind when we designed Délais.”
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you. Young, hip, well-traveled, and well-educated. Traditional values, but with a slightly irreverent approach to life.”
    Hip? Me ? In my trying-too-hard London ensemble? I don’t think so. “You got all of that from watching me hail a cab?”
    Poppy chuckles. “And reading your column for the last year.”
    “Well, I am not sure if I deserve such praise, but Délais definitely nails the young, hip, cultured vibe.”
    Poppy’s eyes fill with fresh tears.
    “Oh, bollocks!” She murmurs, quickly blinking. “It’s our GM. I mustn’t let him see me all weepy.”
    I shove my hand into my purse and fish around. I whip out a bottle of Visine just as an officious looking man wearing a Saville Row suit, and smug expression, saunters up.
    “Allergies are the worst. Here.” I hand the Visine to Poppy. “Two drops per eye usually does the trick.”
    “Thank you.” Poppy slips the bottle into her pocket.
    “Good Morning, Miss Worthington,” Saville Row says. “Might I have a word?”
    “Certainly, Malcolm.” She turns to me. “Would you excuse me a moment?”
    “Of