Christmas Pie Read online

  Then she twirled in front of the mirror, watched her cream-colored ball gown bell out, threw back her head, and laughed. The transformation was positively incredible.

  She was nervous as a tabby in a room full of tigers about this evening, though. James had sent a message that he would pick her up at seven o’clock. For three weeks he’d been avoiding her. His deliberate neglect hurt her feelings. She felt a little as though she’d been used, although she knew she shouldn’t feel that way. After all, she could have rejected his advances. Instead, she’d responded to his kisses with heavenly abandon.

  It might have been humiliating, but Polly’s pride was such that she refused to brood. Tilting her chin at a defiant angle, she muttered, “If that’s the way he is, then who needs him?”

  Almost immediately the thought that she needed him thrust itself into her head and nagged at her until she sighed with frustration.

  She commanded herself to stop thinking about possibilities. Then she took the unprecedented step of complimenting her reflection. “At any rate, you look lovely this evening. This gown might have been made for you.” She fingered her coin, hanging tonight on its carefully preserved red velvet ribbon. “And my coin has never looked more beautiful.”

  She stopped fidgeting for a minute and stared at herself. Her bright cinnamon eyes stared back. They looked big and she couldn’t recall her lashes appearing so dark and lush before this evening. Perhaps she’d just never noticed. Why, her eyes looked almost mysterious.

  The creamy satin and lace of her gown made her skin seem to glow. The red rose at her waist sat at a place and an angle that accentuated her trim figure and added a hint of naughtiness that Polly decided she liked. A lot.

  Polly’d never done so novel a thing as appreciate her looks before. As she acknowledged her own attractiveness, the color rushed to her cheeks, enhancing her image.

  Then a smile lit her countenance and she swept herself an elegant curtsy. Oh, she was going to shine tonight. If only she didn’t get too nervous and spoil the effect of all this beauty by stumbling or spilling punch on her skirt or something equally awful.

  She remembered the night she’d tried this gown on and wished James Drayton could see her wearing it. And now he would! She was sure he’d appreciate the way she looked. She certainly would not disgrace him, at any rate.

  With a haughty sniff, she decided that even if he ignored her all evening long, she would not pine. She’d just amuse herself with the children. And with Mother Francis Mary.

  She was ever so thankful that the Mother Superior planned to accompany the children’s choir to the ballroom. Polly didn’t know what she’d do with herself if she had to exist in a ballroom full of people without knowing a single soul there except the man who’d been avoiding her like the plague for three weeks. Her heart twinged painfully, and she told it to stop.

  She’d been fine before she met him; she’d be fine again. A little sadly she acknowledged that it might take time. But she’d be fine; just fine.

  Although she did not allow herself to dwell on the thought, in her soul she feared she’d never truly be fine again. In fact, she had a sinking feeling she would forever bear an empty spot in her heart; a spot reserved for James.

  Wrenching her mind away from the maudlin contemplation of unrequited love, Polly squared her shoulders. She heard the front doorbell ring and an arrow of anxiety pierced her. She shook it off impatiently.

  With one final glance at her reflection, she muttered, “Well, he may not love me, but he can’t fault my dress or looks tonight.”

  Polly grabbed her tiny beaded handbag—bought especially for the evening with some of her newly acquired wealth—wrapped her mother’s elegant Chinese silk shawl carelessly over her arms—as Rose had demonstrated she must do—angled her chin just so, and marched to the staircase.

  James stood in the front hall, chatting with her mother. Polly took a deep breath, said a little prayer for courage, and descended the stairs.

  “I’m very well, thank you, Mrs. MacNamara,” James said in response to Lillian’s polite question. “And how are you? You seem to be faring remarkably well. I don’t believe I’ve seen you walk before.”

  “Oh, I’ve been walking for about two weeks now. I can’t go far yet, but I try to practice as much as possible.”

  James, his nerves raw, got the impression that Lillian was barely repressing her disappointment that he’d not been to call on her daughter during those weeks. Then he decided he was being unreasonable and wished he’d get over this strange, aggravating mood of his.

  He wished this damned night were over.

  He wanted to rub his jaw, to pass his hand through his hair, to straighten his tie. Since none of those things needed to be done, he curtailed the impulse. This urge to fidget was only a manifestation of his irritable nerves. That’s all. As soon as this last onerous task was completed, he could relax. He was such a fool for inviting Polly to go with him to this idiotic ball.

  “Is that a corsage, Mr. Drayton? How nice of you.”

  James’s wandering attention snapped back to Lillian MacNamara as though attached to a rubber band. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  James looked at the flowers he’d had his new secretary buy for Polly and frowned. He hoped she’d be wearing something that went with red. His secretary, Collis Philpott, said the florist recommended them as being appropriate for Christmas. Well, James guessed they were, but he certainly couldn’t imagine what could possibly go with white orchids and red roses.

  “I expect Polly will be down in a minute, Mr. Drayton. Oh, yes, here she is.”

  James turned toward the staircase to see what Lillian was talking about, his scowl firmly in place. When he saw the glory that was Polly walking serenely down the stairs, his brain went blank and he lost his train of thought.

  “My God.”

  Lillian smiled with motherly affection. “Doesn’t that gown suit her, though? I think she looks perfectly lovely.”

  James had to swallow. “Er, yes. Yes, she does.”

  “And that corsage will look beautiful at her shoulder, too.”

  “Yes.”

  He shook himself out of his trance when Polly negotiated the last stair and stepped onto the carpeted hallway. With a lunge, he reached her side.

  “Here. Here, let me help you, Polly.” His voice, he noted, sounded foreign. Hoarse.

  “Thank you, James.”

  “I—I brought you some flowers. A corsage.”

  Her face lit with pleasure. “How sweet of you. Thank you.” She looked at the corsage he held and exclaimed, “Why, they’re perfect! Did you ask mother what color my gown was?”

  “Er, no. No, I guessed.”

  Or, rather, Collis Philpott had guessed. All of a sudden James felt a wash of shame.

  “Here, Polly, let me pin it on your dress.”

  “Thank you, James. I’ve never been given a corsage before.” Then she looked a little peeved, as though she wished she’d kept her artless confession to herself.

  James didn’t mind. Oh, he guessed he felt as though he’d just been kicked by an army mule, but he didn’t mind. Or maybe he’d just had the sense knocked back into him. Peering at Polly’s perfectly blameless face he wondered why he’d been in such a god-awful snit for the last few weeks.

  Why on earth had he been in such a dither, refusing to acknowledge the almost overwhelming attraction he felt for her? Why, for heaven’s sake, had he stayed away from this delightful woman, who seemed to take such pleasure in his company? Why had he punished himself by refusing to see her? Why in God’s name did he want this glorious feeling to go away? In the name of all that’s holy, he should embrace it with both hands, grateful to have the bland nothingness that had been his life revitalized by Polly.

  Why had he been in such a confounded lather to refuse to love this perfectly lovable woman?

  He had no earthly idea. His foul humor seemed silly to him now: a sulky child’s reaction to something he didn’t understand
and didn’t want to recognize.

  But, for God’s sake, he loved her! The truth seemed so reasonable now, tonight, in her spectacularly feminine presence.

  By God, she was perfect. In every detail. Cynthia Ingram, with all her seductive beauty, couldn’t hold a candle to Polly MacNamara. She was perfect. She was what he’d been missing all his life. She filled up the empty places in his heart. She’d given him laughter. She’d shown him joy. She’d taught him that he didn’t have to try so damned hard not to be his father.

  He loved her. He, James Drayton, was as much a fool as the poets; as much a fool as anybody else on earth. He loved her.

  James felt like shouting it from the rooftops. By damn, he loved her!

  His delicious trance lasted during their good-byes with Lillian, through the door, and down the front porch steps. It was Polly’s delighted exclamation that ultimately brought him back down to earth.

  “James! You actually did it! You brought your horses and carriage.”

  Polly skipped the last several paces to the carriage, her efforts to appear elegant clearly forgotten. James grinned like a kid in a candy store when she stood in front of one of the glossy black steeds and stroked his head.

  “Oh, they’re just beautiful, James! And you had them decorated for Christmas, too.”

  It was true. Earlier in the day, glowering and grumpy, he’d told his stable manager to put the damned Christmas bells and ribbons on the damned horses. He had to go to the damned charity ball this evening, and he’d made a stupid damned promise.

  At this moment, James wished he’d done even more. More bells! More ribbons! Bring them all on! He was ready. He resolved to give his stable manager an extra bonus this Christmas for putting up with his sour mood.

  James contemplated the stir they’d cause if they could arrive at the ball late and make a grand entrance. Oh, how he’d love to do that. All the people he knew as business associates, the ones who were used to seeing him with the likes of Cynthia Ingram or any number of the other well-traveled ladies with whom he used to keep company, would gape when James walked in with Polly MacNamara on his arm. He’d never been seen at a society function—or anywhere else, for that matter—with such an obvious innocent. He could imagine the gossip that would surely ensue.

  Such satisfaction would be denied him, though, because Polly needed to arrive early to arrange her orphans. He didn’t mind. In fact, as he stood in the back of the ballroom near a cluster of chairs and watched Polly with the children, his insides lit up like the candles on a Christmas tree.

  She was perfect, he decided with delight. She was absolutely perfect.

  “You going to marry that baggage, James?”

  James stiffened and turned quickly. Good God, it was him. J. P. Drayton. His father. Here. He frowned. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  As a greeting, it lacked finesse, but James could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes. His father at a charitable event! What was the world coming to?

  J. P. took his son’s greeting amiss. He matched James’s frown with one of his own. “I was invited, you damned impertinent whelp. What do you think I’m doing here?”

  Annoyed with himself for succumbing to impulse, James reined in his temper and said more mildly, “I’m unused to seeing you at such affairs, Father. I beg your pardon for being abrupt.”

  “Abrupt? Bah! You were damned rude to me, James, and I don’t like it.”

  Deliberately refusing to be baited by this man who was an expert at the game, James turned his back on J. P. and murmured, “What a shame.”

  “Ha!”

  James could feel his father seething at his back. It wasn’t a new sensation, but he didn’t like it. He stifled his sigh.

  “You still didn’t answer my question, boy. Are you or not?”

  James peered over his shoulder and asked, “Am I what?” His voice, he noted irritably, sounded brittle. Damn. He hated showing emotion before his father.

  For once J. P. seemed not to notice his son’s emotional condition. “Are you going to marry her? That girl there.” J. P. pointed at Polly. He sounded cross. He looked cross, too.

  “That’s right. You’ve met each other, haven’t you?”

  J. P. glowered. “Don’t smirk at me, boy. She’s a sassy little piece of goods, is what she is.”

  Bristling, James opened his mouth to refute his father’s outrageous assessment of Polly.

  J. P. stopped him short when he said, “She’ll do you some good, boy. Damned if she won’t.”

  “What?”

  James left off watching Polly and trying to be immune to his father, and turned around to gape at the old man. He wanted to clean his ears out. He couldn’t believe what they’d just heard.

  His scowl perfectly ferocious, J. P. repeated, “I said she’ll do you some good. You got mud in your ears?”

  Ignoring his father’s question, James sucked in a deep breath and said, “Would you care to sit and talk, Father?”

  J. P.’s bushy brows arched ironically. “You want to chat with me, boy? Whatever is the world coming to?”

  Trying to hide his exasperation, James said, “Please, Father. Can’t we just sit down and talk to each other without hurling barbs for once?”

  Eyeing his son doubtfully, J. P. said, “Seems to me you’re the one who hurls the barbs, boy. I tried to patch it up, if you’ll recall.”

  Rather huffily, he sat in the chair James held out for him.

  “Is that what you were trying to do when you asked me to represent your business?”

  “What in God’s name did you think I was trying to do?” J. P. crossed his arms over his chest and gave James his very best glower.

  James, looking for the first time past his father’s gruff demeanor, thought he detected the hint of a plea in the sharp old eyes. On the other hand, it was probably his imagination. James wasn’t about to take any chances; he felt almost as though his soul were at stake in this battle.

  “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what you were trying to do, Father.” James peered at this stranger’s face for a long time without speaking. J. P. continued to scowl but the longer James stared at him, the less rigid his expression became. Finally, for the first time in James’s memory, the old man dropped his gaze first.

  J. P. cleared his throat.

  Then he straightened his tie.

  He crossed his left foot over his right. Then he crossed his right foot over his left.

  At last he said, almost querulously, “Well, what are you staring at, damn it?”

  With a start, James realized he had been staring, and rather rudely, too. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  J. P. gave a huffy harrumph and took to watching Polly and her orphans.

  “It was good of you to send that letter and bank draft to the MacNamaras, sir.”

  J. P.’s grizzled bulldog head snapped around and he pinned James with a glare holding more than a hint of astonishment. “Well, you’re the one who told me to do it, you cheeky puppy!” The words came out in a roar, the usual tone J. P. adopted with his son, and he had the grace to look embarrassed.

  More mildly, he said, “How the hell was I to know there were people who hadn’t taken advantage of the offered settlements? I didn’t know until you told me.”

  James’s first impulse was to demand why J. P. hadn’t looked, but some angel of mercy held his tongue and he didn’t disparage his father’s good deed. The first good deed James could remember him ever having done.