Christmas Pie Page 19

  A moment of silence descended on the scene. Lawrence Bullock took that very moment to utter another painful moan. The policeman eyed him suspiciously. Then he looked at Polly.

  “Did that feller try to bother you, ma’am?” The way he said it made it sound as though bothering Polly was one of the worst crimes he could imagine.

  With a quick glance at her tormentor, Polly’s heart hardened against him. She said firmly, “He certainly did, Officer. He assaulted me on the street, in fact.”

  Immediately, she felt guilty. “Well, perhaps he didn’t assault, exactly. Actually, he—”

  James interrupted her. “He did, too, assault her, officer. I saw it.”

  Polly stuttered, “Well, yes, but—”

  “The cad doesn’t deserve your sympathy, Miss MacNamara,” James interrupted again. Still pampering his hand, he added, “Miss MacNamara will be filing a complaint against him, Officer.” With a glance obviously meant to quell any misplaced compassion on Polly’s part, he added, “I’m James Drayton, Miss MacNamara’s attorney, and I’ll see to it.”

  Polly took another, longer look at Lawrence Bullock, and her compassion dwindled. She felt somewhat penitent about kicking him in his soft, disgusting stomach, but not very.

  “Yes, I shall be lodging a formal complaint. I guess.” The perfidy of Lawrence Bullock struck her, and she lifted her chin, defiant. “It’s a crime when a respectable female can’t walk on a public street in San Francisco without be accosted by drunkard.”

  Her speech drew another roar of approval from the crowd. Several rugged-looking men began to advance upon the wretched form of Lawrence Bullock, and Polly wondered if she’d gone too far. Bullock had managed to sit up by this time and was massaging his jaw with shaky fingers. Blood seeped onto his coat sleeve, leaking from the stab wounds inflicted by Polly’s hat pin. She saw it, and felt guilty again.

  Her compassion wrinkled up when Bullock, eyeing the crowd with fear, whimpered, “Don’t let them hurt me.”

  With a revolted grunt, the policeman stalked over to Bullock and took charge. “Don’t worry, you piece of scum. I won’t let the big, bad men hurt you.” A conspiratorial wink at the crowd drew smiles. “Hell, if a lady can do this to you, heaven alone knows how you’d survive if you had to deal with a couple of men.”

  The crowd loved it. The policeman hauled Bullock to his feet amid a chorus of threats and jeers.

  Grinning, James said, “I’ll come down to the station later to file the complaint, Officer.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Drayton. That’s just fine.” The policeman jerked Bullock’s arm, making him wince. “I’ll just take this fine specimen down to the precinct jail.” Another contemptuous look at his prisoner prompted, “Disgusting daylight drunk,” out of him as he began to lead Bullock away.

  Amid congratulatory comments from their audience, James drew Polly away from the scene. She went willingly, all thought of anger toward him having dissipated long since.

  “Let’s get out of here, Miss MacNamara.”

  “All right.”

  He’d meant to rescue her! The thought made her heart, which had alternated between the heaviness of loss and the anger of frustration, sing. What did it matter that she’d already rescued herself by the time he showed up? He’d meant to rescue her!

  All at once her burdens didn’t feel so heavy. Hope, which had sunk to her toes and lain dormant for many hours, revived. Somehow, just knowing James Drayton wanted to be her champion cheered her.

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr. Drayton.”

  “I’m not sure how much rescuing you needed, Miss MacNamara. You were doing quite well by yourself.”

  She nibbled on her lower lip. “You don’t suppose he’ll be imprisoned for long, do you?” she asked, beginning to feel guilty again.

  He looked at her, surprised. Then a rueful grin lifted his lips. “Miss MacNamara you’re the only lady I know who’d feel any compunction about Lawrence Bullock. The man,” he said succinctly, “is a rat. When I saw him grab you, I—I—”

  Polly guessed she was never to learn what emotions James felt when he’d seen Lawrence Bullock grab her, because he quit speaking abruptly, as he had at the scene. Suddenly he stopped short, startling her yet again.

  “Miss MacNamara, you said you needed distraction.”

  A sudden flood of sorrow filled Polly’s heart. “Yes.”

  “If you will allow me, it would give me great pleasure to distract you. The way you need to be distracted. Not by typing dull legal briefs, but the right way—the real way.”

  Surprised, Polly said, “But—” and was cut off by James’s hand held up in a gesture commanding her silence.

  “No. I won’t hear any protests. Just once, just today, I want you to know what it’s like to be young and alive and healthy and a citizen of our remarkable city.”

  With that, he took her by the arm and began to lead her away.

  And Polly let him.

  Chapter Eleven

  The first place James took Polly was to Market Street where, in spite of her protests, he bought her an enormous ice-cream soda. Since he did not believe one should drown one’s sorrows alone, he indulged too.

  As the unsettled expression on her face softened, his heart got lighter. Polly’s eyes nearly sparkled when she said, “Oh, my, Mr. Drayton. I haven’t had an ice-cream soda since I was a little girl.”

  “Well then, it’s long past time you had another one.”

  Polly’s lips kissed the straw as she sucked, and James had to look away. Good God. He’d never been unable to control his reactions in this unseemly way before; he had to get a grip.

  Polly sighed and said, “It tastes so good. Sometimes Stephen used to take me out after church on Sundays and buy me an ice-cream soda when we were children.”

  She looked sad again, and far away. Although he longed to take her hand and squeeze it, James settled for gripping his frosty glass more tightly. His father’s words stinging his brain, he reminded himself he was much too sophisticated to fall into the trap of maudlin romanticism. He admired Polly, sympathized with her and, yes, he desired her. That was all. That must be all. He couldn’t imagine anything else.

  After they drank their sodas, James marched her to the Hotel Royale, where he pumped pennies into the juke box and watched her dimple reappear. Hers was a mouth designed for laughter. And kisses. Its former grimness was totally inappropriate.

  “I’ve never seen such a contraption, Mr. Drayton,” Polly admitted as the rousing “Stars and Stripes Forever” filled the air around them.

  “Nobody has, Miss MacNamara. This is brand new.”

  “It’s quite wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s more than wonderful. It’s the beginning of a new era. Why, it won’t be long before every home in America will be equipped with an automatic music box. I anticipate even motorcars will sport them one day.”

  “My goodness! But how on earth will you ever be able to hear it over the roar of the motor?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. People like my partner, Ransom Olds, will solve the problem. Motorcars and telephones and music boxes are just the beginning. Why, have you ever heard of motion pictures?”

  Polly seemed amazed by this catalog of coming wonders. She shook her head.

  “Well, you will. The day is right around the corner when you’ll be able to go to a theater and watch a play on a screen in front of you, projected from film, just like the negative for a photograph. You just wait and see.”

  He knew his plan to distract and amuse her was succeeding when her air of wonder gave way to amusement. She gave him a grin and said, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait, won’t I?”

  It was all he could do to keep from picking her up off the Royale’s crimson carpet, swinging her around, and kissing her, right on her sweet lips. He laughed, though. He couldn’t help it.

  “Well, there’s something you won’t need to wait for, and that’s another ride in my motorcar
. I plan to drive you to Cliff House, and there to partake of a light luncheon in the restaurant overlooking the sea.”

  “Oh, no—”

  James put two fingers against her lips and Polly said no more. She seemed almost as shocked by the feel of his warm flesh against her lips as he was by her lips against his fingers.

  “I won’t hear a word against my plan, Miss MacNamara, so don’t even offer one.”

  He’d seen her eyes widen at his touch and wondered if she felt the same incredible attraction for him that he felt for her. Just touching her made him loath to stop. He wanted to continue to touch her, in every way imaginable.

  “But—but, my mother . . .”

  Her plea jerked his mind away from pleasant fantasies about what he’d like to do with her. Poor Polly. Worried about her mother. Worried about her brother. James wondered if she ever spared one of her worries for herself. Probably not.

  “Your mother thinks you’re at work, Miss MacNamara. And you are. You are in my charge today just as you are any other day. I’ll have you home before the time you usually get home from work. Unless,” he said, an amusing thought having struck him, “there’s time to visit the zoological gardens after our luncheon at Cliff House.”

  “My goodness.”

  It looked to James as though his silver tongue had finally stilled her protests. He wondered if it was him or the lure of the zoological gardens that had finally sent her over the edge into acceptance and decided he’d best not ask. He wasn’t sure his vanity could stand the truth.

  A quick cable-car ride brought them to the foot of Russian Hill. James was pleased to note the fresh air had returned the bloom to Polly’s cheeks where it belonged. It had hurt him to see her looking so sallow-cheeked and unhappy. He supposed there was nothing to be done about the hint of bleakness still lurking in her eyes but, by God, if he could brighten her life even a little bit, he’d do it.

  As she observed James Drayton’s home, Polly decided she had never been this close to absolute luxury in her life. Even when she was a child and her father’s business prospered, they’d never lived like this; like royalty.

  She sat on a plaster bench in James’s Japanese garden, patting Dewey’s disgraceful head, while James fetched his horseless carriage and cranked it up. Although she tried not to stare like the peasant she knew herself to be, her gaze kept roaming the manicured lawns, green even as winter’s frigid feet tiptoed over them.

  “I wonder how much money it takes to keep a lawn green in the wintertime,” she mused. Dewey seemed not to know, for he kept silent except for his adoring pants.

  This place was amazing.

  Cunningly pruned camellia bushes and yews gave the place a truly Oriental flair. Raked paths led here and there, and Polly could discern a tea house perched in pastoral serenity atop a small hill in the distance. A stately willow dripped over a carp pond spanned by a red-lacquered foot bridge. She wished she could climb the bridge and throw bread crumbs to the fish, but she didn’t have any crumbs. Anyway, she didn’t quite dare take such a liberty.

  Although Polly generally took great pride in her independence, at this moment, surrounded by the glory of James Drayton’s millions, she felt timid. It was an unusual emotion for her, and one she did not like.

  James’s house rose in glorious splendor beyond the pond, its white walls gleaming in the late fall sunlight. Lacy Queen Anne edging gave the house the charm of a wedding cake, but it was saved from cloying sweetness by its size and tasteful design. Polly could not recall ever having seen such a beautiful home.

  And yet . . .

  She would never say so to James Drayton, but it seemed almost indecent for one human being to live so elaborately. Her mind’s eye strayed to the Sisters of Benevolence’s orphanage, and she wondered how many destitute children might be fed and clothed for the price of the bench on which she sat.

  Still, it was not for her to dictate how James Drayton spent the money he earned by the sweat of his brow.

  As she stroked Dewey’s silky ears with one hand and fingered her medals with the other, though, she couldn’t help but wish some of his wealth might make its way to her poor orphaned children. They had so little and he had so much. And, while she guessed James had probably worked hard for his fortune, those poor children had done nothing to earn·their grief but be born.

  The growl of a motor startled Polly out of the contemplation of her splendid surroundings. Looking up, she beheld James Drayton decked out in motoring goggles and waving at her. His smile was as wonderful as the day, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

  It was becoming more and more difficult for Polly to remember he was her employer. She must make herself do it, though. She simply must.

  James guessed his grin probably gave him the dazzled look of an addle-pated adolescent, but he couldn’t help it. When he’d driven up and seen Polly seated on his garden bench, staring about somberly, idly petting his ridiculous dog’s ridiculous ears, his heart gave a giant leap and his insides lit up.

  She belongs here, shot through his brain like an arrow. She fit into the scene as if she and it had been crafted for each other.

  For the space of a breath or two he tried to imagine Cynthia Ingram on Polly’s bench, only to recoil at the idea.

  No. Absolutely, positively not. Decadence followed in Cynthia Ingram’s footsteps as surely as Christmas follows Thanksgiving. Of course, James thought with a sprinkling of regret, he’d enjoyed Cynthia’s decadence once, and he was certainly not about to despise her for behaving in the same manner as himself.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he acknowledged he might even enjoy Cynthia’s practiced charms again. Right now, though—in fact since the evening he discovered Polly MacNamara hurrying along that muddy Chinatown street—he seemed to have no use for Cynthia Ingram.

  There was a poise, an innocence, a rightness about Polly MacNamara that was as refreshing as a new dawn. And he craved her rightness in his life as surely as a flower craves water. He felt thirsty for her goodness; he felt as if he’d been missing something all his life and she was it. She filled places he hadn’t realized were empty. She endowed his home with grace and purity, as though her very presence were cleansing.

  As if he were observing one of the moving pictures he’d told Polly about, James envisioned her here, surrounded by a flock of laughing children. Her children. His children. Their children.

  Good God. What was he thinking of?

  With another, harder, shake of his head, James leapt out of his motorcar and strode toward her.

  “Miss MacNamara, I have another pair of goggles and a motoring scarf in the carriage. Let us be off, my dear. Wonders yet await.”

  Still, James couldn’t shake off the idea that the greatest wonder of all was right here, right now.

  # # #

  Polly couldn’t recall another single time in her life when she’d had so much fun. She wondered if this was the sort of adventure Constance, Juliana, and Rose chattered about in the office. Did other people really do these things, see these sights? All the time? Any time they wanted to?

  To Polly, who had lived a life of rigid circumspection for six years now, it seemed impossible that such joy was available for the taking by just anybody. Yet, when she examined the day closely as she and James drove back to town, she had to admit that maybe it was. After all, except for the motorcar and luncheon at the Cliff House, neither of which she could ever in a million years afford, the day had hardly cost a thing.