Christmas Pie Page 23

  All of her fragile fantasies shattered like glass, leaving her feeling empty. A wry smile bent her lips. It was almost funny. She’d fought those beautiful fantasies so hard. Only reluctantly—and with what she perceived as encouragement from James—had she allowed them freedom to blossom. And now the same stroke of fortune that would be the salvation of her family had blasted those delicate blossoms until they stood withered on their stalks, pallid and bloodless. Dead.

  She felt like crying.

  “I had no idea your employer was related to J. P. Drayton, Polly.” Lillian sounded almost numb.

  It was an effort for Polly to reply calmly, “No. No, I didn’t know it either.”

  “Of course, we might have suspected by the name, I guess.”

  Polly stared into her teacup. “I guess.”

  But she hadn’t suspected. Not a thing. Yet, all unsuspecting, she’d allowed herself to dream. If she’d known about his family connections, she never would have done such a foolish thing as dream.

  Frowning, she recalled her mother inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner. Hadn’t he said he had no family? Yes. She was sure he had. He’d lied to them. He’d lied.

  Why on earth would he lie about something like that? It didn’t make any sense.

  Unless . . . With a stab of anguish, Polly remembered James Drayton’s reputation with the ladies.

  Suddenly she couldn’t sit in the stuffy house any longer. She needed to be out in the cool, fresh autumn air so she could ponder her suspicions, unobserved.

  “I believe I shall write to Mr. Drayton right this minute, Polly.” Lillian’s voice had still not regained its full timbre.

  Undertaking a demeanor of happiness—after all, she should be happy; her family had just been saved from the clutches of grinding poverty—Polly rose from the table and borrowed a smile. “That’s a wonderful idea, Mother. Would you like me to help you? I—I’d like to take a little walk first, if you don’t mind. I need to think about—everything.”

  Lillian gave Polly a tender smile. “My dear, you just take your walk. I’m sure we both need to think.” She stared at the draft in her fingers and her voice broke when she whispered, “Now, if only Stephen would come home, this would be the happiest Christmas ever.”

  Swallowing back her tears, Polly said, “Yes. Yes, indeed.” Then she fled out the front door before she could burst out crying.

  Still pulling on her coat, she began striding along the street, blindly kicking fallen leaves out of her path. Her eyes were so blurry she hardly saw the bare maples or the Christmas wreaths and boughs of holly people had begun to hang on their doors. Polly had always loved Christmas. Until today. Right now she felt hollow, the Christmas spirit and holiday joy as far away from her as her brother.

  How could James lie to them that way? She’d believed—She’d honestly begun to believe—that he cared for her. If only a little bit.

  Bitterness filled her heart. Perhaps he’d found her amusing. Maybe he’d tired of sophisticated ladies and decided to toy with a poor little type-writer for a change. An angry tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away viciously. Her bare hands were cold. Her gloves resided in the pocket of her coat but she wouldn’t put them on, vowing to freeze to death first—although the likelihood of such a wretched fate seemed dim, given the weather. They’d come from him.

  She didn’t see the bulky, hulking form of Lawrence Bullock step out from behind a tree and begin to follow her. It wasn’t until her steps began to flag and sorrow overtook her anger that she noticed him. She couldn’t help it since he grabbed her by her coat sleeve and yanked her around. Polly was so startled, she screamed.

  “Shut up, you bitch! You got me arrested, damn you!” His step was unsteady, his expression malevolent.

  Since she wore no gloves, Polly’s slap sounded a loud, satisfying smack when it connected with his beefy cheek.

  “How dare you! Let me go at once!”

  “Be damned to you,” yelled Bullock. “You damned little tart. Well, you might be James Drayton’s little whore, but you’re nothing to me but trouble.”

  “How dare you?” Polly shrilled once more, aiming another blow to Bullock’s head and kicking at him for good measure.

  He was big, though, and much stronger than she. With a vile curse, he restrained her by pinning her arms at her sides. Then he lifted her right up off the pavement, slung her lopsidedly over his shoulder, and began to stagger away.

  “Put me down! Put me down this instant!”

  “Be damned if I will! Damn you! I’ll teach you to get me arrested.”

  Polly’s head hung at an odd angle and she couldn’t see much except the leafy sidewalk jolting along beneath her. Lifting her head as much as she could, she tried to scan her surroundings. She screamed again, a piercing, wordless noise that shattered the daylight.

  Why didn’t anybody come to her aid? Where was everyone? Dismally, she recalled the peculiarities of her neighborhood and realized her neighbors were probably at work or doing the weekly marketing on this crisp December Saturday morning. Oh, Lord.

  All at once an unearthly roar ripped the air, and Polly’s terror surged. She screamed again, this time with fright. An appalling growl followed the roar, bringing to her mind tales of grizzly bears and packs of bloodthirsty timber wolves. The awful noise came closer and closer until suddenly Bullock yelled. His bellow was filled with such horror, Polly could only squeeze her eyes shut and pray.

  Then she didn’t have time to be afraid, for she found herself slipping off Lawrence Bullock’s shoulder and tumbling to the ground. With a good deal of arm-flapping and dancing, she managed to remain upright and not fall on her face. She was still teetering when she found herself grabbed and yanked around yet again this morning, by two big strong hands.

  “Polly!” she heard through the terrified screams of Lawrence Bullock and the increasingly furious growling noise. “Polly! What did that animal do to you?”

  James Drayton steadied her and pulled her toward him, away from the racket. But Polly’s senses had been jerked about too much already in the last several seconds. Every nerve vibrated with alarm.

  With a wild, “No!” she wrenched herself out of James’s grasp and whirled around to see what was making that blood-curdling noise. “Oh, my God!”

  Lawrence Bullock’s sobs were a combination of pain and panic as he wrestled on the ground with Dewey. The hound, his formerly untried gallant nature having been stirred by Polly’s distress, was doing his valiant best to slay Bullock. In the effort, he was attempting to locate Bullock’s throat. Bullock had thrown his arm across that particularly vulnerable body part, and Dewey was chewing the fabric energetically. It looked to Polly as though he intended to chew through Bullock’s wrist as well, and she turned to James and grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive overcoat with both hands, her heart slamming a crazy rhythm and her senses reeling.

  “Oh, please, Mr. Drayton! Call him off! He’s liable to kill Mr. Bullock.”

  James, whose heart was hammering, too, tore his gaze from Polly’s face with difficulty and aimed it at Lawrence Bullock. Hate filled his being when he realized Polly was right. An unchivalrous swell of triumph seized him.

  “No,” he snarled, feeling something like a knight of old might have felt as he watched a dragon eat his fair maiden’s captor. “Let the dog have him. It’s all he’s fit for.”

  Horrified, Polly cried, “But James! Dewey will be destroyed if he kills Mr. Bullock. I’m sure the authorities will destroy him. We can’t let that happen. Oh, the poor dog!”

  Although he didn’t like it, James recognized the reason in Polly’s plea. Besides, she’d called him “James.”

  “Well, all right, then.”

  He grabbed the leash dangling from Dewey’s collar and tugged hard. Without releasing his grip on Bullock’s coat sleeve, Dewey found himself being dragged away from his prey. He didn’t like it, and turned to scowl at James. In order to do so, he was obliged to let go of Bullock’s sl
eeve.

  “Come on, Dewey, we’ll let the police take care of this bit of trash.” James glowered at Bullock as he said it.

  Her rescue assured, Polly’s terror gave way to rage. She stormed over to stand above Lawrence Bullock. He whimpered, hunched on the sidewalk, and peeked up at her with dread.

  “You miserable coward!” she cried. “You fiend! Why, you’re no better than a toad. Worse! A toad would never try to kidnap a woman who’s never done anything to it. You wretched excuse for a human being!”

  Bullock groaned pitiably, his little round blue eyes a testament to his fright.

  “Ooooh! I hope you are in pain, you fiend. I wish I could kick you!” Bullock flinched away and she cried scornfully, “Oh, I won’t do it. They say you’re not supposed to kick an opponent while he’s down.”

  Her words tickled a thought, though, and she frowned when she added, “Although I don’t know why not. You’re too big and fat to kick when you’re not down. Why, you’re twice as big as I am, you horrible bully!”

  Bullock tried to roll himself up into a ball. Then Polly said, “Oh, why not? That old saw was undoubtedly made by men for men, just like everything else in this stupid world!” And she hauled her leather-clad foot back and kicked Bullock hard, on the shin.

  Bullock screamed and struggled to his hands and knees, spurred on his way by James’s, “Get up, you miserable coward. Get up and face me. I’ll teach you to kidnap ladies off the street!”

  It was unclear how James was going to deliver his lesson, since it was all he could do to keep Dewey in check. He longed to fight the miserable villain, though, right here, right now. He ached to avenge Polly.

  Staggering to his feet, Bullock blubbered, “No! No! I’ll go ‘way. I won’t do it anymore! Please.”

  Polly looked at him with contempt. “Why, you sniveling brute. I do believe you’re inebriated again, too. You’re a fine excuse for a man, aren’t you?”

  Her gazed scorched Bullock up and down and he backed away from her. Unfortunately for him, that put him within Dewey’s orbit again. The hound, with a mighty growl, lunged at his heel, grabbing his trouser cuff in powerful jaws.

  “No, Dewey!” James commanded.

  As usual, Dewey paid no heed to his master. He whipped his head back and forth in a frenzy of joy, Bullock’s shod foot going along for the ride since he couldn’t draw his trousers out of the dog’s mouth while still wearing them.

  With an inarticulate screech, Bullock tugged with all his might. The fabric of his trousers gave way with a loud rip. Suddenly Dewey found himself flapping a piece of empty cloth in his teeth. Lawrence Bullock’s foot, at the end of his white, hairy leg, naked from the knee down, hit the sidewalk. Apparently taking it for a sign, the scoundrel sobbed once and began to run away.

  James glared after him then looked at Polly. Her breasts heaved with exertion and anger. Two brilliant patches of red shone on her cheeks, and her eyes snapped fire. She was absolutely glorious.

  With difficulty, James kept his mind on business and asked, “Do you have a telephone, Polly? We can call the police.”

  She seemed to find such a prosaic question inappropriate and glowered when she barked, “No. We could never afford such a luxury.”

  Staring down the street, she watched the erratic escape of Lawrence Bullock. A smile curled her lips and then faded. Lawrence Bullock was a brute and a bully, but he had just lost his job. Although Polly could think of no real justification for his having assaulted her—twice—on public streets, she did begin to feel a thread of compassion twine itself around her anger and justifiable indignation. Bullock was a bumbler and a weakling, but she didn’t suppose he was evil. Exactly. More misguided, perhaps. She frowned, wondering if there was a difference. The result was the same, and always seemed to end with her. She didn’t understand it.

  Then she remembered something, all thoughts of Lawrence Bullock faded, and Polly whirled around to face James and Dewey. By this time the dog had settled down on the sidewalk and was contenting himself with eating Bullock’s trouser cuff.

  James felt an unsettling premonition as he watched Polly. She looked furious, and this time her mood seemed directed at him.

  “At least, we couldn’t afford it until this morning,” she amended, anger swelling her voice. Then she took James completely by surprise when she screeched, “You lied to us!”

  James, who had expected her to throw herself into his arms in gratitude, could only stammer, “Wh-what?”

  “You lied to us!”

  She whirled away and began to dash back towards her home. For a dumbfounded second or two, James could only stare after her, his sense of order in the universe having been knocked cockeyed by her anger.

  “What the hell . . .? Come on, Dewey. We’ve got to get to her before she makes it to her house.”

  It took a tug or two, but James ultimately managed to get his hound to give up chewing his victory prize and run alongside him as he pursued Polly. Dewey didn’t relinquish his trophy entirely. It fluttered out behind him, a streamer proclaiming his mastery over a fallen foe.

  “Polly! Polly, wait! What are you talking about?”

  By this time, the few MacNamara neighbors who were home on this crisp Saturday morning had begun to peek out windows and open doors to determine what on earth was going on in their normally quiet neighborhood. James saw them, cursed under his breath, and speeded up his pursuit.

  He caught Polly about a house or two away from her own. Since he wanted to talk to her alone and she didn’t seem inclined to stop still and listen to him, he reached out and, very much as Lawrence Bullock had done earlier, grabbed her by the coat sleeve and jerked her around.

  “Polly—” was all he managed to get out before Polly, just as she’d done with Lawrence Bullock, slapped him on the cheek. Hard.

  “Ow!” James wanted to coddle his burning cheek with his hand, but didn’t dare let go of her to do so. He contented himself with saying in a lamentably bemused voice, “What did you do that for, Polly?”

  She’d begun to cry, a circumstance James guessed he might have understood if she were still under the influence of Bullock’s villainy. But these tears seemed somehow connected with him, and they bewildered him.

  “You lied to us,” she cried again. “You lied to us.”

  Although he didn’t dare let go of Dewey’s leash, James tried to put an arm around Polly to ease her distress, whatever it was. She resisted so fiercely that he gave up. He did not, however, relinquish his hold on her coat sleeve.

  “Polly, please tell me what’s wrong. Why do you think I lied to you? I’ve never lied to you. Honestly, I’d never do such a thing.”

  She shook her head hard, and James began to entertain the unhappy suspicion that she was hysterical. Oh, Lord.

  “You did!”

  With a huge sigh, he said, “Please, Polly. Please. Let’s sit down on the porch steps and talk for a minute. I can’t recollect every having lied to you. Please tell me what you mean, so I can understand.”

  “Oh, you wretch. And here I thought you liked us. I thought you liked me! But no. You were merely playing a devil’s game with me, the poor little type-writing wench.”

  Perplexity began to give way to irritation. With a glance up the street, James noticed a scattering of interested spectators peeking out of their houses at them. A little roughly, he dragged Polly to her porch steps.

  “Sit down, Polly.”

  “I don’t want to sit with you!”

  “Damn it, Polly, quit screeching. Everybody’s watching us. They’ll have the police drag me away pretty soon, and it was Bullock who kidnapped you!”