Christmas Pie Page 17

  Lillian stared in dismay as Polly virtually ran away from the house.

  # # #

  J. P. Drayton glowered when James walked through his office door. “I don’t intend to sit still for another lecture about integrity from you, boy, so don’t even think about it”

  James sighed with weariness as he removed his hat. “I don’t intend to give you one, Father” He stood before his father’s desk, silent for a moment before he asked, “May I sit down?”

  “Go ahead.” J. P. spoke grudgingly.

  So James sat, put his hat on his lap, and stared at the floor. He didn’t know how to begin. How did one ask a favor of a man to whom one had barely spoken for ten years? How did one approach a man whom one hated and loved and—James felt idiotic admitting it—feared with all one’s heart?

  “Well, did you come here to stare at my Turkish carpet, James? It’s quite a nice piece and I got it at a bargain, although I’m sure you’d tell me I cheated the rug-maker out of a fair profit.”

  I’m sure I would, James thought cheerlessly.

  His head felt heavy when he lifted it to gaze to his father’s face. For the first time in years, James really studied the old man’s features and realized he looked tired. Tired and careworn.

  Strange. James had been so busy resenting J. P. Drayton all these years that he hadn’t given a thought to his father.

  He’d lain awake for hours last night, thinking about Polly MacNamara, her brother, her mother, and her father. All that thinking on Polly’s problems stirred up the mud of his own long-buried memories. He was sorry for having dirtied the waters with all that sloppy emotion. Disinterring the ancient, bitter memories had made him think—about his father and about himself.

  What he discovered was that it was easy for him to despise an unscrupulous businessman. It was infinitely more difficult for him to hate his father. Now, as he peered at the man who had sired him, James’s heart hurt. He didn’t want to hate J. P., but he didn’t know how to love him.

  With a deliberate shake of his head, he plunged into his subject. “I’ve come to ask your help, Father.”

  James saw surprise flash across his father’s face. Almost at once, the old man’s “J. P.” mask descended, and James was left sitting face-to-face with the shipping magnate.

  “What for? I thought you needed nothing from me. You’ve told me¸ so often enough.”

  Although he might have imagined it, James had the fleeting impression of hurt in his father’s words. Certainly, there was nothing in J. P.’s expression to give him the perception. And J. P.’s voice was as hard as steel.

  Oddly enough, James did not bristle immediately. “This particular favor isn’t for me.”

  J. P. scowled. “No?”

  “No.”

  James said no more for a full minute. He’d been thinking all night and all this morning, trying to come up with the words he needed to say, but they’d never come. Now he sat in his father’s office with nothing planned, and inspiration, if it was striking somewhere, seemed to be avoiding James like the plague.

  He’d heard somebody say once, “When all else fails, tell the truth.” He’d thought it a funny, slightly sardonic epigram at the time, but now he decided to let the maxim guide him.

  “Do you recall several days ago when I asked you about finding the U.S.S. China Seas, Father?”

  J. P.’s eyes narrowed. “I remember.”

  “Well, Mrs. and Miss MacNamara received word yesterday that wreckage from China Seas has been found on one of the Philippine Islands.”

  “So? What has that to do with me?”

  “Stephen MacNamara, Polly’s brother, was Chief Petty Officer on that ship. He is presumed dead.”

  J. P. only stared at James, his frown deepening by the second, so James forged onward.

  “The MacNamaras don’t have any resources, Father. They barely scrape by from day to day. You have an entire fleet of ships at your command, and some of them are undoubtedly in the area right now. I wondered—” James stopped and sucked in a breath, doubting his sanity. “I wondered if you could direct one of your ships to search for survivors.”

  Silence settled over the two men. It broke when J. P. began thrumming his fingers on his desk. James’s nerves jumped, and images of war drums thumped in his brain with each roll of his father’s fingers. Time, that ever-changeable element, seemed to stretch until it pulled so taut, James thought either it or he would snap.

  At last his father said, “Just what is your interest in this MacNamara chit, James? I thought she was a type-writer in your law firm. I know your heart is soft as pap, but it seems to me you’re taking a good deal of interest in a mere employee.”

  James felt his jaw tighten. An old familiar rage snaked up his spine, overriding all the philosophical musings in which he’d been indulging. Anger gouged away at his control like acid. “Polly MacNamara is not chit, Father. Nor is she a mere employee.”

  “No?”

  His father’s bushy brow arched ironically and James felt his hands fist around the brim of his hat. With an effort, he relaxed them. “No. She is not.”

  An unpleasant grin twisted J. P.’s lips. “I’d always heard you had a yen for ladies in a different echelon, my boy. Ladies with experience, who had a few years behind them. Never expected you to get caught in the maws of a designing innocent. A sinless typing maiden might expect more from you than a quick tumble, you know. I understand such affairs can become quite nasty. Thought you had more brains than that, boy. Always heard you did.”

  His father’s words made James think about the kiss he had given Polly last night. It had been a beautiful kiss, and James had endowed it with all of his finest motives. Now, in the withering light of J. P. Drayton’s scorn, both kiss and motives seemed silly, callow, somehow spoiled. James’s anger churned and his clenched jaw ached.

  “There has been no ‘quick tumble,’ Father, nor will there be,” he said with barely suppressed violence. “Polly MacNamara is a young lady of firm moral principles. Even if I weren’t cognizant of her virtue and didn’t respect her for it, she would never sink to such depths.”

  The hearty, beefy face of Lawrence Bullock rose before his mind’s eye, and James’s fists tightened again. Damn these men. Damn them all. Damn every one of them who treated innocent women as playthings. The thought of Polly MacNamara in the clutches of such a man made James’s temples throb.

  J. P.’s eyes opened wide. James couldn’t tell whether the gesture was one of genuine surprise or if it was meant sarcastically. He didn’t suppose it much mattered.

  “A regular paragon, is she?”

  “As a matter of fact, she is.”

  J. P. stopped drumming and sat back in his chair. He steepled his hands and held them to his lower lip as he contemplated his son.

  “You know, James,” he said dryly, “you speak of the wench as if you were in love with her.”

  It was all James could do to remain seated. He wanted to lunge out of his chair, stomp out of his father’s office, and never set eyes on the heartless old scoundrel again in his life. For Polly’s sake, he remained seated. For Polly’s sake, he would endure this monster’s sarcasm and innuendo.

  “Do I?”

  “You do.”

  “And do you disapprove, Father?”

  For a moment J. P. appeared almost surprised. Then he shrugged. “It’s not my business, boy. You made sure of that years ago.”

  His father’s shrug hurt James almost more than his words. Pain speared him and his anger bubbled over. That damned careless shrug typified J. P.’s attitude for a certainty. That’s all James had ever been: a nuisance to the old man. What did a hard-hearted, hard-headed businessman like J. P. Drayton care about a boy, even his own?

  Oh, James might have been able to curry J. P.’s favor once upon a time if he’d been willing to sacrifice his principles, character, mind, and soul. But he hadn’t, and his father had never forgiven him. Well, J. P. Drayton could go straight to hell. Jame
s wasn’t about to start bowing and scraping now.

  James wanted to help Polly MacNamara more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life save, possibly, his father’s love and approval. Now he could see clearly that any help Polly got would happen without J. P. Drayton’s support. No matter how much he could help or how little it would cost in effort and his precious money to do so.

  As casually as he was able, James rose and put his hat back on. “Well, I see I’ve wasted my time.”

  With what he hoped was a contemptuous smile, he said, “Good day then, Father,” turned on his heel, and reached for the doorknob.

  “James—”

  But James was in no mood for further intercourse with J. P. Drayton today. Or any day. He’d abased himself this morning for the first time in ten years. It would be the last time he’d ever do so.

  Never again, chanted through his brain. Never again. He managed to control his rage until he walked clear of J. P. Drayton’s elaborate office building. Then he ducked into a narrow alleyway between two abandoned buildings, and pounded the wall of one building until his hand bled.

  He emerged from the alleyway not much relieved, and walked the long way to his office, churning with bitterness.

  God, what a fool he’d been to think that man had ever possessed a heart.

  People stared at him because he was muttering to himself, but James didn’t care. Things he’d like to have said to his father pounded like artillery fire through his head. Oh, how he’d love to give the old man a piece of his mind!

  He’d never do it, though. Old J. P. would never sit still for James’s opinions. Even if he listened, a doubtful prospect, he wouldn’t hear.

  Or, perhaps more disheartening, he wouldn’t care.

  “Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.”

  James was still angry when he reached his office.

  “Well, curse it all, if the Lord High Drayton won’t help, there are still plenty of things I can do,” James growled savagely as he shot past Marcus O’Leary, leaving the doorman staring in dismay at James’s flapping coat tails. “I have almost as many resources as my father, except for his ships, damn it.”

  It wasn’t until he had ignored Walter Gregory, flung his office door open, slammed it again, thrown his coat and hat into a chair and sat down behind his desk that he realized the tightness in his throat and the burning in his eyes were the same sensations he’d experienced as a boy. When he’d wanted to cry.

  But James hadn’t cried as a boy. And he didn’t cry now.

  # # #

  Constance, Rose, and Juliana chattered happily about their Thanksgiving holiday while Polly tried not to listen. Occasionally one of the three women directed a comment at her and she tried to answer appropriately.

  Desperately, she concentrated on the legal transcript she was typing and wished it documented a thrilling criminal court case instead of a boring civil lawsuit. Distraction. She needed distraction. Not the chattering distraction of her three co-workers discussing families and holiday parties, which only seemed to emphasize her own loneliness and losses. No. Polly needed something absorbing, something to take her attention away from every-day life for awhile; something to redirect her thoughts, draw them away from dwelling on Stephen’s possible fate.

  Suddenly all four type-writers were taken up short by a commanding voice.

  “Miss MacNamara!”

  Surprised into stiffness, Polly’s fingers stilled over the keys of her Underwood. She lifted her head to seek the source of the voice. Her breath froze when she beheld the form of James Drayton, standing rigid with anger at the door of the type-writing room, his gaze directed squarely at her.

  Chapter Ten

  All at once Polly’s numb misery evaporated in a blinding flash of rage.

  How dare he?

  She wanted to scream the question at him, but prudence—only a dim, but nonetheless helpful, presence today—held her tongue.

  As soon as the shout left his lips, James regretted it. He hadn’t meant to yell. It’s only that he was disconcerted to see Polly here today. He’d expected her to be home, giving comfort to her mother; taking comfort from her mother. Leaving everything to him.

  What on earth did she think of him? Did she honestly believe he’d begrudge her a day or two to compose herself? What kind of heartless, soulless, callous brute did she think he was, anyway?

  She said, “Mr.—” and the word came out so hoarse, she was obliged to clear her throat. Then she said, more firmly and with a very sharp edge, “Mr. Drayton?” The two words sounded as cold and hard as ice.

  With a quick glance around the type-writing room, James took note of the curious stares of the other three type-writers and didn’t blame Polly for her annoyance. He decided he’d best not question her here. Irritation blossomed like a spring bud in his breast when he comprehended the field day the three women would have speculating about the boss’s interest in Polly MacNamara.

  He wanted to kick something but knew that would only make things worse. If they could be worse.

  He said curtly, “Will you please step into my office for a moment, Miss MacNamara?”

  She hesitated for just long enough to let James know how much he had provoked her. Her lips flattened into a thin line. He wished he could just start the day over, knowing what he knew now.

  Polly swallowed before she said, with a fair show of courtesy, “Certainly, Mr. Drayton.”

  She rose with the dignity he’d come to expect of her and walked toward him. She didn’t peer at him as she passed by him into the clerks’ room. Except for the red patches burning on her cheeks, nobody would guess her composure had just been rattled. All the clerks stared at her, of course.

  James couldn’t recall another time in his life—at least not since he’d broken with his father—when he’d made such a hash of things.

  They walked in silence to his office. James couldn’t help scrutinizing her. She looked almost ill, and the fact made him feel even worse. It didn’t appear as though she’d slept at all. There were purple rings under her eyes, and her normally peaches-and-porcelain complexion was sallow except for the two telltale marks of fury blazing on her cheeks.

  Signs of strain were evident, too, in her pinched lips and the rigid set of her jaw. He noticed that her eyes were red and swollen and wished he could put his arms around her, hold her tight, absorb her pain.

  For the second time that morning, James ignored Mr. Gregory as he and Polly entered the reception area. His attention was focused firmly on Polly when he opened his office door and stepped aside to allow her to enter.

  As soon as he shut the door, he murmured, “Please take a seat, Miss MacNamara.”

  She did. She wouldn’t look at him, though, but directed her gaze at her lap. James got the feeling she was holding herself on a tight string, that she might snap any second, and prepared himself.

  He cleared his throat. The sound drew her gaze to his face. Lord, she looked furious.

  “I’m very sorry to have startled you, Miss MacNamara,” he said, feeling incredibly inadequate.

  She didn’t respond. James picked up an engraved gold fountain pen and began twisting it in his fingers.