Christmas Pie Page 18

  “I was surprised to find you at work today. You shouldn’t be here. There was no need. The news you received yesterday was—was such that you shouldn’t feel obliged to come to work for—for a few days. Of course, you will be compensated for the time.”

  She stood so suddenly, she startled James into a jump of surprise.

  “How could you?” Her voice throbbed with fury. “How could you, Mr. Drayton? How could you yell at me that way?”

  She whirled around to face the wall. James saw her hand lift as though she was wiping away an angry tear, and felt about two inches tall. Her shoulders shook for a second and he was seized by the impulse to leap up, put his arms around her and draw her to his chest. Of course, he did no such idiotic thing.

  When she turned around again, she had regained a modicum of composure. She held herself rigid and knotted her hands into fists at her sides. James suddenly wished he could just put his head down on his desk and shut his eyes.

  “I don’t know what I’ve done to anger you, Mr. Drayton. Whatever it was, I apologize. I certainly didn’t—” Her voice shook and she stopped abruptly to clear her throat. “I certainly didn’t mean to do anything to aggravate you, to make you shout at me in that awful way.”

  James opened his mouth, but Polly cut him off before he could say a thing.

  “I know it’s not my place to reprimand my employer. For heaven’s sake, you hold my livelihood and that of my mother in your hands. But—but, for heaven’s sake! Why, those girls in there already think we’re having an illicit affair!” She lifted one arm and pointed in a direction James guessed she thought was toward the typists’ room. It wasn’t, but he didn’t suppose he’d better mention it.

  “How could you yell at me like that?” The color in her cheeks deepened. “They’re probably babbling right this minute, speculating, wondering what sort of business we could possibly have together. For heaven’s sake, how could you?”

  “Miss MacNamara—” James stopped, wondering where to start.

  Polly barked out, “Yes,” then passed a hand over her eyes, as though she’d reached the end of her endurance.

  “Miss MacNamara, I’m very sorry. Please sit down and let me try to explain.” He was surprised at how soothing he could make his voice sound when he wanted to.

  Polly sat abruptly, folded her hands, and arranged them on her lap. Her back was straight as a spike, and her face held a poignant combination of defiance, grief, and misgiving.

  “I’m very sorry,” James repeated. “It’s only that I was surprised to see you here today. I didn’t mean to startle you or to give the other type-writers food for gossip.”

  She made no response, although her lips pinched even more tightly together. James had a feeling she’d love to splash invective all over him. He sighed and decided to start at the beginning.

  “Miss MacNamara, I visited my—an associate this morning, hoping to enlist his support in searching for survivors from the U.S.S. China Seas.”

  Defiance faded and a lick of hope flickered in Polly’s expression. Encouraged, James hurried on.

  “I’m afraid I did not meet with much success there.” The hope died instantly and, had James been fiddling with something less sturdy than his fountain pen, it would have snapped in half when his fingers tightened abruptly.

  “I came at once to the office and began using the telephone.” He gestured to the elegant candlestick phone on his desk. Her gaze strayed to the instrument, a modern invention James was sure she’d never used before, her circumstances being what they were.

  “Raymond Sing is on his way now to the naval office. His assignment is to determine exactly where the wreckage of China Seas was found, and to glean any information the men who came to your home yesterday might not have told you. I believe it is often the case that family members are not given elaborate details because such details are not deemed to be of use to them. With the resources at my command, however, any such details may prove invaluable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drayton.” Polly ducked her head and added in a very small voice, “I—I’m sorry for my tantrum.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Miss MacNamara. I fear I deserved it.”

  “No.” Polly shook her head, still staring into her lap. “I have an unfortunate tendency to speak before I think. I had no business taking you to task. After all, you are my employer.” As if she couldn’t help herself, she added grimly, “Even though you did startle me terribly.”

  He gave her a small grin. “It is I who should be apologizing, Miss MacNamara.”

  She almost managed to return his grin. “May I return to work now, please?”

  James rose from his chair precipitately, his gold pen falling with a click to his blotter. Anger, directed at no one particular person or thing, propelled him. Damn it, her brother might well be dead, and her circumstances were truly uncertain, but that didn’t mean she had to give up on life entirely.

  “Miss MacNamara, will you please come with me.” Less a question than a command, James nevertheless held a chivalrous arm for her to take.

  Her anger seemed to have evaporated completely by now, leaving in its wake numb despair. He could detect bewilderment in her expression when she placed her hand on his coat sleeve and rose from her chair. Her demeanor nibbled painfully at the edges of his heart. He’d seen her stiff, polite, terrified, happy, relaxed, and angry. But he’d never seen her defeated, and the attitude did not suit her.

  He strode through his office door with Polly on his arm and stopped so quickly she bumped into him. Without thinking about it, he steadied her with an arm about her waist.

  “Gregory, run to the type-writing room and fetch Miss MacNamara’s things. An—incident has occurred, and she is needed at home.”

  He didn’t bother to look at Polly; he could see her well enough out of the corner of his eye, gaping at him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Gregory rose stiffly, gave Polly an imperious once-over which, James decided, ended Gregory’s services with the law firm. Damn it, having a soft heart was one thing. Putting up with insolence and rude behavior in paid subordinates was something else entirely, and James was through with it. Never again would he tolerate a Lawrence Bullock or a Walter Gregory in his employ.

  “Now, Gregory,” he barked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gregory scuttled out of the room on quick, fawning feet, James’s hot glare burning his back. James stared after him and contemplated the many changes he planned to make in his life.

  “Mr. Drayton?”

  So busy had he been with his own thoughts that Polly’s soft voice startled him. He frowned when he looked down at her, but the moment his gaze caught her expression—solemn, worried, and puzzled—his anger melted. He patted her hand.

  “What is it, Miss MacNamara?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon stay at work today.”

  “Why do you want to stay here? You have enough on your mind today without having to worry about your job, too.”

  “But that’s just it. I need the distraction. Without something to divert my mind, I keep thinking about—about Stephen. About where he might be and—and—”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, then seek diversion, Miss MacNamara. But not diversion of such a burdensome, uninteresting, depressing nature as typing legal briefs for litigants squabbling over money in a court of law. You need distraction of an amusing nature.”

  “But—”

  Mr. Gregory gave a quick rap on the door before he entered. His face spoke eloquently of the imposition he considered having to fetch a menial’s coat and handbag.

  Perhaps, when James sacked him, Walter Gregory could go work for Lawrence Bullock. They deserved each other.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gregory.” With a smile full of promise, James said, “I shall be speaking to you after I conclude some other business.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gregory squeaked.

  James helped Polly into her coat and ushered her to the
door. “Take care, Miss MacNamara. Please let me know if I can be of help to you or your mother.”

  “But—” Polly’s mouth snapped shut. “All right, Mr. Drayton. Thank you.”

  James wondered why she looked so angry when she left the office.

  # # #

  A smile that would have astonished his son wreathed J. P. Drayton’s face. He positively beamed as he spoke into the fancy, gilt-inlaid receiver of his telephone.

  “When?” he asked in a voice so mellow it might have rivaled honey. He was gratified by the answer he got and chuckled with satisfaction.

  “Good. Good. Where are they now?”

  The answer given to that question pleased him, too. His laugh became quite hearty when he heard it.

  “Wonderful! Then do you suppose this miracle can be accomplished by Christmas Eve?” A longer pause ensued after this question, but J. P.’s smile never wavered. “Wonderful.”

  J. P.’s second “Wonderful” completed the conversation. He replaced the receiver on its cradle then sat back in his enormous leather chair. For the first time in his life, he rubbed his hands together in glee.

  His eyes positively sparkled when he chortled, “Damned arrogant pup. I can’t wait to watch his face at that snobby charity ball of his when I give him the news.”

  # # #

  Polly’s brain and heart both roiled with conflicting emotions as she hurried along Montgomery Street, away from Drayton and Associates, Attorneys at Law.

  How could he? She huffed angrily, her breath coming out in a puff and trailing in the air beside her as she hurried past. Why, he’d as much as kicked her out of his office.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She’d cried enough yesterday. Tears were for weaklings, and Polly MacNamara was no weakling.

  It wasn’t until she’d turned up Grant Avenue that her pace slowed and she allowed her mask of anger to fall and reveal the hurt underneath. Oh, Lord. It wasn’t bad enough that Stephen might well be dead, but James Drayton didn’t want her.

  Well, why should he? Just because he’d taken Thanksgiving dinner with her didn’t mean anything. Just because he’d been kind yesterday didn’t mean he’d ever be kind again. Just because he’d kissed her . . .

  She didn’t dare even finish the thought. After all, Polly knew what his reputation was. She’d heard all about him. Why did it hurt so much to discover his reputation, however much he denied it, was true?

  She harbored a suspicion that she was being irrational, but she didn’t care. Irrationality fit her mood right now. She needed to wallow.

  She was wallowing with fervor when a familiar voice startled her.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss High-and-Mighty-MacNamara, type-writing mistress to the lordly Mr. James Drayton.”

  Shocked, Polly swirled around to face her mocker. Her lips tightened when she beheld Lawrence Bullock.

  He didn’t appear so hearty and fit today. In fact, he looked drunk. He leaned against the door of a disgraceful-looking saloon and leered at her, a toothpick dangling from his loose lips.

  Well, Polly didn’t need to worry about offending him today. He held no further power over her life and livelihood. She gave him a raking glare to let him know without words how disgusting she considered him. Then she turned deliberately and, back straight, continued on her way.

  His yank on her arm nearly sent her sprawling. Without even thinking, she whirled around and the flat of her palm connected with stinging accuracy on his cheek. She felt a moment of astonishment when she encountered the flab on that cheek. At once she realized his demeanor of athletic good-health was nothing but a charade.

  She didn’t have time to think about it. Although Bullock staggered back under the force of her blow and his own surprise, he righted himself quickly. His grip on her arm tightened, his fingers digging into her painfully.

  “Bitch!”

  “Let me go!”

  Bullock hauled her up close to him until his whisky breath nearly made her pass out. “You little tart! You sassy little bitch. Who do you think you are?”

  “Let go of me!” she yelled again. This time she added emphasis to her words by slamming the heel of her shoe down on his instep.

  Yelping in pain, Bullock nevertheless did not release her arm. Rather, his free hand raised as if to slap her.

  “You bitch!” he screamed, drawing stares from everybody on the street.

  Dimly aware that they were attracting a crowd, Polly reached for her hat. She’d never had to defend herself in earnest before, but instincts borne of childhood scuffles with Stephen came to her aid in this moment of need.

  She didn’t give Bullock time to hit her, but stabbed savagely at his upraised arm with her long hat pin. She wasn’t sure about the accuracy of her aim, but felt a surge of gratification when he bellowed in pain. His grip loosened, and right before she felt herself spin away from him, spurred on her way by his push for spite, she kicked at him with her pointed-toed shoe. Since he had hunched over, her shoe connected with his soft stomach. Her heart swelled with fulfillment.

  Hopping on one foot, doubled up in pain, gripping his wounded arm, Bullock looked ridiculous loping about on the pavement. Her emotions rioting, Polly put a hand to her heaving bosom and spat, “I wish to God somebody would teach you a lesson, Mr. Bullock. You’re a disgrace to the whole human race!”

  All at once, Polly became aware of two surprising circumstances. The first was that the spectators on the sidewalk, who had been watching avidly, began to applaud.

  The second was that James Drayton, coattails flapping, was racing up the walkway toward the commotion. Fright and worry radiated vividly from his features, and Polly felt a rush of pleasure when she realized both emotions were for her.

  “What’s going on here?” James seized Polly by the shoulders, his expression intense. “I was worried about you, and followed you. When I saw Bullock grab you, I—I—”

  James apparently couldn’t finish his sentence. With a movement so abrupt, it left Polly staring, his hands dropped from her shoulders and he whirled around to confront his former law associate.

  “Damn your eyes, Lawrence Bullock!” With those words, James drew his fist back and propelled a punch at Bullock’s still-bruised face that was so furious, Polly was sure the crack when it met its mark could be heard by her mother on Pacific Avenue.

  The blow was apparently hard enough to hurt James. He grimaced almost as soon as his fist connected with Bullock’s cheek. Cradling it in his other hand, he turned around in another swirl of coattails, without even waiting to watch Bullock crumple up on the ground with a loud groan.

  “Polly—”

  Wide-eyed, Polly opened her mouth to speak just as James did. They were both silenced by the approving roar of the crowd.

  Flinching from the noise, Polly cast her startled gaze around and found what seemed like hundreds of people clapping, stomping, and yelling.

  “Hear, hear!” cried one large, whiskery gentleman. “Hear, hear! Show the bully that’s no way to treat a lady!”

  “That’s the way to go!” hollered another.

  “She was doin’ pretty good on her own, young feller,” a third pointed out.

  “All right, what’s going on here?” another voice bellowed.

  Even before Polly could take in the supportive comments of the horde surrounding them, the sea of people parted, and a uniformed policeman dashed up. He held his night stick in a threatening manner and glared around, as if to thwart any would-be evil-doers. “What’s going on here?” he repeated, skidding to a halt in front of Polly and James.