Christmas Pie Read online

  The young lady’s voice was low and musical. Although she stood no more than three feet away, Polly felt as though an enormous distance separated them. The impression was a strange one, and she couldn’t account for it. Like the old woman who had given Polly the coin, this lady stood with her arms folded across her stomach, her hands nestled in the long embroidered sleeves of her Chinese pajama jacket. Unlike the old woman, this one was very still. If she hadn’t spoken, Polly might have taken her for a statue.

  “No,” Polly said, “The combs are lovely. But while I was here, the shopkeeper gave me a coin.”

  “Ah.”

  The woman smiled again, and Polly got the distinct impression she knew all about the coin—and her own connection with it—already. Well, for heaven’s sake.

  “Is she here today?”

  “No.”

  The news didn’t surprise Polly.

  “She will be here when you need her,” the woman added in a very soft voice, as though speaking to a child who needed a gentle reminder. Her smile did not waver.

  “When I need her?”

  A nod was Polly’s answer. Hmm, she thought, this should be most irritating. Strangely enough, it wasn’t. In fact, amusement bubbled inside her; amusement and a strange lilting sensation, as of anticipation.

  She almost giggled when she asked, “And do you have any idea when that will be? I keep coming back here to thank her, and she’s never here.”

  With a slight inclination of her head, the lady said, “It’s fine to thank. You may come here as often as you need.”

  Mercy. So much for that. Polly guessed this trip, too, had been wasted. At least she hadn’t been given any predictions this time. Not that she minded. She felt a little bit the way she expected Mother Francis Mary felt when given reports about life outside the Order. It was as if Polly had stepped straight from her every-day, humdrum life into an enigma. The feeling was not unpleasant; rather, Polly felt a glow of excitement.

  “Well, thank you.” On an impulse, she asked, “And the old man who predicted a happy life for me? Is he here?”

  For a moment, the woman’s expression broadened fractionally, then it smoothed out into the Mona-Lisa-like smile she’d maintained since Polly first set eyes on her. She shook her head and Polly sighed.

  “No. I expected he wouldn’t be.”

  She was surprised when the woman withdrew one of her hands and put it on Polly’s arm. Her hand looked like that of a China doll: tiny, perfect, white, with beautifully manicured nails.

  “He, too, will be here when you need. And he is correct.” She withdrew her hand and put it back into her sleeve. Her movements were so graceful, the garment barely moved.

  “He’s right? You mean about the fortune he predicted for me?”

  A nod.

  “My goodness. I’m glad of that anyway.” With another little sigh, Polly said, “Thank you for your time.”

  “Certainly.”

  Just before she shut the door behind herself on the way out, Polly peeked back into the shop. It didn’t surprise her to see the shop empty and the beaded curtain hanging as still as a painting. Of course, she’d not heard it click.

  “My goodness,” she murmured again.

  Then she took a peek around outside and smiled as she viewed the busy, bustling streets. Stepping out into the bright sunlight was like walking into another world. She loved Chinatown. It was so alive, so unlike her own cloistered life, which today seemed as closed and compassed-round as a jail cell.

  With a firm nod for courage and a bracing gulp of fresh air, Polly decided she might as well finish what she’d started. Her cheerful mood lasted until she had walked almost all the way to J. P. Drayton’s imposing office building on Commercial Street.

  Once she neared the docks, her step slowed and she began to experience a good deal of uneasiness. The Pacific-Orient Freight Shipping building was the only one on the block that didn’t look as though it had seen better days. The location of J. P. Drayton’s business was, by its very nature, somewhat unsavory. Polly understood docks were always unsavory, being, as they were, the meeting-ground of many worlds.

  Not only that, the idea of encountering J. P. Drayton himself, face-to-face, was a daunting one.

  She decided she was glad it was Saturday. With so many people scurrying around doing their weekly marketing at the fish stands, it was easy to dismiss the lurid accounts of kidnap and murder she read in the daily newspapers. Still, as she peered at the crowds, there were enough rough-looking individuals among the Saturday shoppers to make her shiver and pull her coat closer to her breast. When she did, she became aware of her coin, warm against her skin, and felt better.

  She climbed the stairs inside J. P. Drayton’s building with mounting trepidation. Oh, Lord. What if he turned out to be as mean as James believed? What if he told her it was all a horrible mistake, and to give the bank draft back? What if—

  No.

  Polly breathed in a deep, fortifying breath redolent of fish, tar, creosote, and salt air, and told herself to stop borrowing trouble. The man to whose office she headed had just done her mother and herself a tremendous kindness. Indeed, he’d rescued them from the jaws of poverty. As soon as James had told him about her father’s accident and its outcome, he had done his best to rectify the situation. If some measure of blame for Franklin MacNamara’s death lay at J. P. Drayton’s door, at least he was trying to make up for it. That’s all Polly needed to know.

  Bravely holding that thought close to her heart, she turned the knob on a door proclaiming itself to be the office of J. P. Drayton, and stepped inside. At first she saw nobody and a cowardly rush of thankfulness washed over her. Then she noticed the open door of an office leading from this room, apparently the reception area, and realized a man sat behind a desk in that room. What’s more, he was glaring at her.

  Breathing a silent prayer for courage, Polly shut the door behind her and walked to the office door. There she stood her ground and said, “Mr. Drayton?” Her voice, amazingly enough, sounded clear and resolute.

  “I am J. P. Drayton,” the man growled. “And who the devil are you?”

  Swallowing her recoil at his brusque manner and improper language, Polly squared her shoulders and walked quickly toward J. P. Drayton, her hand held out.

  “I am Polly MacNamara, Mr. Drayton. And I came here today to thank you for your kindness to my mother and me.”

  Her heart had taken to pumping like a piston in her chest, but her hand didn’t shake as it was enfolded in the huge, burly hand of J. P. Drayton. From somewhere within, she found the mettle to smile at him.

  “You can’t imagine what it means to us, sir. These past few years have been difficult. You have given us the means to a better life. Thank you.”

  J. P. Drayton had never been so astonished in his entire sixty-four years. When he’d had Biddle prepare the letter and bank draft for Lillian MacNamara and her daughter, he’d done it out of spite, because James had acted as though he were some sort of vile monster. He’d never expected to actually see either MacNamara lady, to meet one of them in person. Oh, certainly he’d expected to receive letters gushing thanks. Maybe even a fruitcake or two come Christmases in the future. But meet them? Never.

  In short, he’d thought of them as objects, as a means to an end; as a joke. Yet here was one of them, in the flesh, shaking his hand.

  It went against the grain to acknowledge it, but he guessed they weren’t merely objects. They were flesh-and-blood people. Polly MacNamara’s hand was as warm with life as his own. As soon as it flickered into his brain, J. P. snuffed out the thought that maybe his dratted uppity boy had a point when he called him indifferent and hard.

  He barked out a gruff, “You’re welcome.” Then he eyed her with interest, liberally laced with disapproval.

  So this was the chit his son was so enthralled with that he’d visited the father he professed to despise for the purpose of pleading her cause. Well, well. She didn’t look like much to
J. P. Looked like a simple working girl, in fact.

  He acknowledged grumpily that he guessed she was.

  She didn’t seem to know what to do with herself now that she’d said her thanks. J. P. frowned. Silly girl had used up all her pluck marching in here to thank him and didn’t know how to carry through. She’d never get anywhere that way.

  Still . . . If the things James had yelled at him were true, this absurd baggage had been supporting herself and her mother for quite a few years. She must have some grit behind all that fluff. Narrowing his eyes critically, J. P. guessed she wasn’t too fluffy. Looked almost prim, in fact. And nervous as a cat, too. He wondered exactly what slanders James had told her about him, and his scowl deepened.

  “Well, sit down, for heaven’s sake.” He gestured peremptorily at one of the chairs across from his desk.

  “Thank you.”

  Polly sat with a plop and remained stiff-backed and edgy. J. P. could tell she didn’t have a clue what to say or do now. She hadn’t planned this out very well, he decided critically. Obviously, the girl had no common sense. She was impetuous. J. P. Drayton greatly disapproved of impetuosity.

  “You work for my boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long?”

  “Two years.”

  “A type-writer, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He tell you about me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  J. P. curled his lip. “Can’t you say anything besides ‘Yes, sir,’ girl?”

  He saw her lips flatten in annoyance and felt a tickle of amusement. Maybe the chit had some spunk in her after all.

  “I didn’t come here to chat with you, Mr. Drayton,” she said tightly. “I came to thank you. I’m sorry if I seem clumsy, but I am quite nervous, you see.”

  J. P. sat back in his chair and studied Polly some more. “Yes,” he growled, “I see. And I also see that James has told you about me. The boy thinks I’m a monster.” With a sudden move, he leaned over his desk “What do you think?”

  At his precipitate movement, Polly gave a start of alarm. J. P. grinned. He didn’t fault her for her jump. His tactics had been known to make strong men quail. He admired her for not leaping up and screeching, although it always annoyed him when a person didn’t do as he expected.

  “As to that, I’m not sure what to think, sir. I don’t know you.”

  “Humph.” Settling back once more, J. P. frowned. “Well, I’m not a monster, and you can tell that frippery son of mine so.” He watched in surprise as Polly’s eyes narrowed in irritation.

  “Well, sir, I believe I must withhold my judgment on that issue for a while yet. My mother and I will be forever grateful to you for your generosity, although I believe the settlement is not outrageous, considering the circumstances contributing to my father’s death.”

  “Not outrageous?” J. P. laughed unpleasantly. “Why, you impudent little baggage.”

  She looked really angry now, J. P. noted with displeasure.

  “I don’t believe telling the truth should be called impudence, sir.”

  “The truth? And just who are you to be talking to me about the truth, young lady?”

  Admiration for Polly’s courage in standing up to him began to give way to annoyance that she should speak to him so plainly. He gave her his hottest scowl and felt a tingle of satisfaction when she had to tighten her grip on the chair’s arms. His satisfaction evaporated with her next words.

  “I am the daughter of a man who died aboard one of your ships, Mr. Drayton, apparently as a result of your captain’s incompetence.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I believe there is a good deal of doubt about that, sir.”

  J. P. glared at Polly. Polly glared back.

  “And as far as your son goes, Mr. Drayton,” she said after taking two or three deep breaths, “I believe both you and he should reassess your familial relationship.”

  Furious by this time, J. P. gave her one of his best glowers. She ignored it. He could hardly believe she’d done such an astounding thing.

  “Oh, you can give me all the black looks in the world, sir, but they won’t stop me from speaking my mind. For heaven’s sake, you and James are the only family you have. To be at odds like this is a terrible shame, especially at Christmas time, when men of good will forgive one another and—and try to get along.”

  “Christmas,” J. P. roared. “Christmas? Bah!”

  With a triumphant look, Polly cried, “Aha! You sound just like Ebenezer Scrooge before the spirits visited him! You and your son are cut of the same cloth!”

  “Well, of course we are, you silly fool!”

  Polly bristled. “I may be a fool, Mr. Drayton, but at least my mother doesn’t have a child who considers her no better than a fiend! And should my mother ever, God willing, be blessed with grandchildren, her child doesn’t detest her so much that she’ll never be allowed to meet them!”

  Silence slapped between them like a beached whale, huge, obtrusive, and quivering with emotions.

  Finally, J. P. growled, “Well, you’ve said your thanks and a good deal more, young lady. Now, I have a business to run.”

  Polly popped up from her chair as if she’d been pinched. He could read the relief on her vivid features.

  “Of course, sir. Well—well, I just—well, thank you, sir. I hope you won’t let my run-away tongue invalidate the genuine thanks in my heart, Mr. Drayton. It was very good of you to compensate us. Your kindness means the world to my mother and me.”

  J. P. was on the verge of telling her kindness had nothing to do with it. Nor did goodness. J. P. didn’t believe in goodness any more than he believed in kindness. Goodness could be bought and kindness led to foolishness and ruin.

  Deciding a lecture would be wasted on this ridiculous little idealist, he grumped, “You’re welcome,” and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

  “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day.”

  J. P. heard Polly’s feet clatter down the steps after she left his carpeted reception area, sounding as though she couldn’t escape fast enough. Damned silly girl. She deserved James, the prig.

  He gave up pretending to write as soon as her footsteps faded. Then he sat back in his chair, stared out the window of his third-floor office, and thought for a long time. Damned, annoying, foolish little chit. Still . . .

  J. P. couldn’t recall ever having been thanked for anything before. Yet when he tried to remember ever having done anything requiring thanks, he couldn’t think of a single instance.

  His brow deeply rutted, J. P. grunted, “Bah!”

  The word made him think of Polly’s comparing him to Scrooge and he wished she were still here so he could holler at her. Then, of its own accord, his mind veered down another thorny path.

  “Grandchildren. Ha! Damned girl. That’s why I tried to get my boy to represent my firm, damn it. I tried to mend our fences. Blasted boy wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”

  He sat in fulminating silence for another several minutes until a reluctant grin crept up on his frown, eventually obliterating it.