Christmas Pie Page 12

  J. P.’s scowl deepened. “And I’m not accountable for every improvident female whose husband manages to get himself killed, either.” He grabbed the plaque and polished it vigorously with a monogrammed linen handkerchief snatched from his breast pocket.

  James, who seldom harbored savage thoughts about his fellow human beings, had to consciously control the urge to belt his father in the jaw. In a voice straining with repressed violence, he said, “You’re responsible for these two, Father. Franklin MacNamara didn’t ‘get himself killed,’ as you phrase it; he was killed at somebody else’s hand, a hand that ultimately points directly to you. And, by the way, there’s not an improvident bone in either of those ladies’ bodies.”

  To keep from doing J. P. physical harm, James flung himself away from the desk and tramped across the expensive Oriental carpet to stand, glowering, in front of the gleaming black door. He’d always thought it interesting that his father favored bold black and gold in his office decor. There was something so cold and uncompromising about the combination of colors.

  “For God’s sake, now that her brother’s disappeared, Polly MacNamara supports the two of them typing—typing—for a living.” He whirled toward J. P. again.

  “By all that’s holy, you are responsible! They were used to living in comfort until your captain, Horace Witherspoon, a man well known for his excesses, got drunk and decided to make himself a little extra money at their expense.”

  “Horace Witherspoon was suitably disciplined.” J. P. did not look at James when he spoke, but stared out his office window at the bustling wharf just beyond the sparkling glass.

  “Disciplined? You call sending him to work the West Indies route discipline?”

  “It was a tremendous step down, James, and you know it.” J. P. fiddled with his elaborate inkstand. “We made him sign the pledge.”

  Apparently even J. P. Drayton was unable to recite the disciplinary measures meted out to the man responsible for eleven human deaths and maintain his aplomb. He cleared his throat and, for the first time in James’s immediate memory, looked slightly abashed.

  “He took the pledge.” James repeated his father’s words, giving them the emphasis he believed they deserved. The way he said them made Witherspoon’s discipline sound as pathetically absurd as, in fact, it was.

  J. P. seemed to regain his equanimity. “What about the ship’s insurance? Why didn’t your precious females take advantage of the insurance?”

  “You tell me, Father. I wondered the same thing.” James crossed his arms across his chest and glared back at J. P.

  “Anyone who applied was given a fair portion. You know that, boy.”

  “What about people who didn’t apply, Father? What about Mrs. Franklin MacNamara, whose husband was dead, who was herself in the hospital, whose son was out of the country, whose daughter was fifteen years old, and whose man of business was one of Witherspoon’s chief backers? What about her? I’m sure she never even heard about any insurance. Boedecker made a bundle, thanks to you, but Lillian MacNamara sure as the devil didn’t.”

  In two strides, he covered the office carpet and slammed his hands back down on his father’s desk. “What about her, damn it?”

  # # #

  “You can’t mean it, James.” Lawrence Bullock sat in one of James Drayton’s overstuffed office chairs and stared at James, an expression of utter disbelief on his broad, bruised face.

  James, whose mood was still barbarous as a result of his earlier encounter with his father, frowned. There was not a hint of pity in his heart, and he suspected his mood showed on his face because Bullock looked worried for the first time in James’s memory. Generally, Bullock’s demeanor was one of hearty good fellowship.

  “Yesterday was the last straw, Lawrence. God knows you’ve been given plenty of chances. I won’t have employees of my law firm assaulted on public streets by other employees.”

  With an air which strove for perfect innocence and achieved only artfully manufactured righteousness, Bullock cried, “Assaulting? Why, I had no such intention in mind, James. I only meant to see her home.”

  James eyed his junior associate with distaste. Bullock’s right eye was blue and nearly swollen shut this morning. His scraped chin and brow each bore a piece of white sticking plaster, and bruises decorated both cheeks. He looked more like he’d been in a barroom brawl than a tumble over a crack in the sidewalk.

  “I watched you, Lawrence. I saw exactly what you did. I saw Miss MacNamara beg you to leave her alone and, when that didn’t work, I saw her try to shake you off.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, the injustice of Polly’s situation vivid in his mind. “Damn it, I could practically hear her struggling with herself. ‘Should I tell him to go to hell? If I do, I may lose my situation, and then my mother and I will starve.’ I could almost hear that, Lawrence.”

  For the second time in as many hours, James wanted to punch another human being. “Damn it, you callous bastard, you’d have done it, too, wouldn’t you? You’d have made that poor girl a victim of your bestial appetites because you know she needs her job.”

  “Oh, come now, James—”

  Bullock got no further because James slammed his open palm down, hard, on his desk, and made him jump.

  “Be quiet, Lawrence. I’ve put up with a good deal from you, but this is it. No more. You’re done with this firm. I’ll give you a reference, although it goes against the grain.”

  James could read the impotent fury on Bullock’s once-handsome face. He wasn’t surprised when Bullock protested.

  “I’m a good attorney, damn it, James. What do you mean, ‘it goes against the grain?’”

  “Just what I said, you pompous jackass. You may have the ability to be a good attorney, but you’re a shirker and an idler and fancy yourself a damned ladies’ man. You haven’t ever pulled your weight at the firm, and I’m not giving you any more warnings. This is it.”

  Apparently deciding further discussion would be fruitless, Bullock adopted a beseeching expression. “You’d turn me off before the holidays, James? Before Christmas?”

  With a grimace prompted by his associate’s sniveling, James snapped, “I’m turning you out today, Lawrence. Pack up your things and be out of here by noon.”

  “But—”

  James’s upheld hand stopped Bullock’s whine.

  “I’ll pay you through the end of the year and give you a reference, but I want you gone today.”

  “But—”

  “No!” James rose and leaned over his desk. He wanted to leap across it and beat Lawrence Bullock to a quivering jelly.

  “Damn it, Lawrence, don’t say another word. I’ve had it up to my eyebrows with your sniveling and whining. You’re a disgrace to the legal profession. And to me. I thought to help you once, but you don’t deserve it. Get out.”

  Although Bullock opened his mouth, a good look at James made him shut it again. He rose stiffly.

  “Very well. I hope you don’t regret this, James.”

  James pushed himself back from his desk and gave Bullock a black frown. “My only regret is for Miss MacNamara.”

  With a petulant look, Bullock said, “I knew you were sweet on her. That’s what this is all about, really, isn’t it? You’re sweet on her, and she was flirting with me.”

  James’s hands fisted involuntarily. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You’d better get out now, Lawrence. Before I have second thoughts.”

  A pouty harrumph preceded Lawrence’s exit. “She’s nothing but a sassy little tart,” he said as he yanked the door open. The door slammed behind his arrogant rear end a scant second before James’s heavy glass paperweight smashed into it at the level of his head.

  Both Bullock and Mr. Gregory jumped at the sound. Gregory, who had obviously been listening at the keyhole, had not quite made it back to his desk when Bullock emerged from James’s office. Bullock eyed James’s secretary malevolently.

  “Fetch some cartons and the carriers, Gregory.
”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Polly was pecking industriously away on her Underwood Visible Writing Machine when Mr. Gregory’s imperious form graced the type-writing room of Drayton and Associates. She didn’t notice him until his body cast a looming shadow over the paper in her machine. Its sudden presence startled her into a rare typographical error and she frowned, irked.

  She was glad for her temper when, lifting her head, she discovered the interloper to be James Drayton’s stuffy secretary. Her posture stiffened and she offered Gregory her coldest glare.

  “Miss MacNamara,” Gregory intoned.

  “Yes, Mr. Gregory. What do you want?” Polly intoned right back, her regal timbre a perfect imitation of his.

  “Mr. Drayton wishes to see you.”

  All at once Polly’s haughtiness deserted her. Her hand lifted to her medals where she sought courage. “He wants to see me?”

  Impatiently, Gregory snapped, “Yes. Now come along.” He turned and headed toward the door.

  Polly peered at the error glaring back at her from the legal brief she’d been typing, then glanced at Gregory’s back. A quick peek at her co-workers discovered them all staring at her, eyes wide.

  Juliana was the first to recover. “Getting a little above ourselves, don’t you think, girls?” She shot a spiteful smile at her fellows.

  “Mr. Drayton,” Constance murmured. “My, my.”

  Desperately trying to make her world regain its lost balance, Polly said, “I can’t imagine what this is about.”

  “No?” Rose gave her a wink. “Well, I guess my imagination is just better than yours, then, Polly.” She shared a giggle with Juliana. Even Constance smiled.

  Mortified and angry, Polly decided she’d correct her type-writing error later. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it! I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Rose.”

  With as much poise as she could summon, she strode out of the type-writing room following Walter Gregory, who did not bother to look and see if she’d obeyed his summons.

  Polly felt her indignation bubble and steam as she followed the self-important secretary, although her anger only made it as far as Gregory. It never quite reached James Drayton. Still, this was the second time her employer had singled her out from among her fellow type-writers. She knew Constance, Rose and Juliana must think the worst.

  Yet try as she might—and she tried heartily—she couldn’t quite find it in her heart to be angry with James. He’d been so sweet yesterday about Lawrence Bullock. And then, when he’d kissed her cheek . . . She decided she’d better stop thinking.

  Gregory opened the door to James’s office for her and gave her an almost minuscule bow. Polly suspected his courtesy was no courtesy at all, but rather stemmed from not wishing his employer to know what an unpleasant man he truly was.

  “Miss MacNamara, sir,” Gregory announced in his most lordly voice.

  With a hot glare she hoped toasted Gregory’s ridiculously sparse mustache, Polly walked into James Drayton’s lush office. The door shut behind her with a louder click than it should have and Polly felt a swell of satisfaction, knowing she’d managed to annoy Gregory. Then she looked at James Drayton.

  He had stood at her entrance and now smiled at her. His smile ate away at any remaining irritation over his summons. It lit his face, softening his sometimes arrogant countenance, and warming his gaze until it heated Polly through and through.

  Merciful heavens.

  In an effort to hide her reaction, Polly tried on a cool, polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Drayton.”

  “Good morning, Miss MacNamara.” James’s voice, infinitely warmer than Polly’s, held only pleasure at seeing her again. “Please, take a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs.

  “Thank you.”

  Polly, clad as usual in a dark gored skirt and pleated white shirtwaist, smoothed her skirt and sat. She settled her folded her hands on her lap and consciously made herself not knead them together with anxiety.

  Now that she was here, basking in the warm glow of James’s smile, all the things she’d ever heard about him reared up in her mind to unsettle her. Was that smile false? Had he assumed it to put her off her guard? His expression hinted of benevolence, but she’d never once heard of James Drayton being spoken of as benevolent.

  Surely he hadn’t called her in here to dismiss her, had he? Had he reconsidered the incident on the sidewalk? Had Lawrence Bullock been vilifying her behind her back? Oh, Lord. Who would James believe? A mere type-writer or a fellow attorney? She jumped when James spoke.

  “Miss MacNamara, I felt it imperative to see you this morning to apologize for the behavior of Lawrence Bullock.”

  Polly’s gaze had been firmly affixed to the elegant paperweight on James’s desk. She’d just started wondering how it had become chipped when James’s statement brought her gaze abruptly to his face.

  “Apologize? Oh, my goodness. There’s no need for that, sir, really. Why, you sent him on his way and saw me home and . . .” She stuttered to a halt, unable to continue, and felt very self-conscious.

  “Nonsense. The conduct of my employees is my responsibility, Miss MacNamara. I am fully aware of all of Lawrence Bullock’s shortcomings, and I should have dealt with him before now.”

  He paused for breath and Polly felt at sea. “D-dealt with him, sir?”

  “Yes. I should have done something about him before this time. He’s never been an asset to the firm, and you may be sure he will not bother you again.”

  Completely unnerved, Polly stared at James for several moments. Shock and burgeoning understanding jumbled in her breast. She didn’t dare believe what she thought James’s words meant. At last, feeling she should say something, she stammered, “I don’t think I understand, Mr. Drayton.”

  James gave her the warmest smile she could recall ever having received from a gentleman. The heat from his smile made her blood bubble and her heart march a quick-step against her ribs.

  “I’m sorry I’m not making myself clear, Miss MacNamara. What I’m trying to say is that, as of today, Lawrence Bullock is no longer an associate of James Drayton and Associates, Attorneys at Law. He should pose no further menace to you or to any other young lady employed with my firm.”

  Polly’s eyes opened wide involuntarily. “You mean you fired him?” She pressed her coin, elation and disbelief nearly lifting her out of her chair.

  “Don’t worry about Bullock, Miss MacNamara,” James advised dryly. “I expect he’ll land on his feet. His kind always do.”

  Polly frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said before she thought about it. Then she felt her face flame.

  James burst out laughing. After a moment, during which she wished the floor would swallow her up, Polly smiled a little bit, too.

  “I didn’t really mean that.” An honest girl, she added, “At least . . . I did mean it, but I shouldn’t have said so.” Then she wished she’d had sense enough to keep her mouth shut and dropped her gaze to the floor. A fairly large hole gaped from James’s beautiful carpet right at her feet. How odd. She hadn’t noticed it before. She felt the color drain from her cheeks as an incredible thought struck her.

  With a sigh, James said, “Well, I gave him a tolerable reference, Miss MacNamara. Which, I might add, is more than I wanted to do. Unfortunately, one must play ball according to the rules if one wishes to survive in the business world. And, while I deplore the despicable way in which Bullock acted toward you, I recognize the necessity of preserving a show of unity with a brother attorney. I expect he will pass it about that he wanted to make a change, that Drayton and Associates turned out to be not his cup of tea.”