Christmas Pie Page 11

  He remained with the MacNamara ladies through supper. Polly’s mother offered the invitation, much to Polly’s initial dismay.

  “Oh, surely Mr. Drayton doesn’t care to dine with us, Mother. I’m certain he has much more important engagements this evening.”

  With a grin designed to beguile, James demurred. “Why, what could possibly be more important than dining with two lovely ladies, Miss MacNamara?”

  Since Polly, in her innocence, could think of no light, bantering rejoinder, she blushed instead.

  Her rosy flush stole James’s breath. It would, he thought cynically, take a good deal more than one of his usual insipid evening engagements to wrench him away from her charming company tonight. He hoped Cynthia Ingram would forgive him. Then he decided he didn’t much care one way or the other. Besides, Cynthia had dozens of gentlemen friends with whom to occupy herself.

  “Well, do come into the dining room then, Mr. Drayton. Polly will set another place for you, and we can enjoy an informal supper together. I’m sure you’re a hungry man. You must be just about my Stephen’s age, and he’s forever hungry.”

  “And how old is your son, Mrs. MacNamara?”

  With a sigh, Lillian said, “He will be thirty the end of January, Mr. Drayton.”

  “Ah, then I have him beat by two months. I’ll be thirty on the twenty-eighth of this very month.”

  He appropriated the handles of Lillian’s wheelchair before Polly could do so. He did it so deftly and with such an engaging smile that Polly felt momentarily bereft, although the impression was so fleeting it did not leave so much as an aftertaste. She did, however, finger her charms for a split-second before she dashed to the pantry to fetch more silverware and china.

  Supper was a much more light-hearted affair than Polly feared it might be. James Drayton proved to be a charming, articulate dining companion. He was so adept at dealing with Lillian MacNamara that Polly had to stifle a stare of amazement when she realized he’d managed to get her mother to talk about the accident which had claimed her father’s life.

  “It was six years ago, Mr. Drayton. We’d been to China, where Frank had contracted for a large quantity of beautiful silks. There were porcelains and jade-ware in the order, too, and we were bringing everything back home to San Francisco. He was quite successful in his importing business.”

  “Did you travel with him often, Mrs. MacNamara?”

  “Too often, I’m afraid,” Lillian said, glancing ruefully at Polly. “We often left the children with my sister Grace for months at a time. I’m afraid they felt like orphans sometimes.”

  “Of course we didn’t, Mother.”

  Polly squeezed her mother’s hand and hoped the lie wouldn’t count against her in the Book of Records kept by God’s agents. She felt James’s gaze on her. When she lifted her eyes and met his, she knew he knew she’d been fibbing. Her face felt hot when she returned her attention to her meal.

  “At any rate, we were on our way home, and the ship had just arrived at the mouth of the harbor when the boiler blew up. Frank was felled by the blast.”

  When Lillian paused in her narrative James said gently, “I didn’t mean to cause you any distress, Mrs. MacNamara. I guess we attorneys are just naturally nosy people.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind really, Mr. Drayton. Maybe it’s good to talk about it.”

  “I’ve often heard it said a burden shared is a burden halved, Mrs. MacNamara.”

  Polly, who had tried for years to get her mother to unburden herself, wished with all her might that Lillian would do so now. Even though she didn’t understand why James Drayton seemed able to draw the information forth when she couldn’t, she hoped, for her mother’s sake, he would continue to do so.

  “I’ve heard that, too, Mr. Drayton.” Lillian drew in an audible breath and continued.

  “I could see Frank lying a few feet away from me, and I tried to reach him. My legs were pinned under a pile of shattered wood, though, and I was unable to move. It was awful. I don’t know if I could have helped him if I’d been able to reach him—but I couldn’t.”

  With a trembling hand, Lillian lifted her napkin to her eye. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being silly.”

  “No you’re not, Mother.”

  James had never heard anything like Polly’s voice. It fairly trembled with love. He watched her put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders. Never having experienced comfort from another human being, James discovered himself envious. How very strange.

  When Polly’s gaze lifted to capture his, her eyes were luminous, glowing with candlelight and love. He felt a catch in his chest.

  “My parents were very close, Mr. Drayton. I’ve never seen a couple who—who belonged with each other as my parents did.”

  She returned her care to her mother, and James was left to contemplate the two ladies. They were both lovely. It was easy for him to see from whom Polly had inherited her grace and elegance. He wondered if his own parents had ever been as close as Frank and Lillian MacNamara. Somehow he couldn’t imagine it.

  “Oh, Polly,” Lillian murmured, “I’m sure that one day you too will find a man to love as deeply as I loved Frank.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mother.”

  James could tell Polly didn’t believe her mother. And she also seemed uneasy with the topic of love and marriage, so he decided to turn it.

  He waited until Polly felt comfortable returning to her knife and fork. Deeming Lillian able to handle a little more gentle probing, he asked, “What was the name of the vessel, Mrs. MacNamara?”

  The smile she gave him almost broke his heart, it was so brave. He’d never considered courage among the lives of ordinary folks, yet it lived here, in this room. His father would never understand the fortitude these two women exercised every day of their lives.

  “It was a ship called Golden Liberty, Mr. Drayton. I liked the name. I recall telling Frank our voyage was sure to be lucky.” Lucky broke on a small sob she obviously tried to control.

  “Oh, Mother, if it’s too hard for you to talk about it, please don’t.”

  Although he regretted its necessity, James was grateful for Polly’s consoling admonition. He hoped he’d been able to disguise the sudden surge of horror Lillian’s words evoked in him.

  Golden Liberty. My God. No wonder Polly’s brief recitation of her father’s unlucky demise had stirred a memory. The Golden Liberty disaster was among several last straws that eventually culminated in the final, acrimonious breach between James and his father. The ship had been one of the Pacific-Orient’s China Express line. Until the Golden Liberty catastrophe, James had tried to preserve a semblance of familial affinity. Afterwards, he felt no such compunction.

  An investigation after the calamity—which claimed ten lives besides that of Frank MacNamara, if James’s memory served—was hushed up, thanks to liberal doses of J. P. Drayton’s golden panacea. His father had spread money around like butter, James remembered bitterly, and very few people ever learned the investigation’s results.

  But James had learned them. He knew that the inquiry had revealed a drunken ship’s captain and a bet between him and the captain of another vessel, Pacific Winds. The details escaped James’s recollection at the moment, but he knew they were sordid. James considered them only one more manifestation of his father’s guiding principle: Succeed at Any Cost.

  It was a principle etched on a gilt plaque in J. P.’s office, but J. P. had been singularly unsuccessful in teaching his son to live by it. James told his father it was because he, James, possessed a conscience. His father told James it was because he, James, was a fool.

  The argument was one neither of them would ever win or lose, because ultimately James had given up the fight and moved on. Now, as he watched Polly try to give her mother solace, his brain whirled with ugly thoughts and memories.

  When he believed he could speak without spitting in anger, he cleared his throat and asked softly, “Was your husband’s shipment not insured, Mrs. Ma
cNamara?”

  Lillian took a deep breath and seemed to draw her inner resources together. “I tried to determine that very thing, Mr. Drayton, but I’m afraid my health was not good for some time after the accident. Polly was only fifteen years old and had to spend all her time caring for me. Stephen was out of the country, so there was no one to see to things. Frank’s man of business was, I’m afraid, not of much help.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Believe me, I was sorry to hear it, too,” Lillian said with an admirable attempt at wry humor.

  “I still think that man didn’t tell you everything, Mother,” Polly said. It was the first time James had heard her sound bitter.

  Lillian sighed heavily. “I know you do, dear. Perhaps you’re right. But I’m afraid I wasn’t up to fighting with him any longer, and now it seems too late.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “William Boedecker, Mr. Drayton.”

  “Boedecker? Why he’s—”

  James stopped before he could reveal that Boedecker’s was one of the names bandied about during the investigation into Golden Liberty’s tragic fate. According to some sources, Boedecker had been backing the Liberty’s captain in his race with the captain of Pacific Winds. James knew for a fact Boedecker had profited handily from J. P. Drayton’s largesse.

  “He’s what, Mr. Drayton?”

  Polly’s lovely, inquisitive gaze almost made James blurt out his suspicions, but his knowledge was too sketchy. He resolutely determined to say nothing on the matter until—unless—whatever he said could be helpful. The MacNamara ladies didn’t need any more loose ends in their lives.

  “His is a name well-known in the shipping business, I believe.”

  The unsuspecting Polly nodded and seemed satisfied with his half-answer.

  After a little more subtle, gentle probing, James decided he’d learned enough and allowed the conversation to veer into cheerier channels. His heart ached, though.

  When he left the MacNamara residence and set out for home, his as-yet-unnamed hound lumbering along at his side, he could think of little other than the distressing facts of Polly MacNamara’s life.

  Great God. First her father, and now her brother. James knew good and well that life wasn’t fair, but this seemed too much for one person to be obliged to bear. His firm stride ate up the distance between Pacific Avenue and Russian Hill where he lived in a grand estate much at variance with the modest home Polly MacNamara shared with her mother.

  She deserved better, James thought angrily. Polly MacNamara wasn’t a woman who should waste her life away typing for a law firm. She should marry a man who would love her and provide her with a gracious home. God knew, she possessed the flair for it; James could tell. And children. She deserved children.

  All women loved children. It was something in their nature, or so James had been told. He was sure his own mother had wanted him and would have loved him. His Chinese nanny had told him so.

  There was something about Polly MacNamara, though, that made James certain she’d make a better mother than most. Maybe it was her sweetness. Or maybe it was the sense of humor she allowed out of its shell every now and then.

  She’d make a good wife, too. How James decided that, he didn’t inform the indifferent air or his dog, but he was sure of it.

  By the time he’d marched home, he had determined on a course of action. He’d never even dream of taking such action for any cause of his own. But Polly MacNamara’s was an entirely different matter. Her cause called for desperate measures, and James was not about to shrink from them, however distasteful they were certain to be.

  Yesterday he’d been shocked when his father showed up in his office. He wondered how his father was going to feel when James visited him on the morrow.

  # # #

  Polly sat on her bed fingering her medals for a long time before she crawled under her quilt. Her attention was not on St. Christopher, however, but upon the strange indentations on the ancient coin she smoothed between her fingers.

  It did feel warm, she decided, glad to have cleared up any confusion about the matter. She stared at the coin for several more minutes before she shook her head hard. No. It was too fantastic. It couldn’t be. Such things simply didn’t happen. Why, they were approaching the Twentieth Century, for heaven’s sake. They were entering an age governed by machines and motors, industry and science.

  Polly knew it was her imagination which made her feel as though the old, worn coin pulsed a response.

  “No,” she whispered aloud. If ever there had been magic on this earth, it was long gone now.

  Lying back on her bed, Polly pressed her coin and stared at the ceiling. A soft smile crept over her as her thoughts tiptoed backwards through the evening.

  “He seemed so kind,” she whispered to the ceiling, which was used to such musings from her. He’d been awfully polite. And he was so very, very handsome.

  Although the ceiling remained mute, Polly could feel her heart hammer against the coin beneath her fingers. She could understand how he’d earned his reputation. She guessed women in his social circle probably threw themselves at him all the time.

  A momentary pang that she was not of his circle smote Polly, but she resolutely thrust it aside. She didn’t want dismal reality to slay her fanciful reverie so soon. She had to deal with reality every day. One evening of wistfulness surely couldn’t hurt.

  Everybody deserved to dream.

  Her smile broadened and she said aloud, “All right, coin. If you’re magic, send Stephen home to us. For Thanksgiving.” In spite of her whimsy, a tear slipped from her eye.

  Polly wiped it away and said, still smiling, “And send Mother a goose-down quilt. She’s always wanted a real goose-down quilt. They’re so soft and warm. A goose-down quilt would keep her legs toasty this winter. She suffers so badly with the cold.”

  Of course, if the coin were really magic, Polly might as well ask for her father back. Or for James Drayton to fall in love with her. Her smile went awry.

  The truth was that Polly MacNamara, who might every now and again take a turn at the fanciful, knew better than to believe in magic.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday morning found James in a pose consciously borrowed from his parent, with his hands splayed flat on the glossy black finish of J. P. Drayton’s gigantic ebony desk. He leaned over the desk and stared into his father’s eyes. J. P. glowered back at him ferociously. Used to such displays from the man who sired him, James remained undaunted by J. P.’s tempestuous expression.

  “Well? What do you intend to do about it?”

  J. P.’s jowls quivered with fury and his bristly brows almost met over his tyrannical nose. His green eyes glittered dangerously. “Damn it, James. When Biddle let you in this morning, I thought it was because you’d come to your senses. I thought you’d come because you planned to accept my offer.”

  James, his own expression an almost-perfect imitation of his father’s—he’d practiced long and hard in his youth—snapped, “I came to my senses years ago, Father. I’d work for the devil himself before I’d work for you. What I’m here for is to see justice done.”

  “Damn it, boy, there is no justice in this world. There are only people. There are people who succeed and people who fail. I succeed, and I don’t care if you approve or not.”

  James stood up straight and lifted the engraved gilt plaque gracing J. P.’s desk. He deliberately marred its shiny surface with his fingerprints.

  “Yes, I know how you pride yourself on succeeding.” He put the now-soiled plaque back on the desk in a manner designed to leave no doubt in his parent’s mind what he thought of J. P.’s guiding principle.