Christmas Pie Read online

  “She has nerve, though. Damned if she doesn’t have nerve enough for the both of them.”

  His smile broadened when he thought about the surprise yet to be sprung on the annoying Polly MacNamara and his own irritating son James.

  “I’ll teach ‘em. I’ll teach the both of ‘em.” He went back to his business much cheerier than he’d been before Polly invaded his office.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Polly was still frowning about her visit to J. P. Drayton the next morning as she wheeled her mother’s chair to church. Lillian and Mrs. Plimsole, who walked with them, were deep into a discussion about the MacNamaras’ increased fortunes, so Polly’s thoughts were undisturbed.

  James’s father really was a beastly man, she decided. She got the distinct impression he was deliberately abrasive with her yesterday, as though to put her off. Her, of all people. As if anything she said or did could cause him any distress. Why, she was no more than a mere fly whom a flick of J. P. Drayton’s autocratic finger could send hurtling into infinity.

  He’d actually seemed to enjoy discomfiting her. Polly did not approve. She wished James were her so she could tell him so.

  With a sigh, she realized what a silly wish that was. Then, recollecting the charm she wore she grinned and decided, oh, why not? Lifting one hand from the wheelchair grips and pressing her coin, she wished she’d have an opportunity to speak with James today.

  Then, recalling how her wish to see Dewey had been fulfilled yesterday, she wondered if she should have wished at all.

  It was too late to worry about it now, though. The wish had been made and she didn’t know how to call it back. Anyway, they were at church so she had no time to experiment.

  Organ music filled the air as the three of them entered the sanctuary. Polly, Lillian, and Mrs. Plimsole always sat in the back pew so that Lillian’s wheelchair wouldn’t inconvenience other parishioners. Polly actually enjoyed it back there because she was given an unrestricted view of the entire congregation. She liked watching people and making up stories about them when Mr. Carter’s sermons became boring, as they so often did.

  She frowned when she noticed one particular worshiper.

  “Now what is he doing here? I’ve never seen him here before.”

  “Who’s that, dear?” Lillian craned her neck so she wouldn’t have to speak loudly. The hard-of-hearing Mrs. Plimsole didn’t realize Polly had spoken.

  Polly leaned over to whisper in her mother’s ear. “Mr. Gregory, Mr. Drayton’s secretary. I’ve never seen him here before.”

  “Which one is he, dear?”

  “The sour-looking man over next to the wall. The one with the pinched face and the bilious green suit.”

  Polly was embarrassed that her voice should reek of such unchristian malice. After all, while it was true that Mr. Gregory was a deplorable human being and a bully, he had just lost his job—partly because of her. She tried to feel guilty, failed, and sighed, wondering what her lack of compassion told about herself.

  “My goodness, he looks rather unpleasant, Polly.”

  “He is.” Again, she felt a stab of guilt, and took a breath to soften her pronouncement.

  They were obliged to quit talking, however, when Mr. Carter held up his arms for silence. By the time the service concluded, Polly had forgotten all about Walter Gregory.

  Walter Gregory, however, had not forgotten about her. He followed the three ladies at a discreet distance, distaste for this task making his rat-like nose wrinkle. When he saw them turn down a narrow pathway separating two of the tall framework houses on the block, he scowled.

  How was he supposed to give Lawrence Bullock her precise address if he couldn’t tell which house she was going to? He might have known the girl would give him trouble in this, too. His life had been quite pleasant until she waltzed into it. It had been a black day for Walter Gregory when Miss High-and-Mighty MacNamara decided to speak to his boss. His former boss. Gregory’s thin lips pursed in animosity.

  Idiot girl. Thought she could parade right into Mr. Drayton’s office as if she had the right. She was probably one of those infernal suffragists. What did people call them nowadays? Suffragettes? Bah! As if women had brains enough to be trusted with the vote!

  And then, to crown her impudence, Mr. Uppity James Drayton had the nerve to call him on the carpet. Him! Walter Gregory, his loyal personal secretary. Gregory sniffed imperiously. And what was going on in that quarter, he’d like to know. It didn’t take as shrewd a customer as Walter Gregory to figure out what a nobody of a type-writer and a rich businessman were doing behind closed doors.

  Gregory’s mood did not improve as he hid himself behind a prickly camellia bush and waited. After tarrying for what he decided must be time enough for three ladies to sort themselves out and get indoors, he dashed down the alleyway, wondering if he’d waited too long. What if he’d lost them entirely? If they were already inside one of the houses, he’d never be able to guess which was the MacNamara abode.

  Slithering to a halt at the back of the two houses, Gregory stuck his head out just far enough to get a glimpse of their respective back doors. Peering to his right he saw not a soul. There was, however, a wheelchair ramp leading to the door. He smirked.

  Then he turned his head and peered to his left, just to be on the safe side. He scowled when he observed the third lady, the one who had been chatting with the MacNamara female’s mother. With a start, Gregory recognized her as his aunt Martha, and jerked his head out of sight at once.

  “Good God,” he muttered, momentarily unnerved.

  He’d noticed a ramp leading to that door, too, though, and he recovered his composure and smiled nastily.

  That was it, then. That was the one. He scuttled off down the leaf-strewn street, Aunt Martha forgotten, bearing glad tidings to his new employer.

  # # #

  James wished he’d taken his motorcar. Walking took so much time. Time that could be used more pleasantly—or, rather, he meant more efficiently—in talking with Polly. He hurried up Pacific Avenue and barely heard the leaves crunch under his feet. Autumn had slowly fallen into winter, and there was barely a leaf left on the maple trees lining the street. The air was brisk and a salt tang from the bay hung in the air.

  James wasn’t thinking about the weather, though. His thoughts clung, with the persistence of Dewey after a scent, to Polly MacNamara. He guessed it wasn’t absolutely necessary to bring these legal papers for Polly to sign tonight, but—but—he wanted to get them filed. Yes, that’s exactly why he was racing down the street toward her house.

  Besides, his honest, albeit less noble heart told him, he hadn’t seen her since yesterday afternoon. He’d been in a miff at the time, too, annoyed that she seemed determined to feel sorry for him. What if she still thought he was angry with her? What if she’d decided she was angry with him? She’d sure been aggravated for a while there yesterday. James grinned when he remembered the scene.

  His grin vanished with the intrusion of another, awful, thought. What if she’d decided to quit his employ? Could he convince her to keep seeing him? As absurd as it seemed to him—because he truly didn’t believe in such things—he couldn’t get over the sinking sensation that he loved her. Or at least—James’s brain rebelled at the word love—he cared deeply for her. At the very, very least, he’d certainly enjoy keeping company with her for a while.

  She was—she was—she was refreshing. Yes. That’s what she was. Love might be too strong a word today; although, he admitted ruefully, it hadn’t seemed too strong on that other day, when he’d been alone in his motorcar with her. That day in his horseless carriage, it had seemed like the truth.

  At any rate, Polly MacNamara was definitely soft and feminine and lovely. He particularly liked the hint of womanly charms that showed in spite of those starchy prim shirtwaists she insisted on wearing. She was passionate, too. James knew that for a fact.

  His eagerness increased as he mentally cataloged Polly’s virtues, and his foot
steps sped up until he was almost running. Suddenly an unpleasant possibility rampaged into his brain. Good Lord. What if his father had thought better of his generosity and stopped payment on that enormous bank draft?

  The bastard.

  James scowled. It would be just like the old man to do something of the nature. After all, this was the first time in his entire thirty years that James had known J. P. Drayton to compensate a victim of his unscrupulousness.

  “Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf,” James ventured aloud to see how it felt. It felt nonsensical, and he shook his head. No. There was something else going on in that shrewd old head of his. It wasn’t like J. P. Drayton to make amends.

  It had just gone dark as James approached the MacNamara residence. A delightful day had turned into a perfect December evening. The cloudless sky had darkened and began to sport a sprinkle of stars. By the light of a solitary candle lamp on a porch newel, James noticed that some Christmas elf had bedecked the picket fence he’d recently replaced with red ribbons. The big bows looked festive against the sparkling white of the freshly painted pickets.

  Suddenly he wished Polly could see his house. Even he, who eschewed Christmas celebrations as a foolish waste of time, had to admit the place looked pretty. He knew she’d love it. She seemed to take a good deal of pleasure in all this holiday nonsense.

  Yet when James himself had observed the handiwork of his housekeeper—who’d tackled the formidable task of decorating his huge mansion with glee—he’d felt only emptiness. His reaction made him uncomfortable and he didn’t care to examine it.

  Years ago he’d adopted an air of sophisticated nonchalance about Christmas and the syrupy emotional craziness about family, hearth and home that always accompanied seasonal celebrations. This year his disdain seemed to have been replaced by a hollow feeling of loss. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was he’d lost.

  When Polly answered his knock at the door, a smile lit her countenance. His chancy mood lifted like magic.

  “James! What a delightful surprise!” Her cheeks pinked up, and James knew she was embarrassed by her spontaneous, honest greeting.

  “I came over to have you sign the complaint against Lawrence Bullock, Polly.” So that she wouldn’t think he’d gone to any particular trouble, or misinterpret the businesslike nature of his visit, he added, “It’s best not to leave these things too long.”

  His explanation sounded lame. When he saw the sparkle of happiness fade from her eyes, he wished he’d just said nothing. She still smiled, though, when she held the door and bade him enter.

  “How kind of you. I’m so glad you’ve come. I have so much to tell you.”

  “You do?”

  “Indeed I do.” Polly stepped back to allow him entry. “But first, come into the parlor. Mother and Mrs. Plimsole are there. We’re just taking tea while I decorate the Christmas tree.”

  Although James’s primary reason for this Sunday-evening visit was to chat with Polly—about the Bullock case, of course—he said, “Thank you,” with suitable docility. He followed her into the parlor, his briefcase tucked up under his arm.

  Polly was clad in a plain dress that shouldn’t have made James lick lips that suddenly went dry as he watched the subtle sway of her hips, but it did. The fabric was well-washed and had probably been a bright azure in its youth. It was now a soft blue-gray, and it hugged Polly’s graceful curves with seductive delicacy. Before he entered the parlor, James managed to pry his gaze away from her body and adopt a friendly, family-attorney’s smile for Lillian MacNamara and her friend.

  “Please come in,” Polly said with a smile when she led him into the front room.

  Immediately, he noticed Polly had already been busy in the parlor. Gone were the browns and golds of Thanksgiving. They’d been replaced with the greens and reds of Christmas. Swags of evergreen boughs graced the fireplace and holly berries winked from the greenery. A ceramic figure of Father Christmas, an overfilled pack slung over his shoulder and a pipe clamped between his ruby lips, stood on the mantel between two cranberry glass candlesticks. Cotton-fluff snow nestled at his black-booted feet.

  “Why, good evening, Mr. Drayton. Please join us.” Lillian stood up from her wheelchair. She didn’t try to go to him, but she smiled proudly when James walked over to shake her hand.

  “You seem very well this evening, Mrs. MacNamara. You’ve been practicing.”

  “Indeed, I have. I am well, thank you. And this is my very good friend Mrs. Plimsole. Martha, this is Mr. James Drayton.”

  James realized Mrs. Plimsole seemed to have to strain to hear, so he spoke distinctly when he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Plimsole.”

  She responded with suitable civility and shook his hand.

  “Polly’s told me about what that terrible Mr. Bullock did to her yesterday, Mr. Drayton, and I can’t thank you and your dog enough for coming to her assistance. It’s a shame people find it necessary to do such awful things, especially at this time of the year.” Lillian sat again and shook her head.

  “Yes, it is. I confess I feel somewhat responsible, too, ma’am. I’d known Bullock was not an asset to my law firm for some months, but I failed to take action until recently. I’m afraid he has taken it into his head to hold your daughter accountable for his downfall. His thinking is absurd, of course, and another indication of his refusal to accept his proper duties.”

  “Yes. But please don’t hold yourself to blame. Mr. Bullock is the master of his actions, not you. If his character is so weak that he fails to be responsible for himself, there’s not a thing anyone else can do about it.”

  “I’m afraid you may be right, Mrs. MacNamara.”

  “But have a cup of tea, Mr. Drayton. Polly has just brought it in, and we have gingersnaps, too. Mrs. Plimsole bakes every Christmas and we have some wonderful treats. She took some over to our very nice neighbor, Mr. Fleischer, earlier today.”

  “Mr. Fleischer claims Mrs. Plimsole’s gingersnaps go quite well with beer.” Polly grinned as she held out the plate.

  With an appropriate shudder, James said, “I think I’ll enjoy them more with tea, ladies. This is a treat. Thank you.”

  He took a cup of tea and a cookie and sat back feeling more content than he had for a day or longer. The parlor smelled of cinnamon, gingersnaps and Christmas, a scent he’d never paid much attention to before. Tonight he liked it.

  The MacNamara tree was a small one, he noted. It sat on a table in the corner with a white flannel sheet at its base. It looked as though Polly had just begun the task of decorating it. A tinsel star sparkled on its uppermost point, but no other ornaments had been applied.

  “Would you like to help me decorate the tree, James?” Polly asked. “We can go over those depressing papers later.”

  James, who had never decorated a Christmas tree in his life, was about to decline her pleasant invitation. As if sensing his reluctance to participate in such a jolly, child-like activity, Polly grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of his chair.

  “Come along now. If you won’t help me, I won’t tell you my news.”

  “Well, if you put it like that . . .” James knew he’d not be able to deny her anything if she kept smiling at him in just that way. Of course, as ever, she had no idea the effect she had on him. It was one of her charms.

  She began with enthusiasm, “Now, you see, we have all these ornaments. There are cherubs and bells and tiny wicker baskets. Here are some satin roses. And I have yards of red satin ribbon for bows. And, oh, yes! I almost forgot. Look at these.” With a quick, graceful movement, Polly knelt. When she stood again, she bore an enameled wooden box, obviously Chinese.

  “Just look, James. They’re absolutely beautiful. My father brought them back one year from a trip to China.” She opened the box to reveal a set of lacquered cut-out figures, all in elaborate Chinese garb as though dressed for a ceremonial occasion.