Christmas Pie Page 4

  “I see. And am I correct in believing you chose the law over your father’s shipping business?”

  “Yes.”

  James could have sworn the holy Mother gave him a wink before she said, “And your father didn’t approve, did he?”

  “No. No, he did not.”

  “So you’ve made it a practice to work for the rights of the very people your father ground under his high-handed boot heels. If you’ll pardon a badly mixed metaphor.”

  James narrowed his eyes and looked keenly at the Mother Superior. He couldn’t say he much liked the way she had of phrasing things. Nevertheless, he gave her a stiff, “Yes.”

  The wrinkles on Mother Francis Mary’s face folded up as she bestowed another smile on him. “Ah, guilt. Such a useful emotion from time to time.”

  Stuffing the story of Soong Lee back into his satchel, James stood. He held out a steady hand to the nun.

  “Well, Mother Francis Mary, if we can’t do business, I guess I’ll take my leave.”

  Raymond, unsettled by the odd turn of the conversation and James’s obvious discomposure, rose too. His gaze darted between the Mother Superior and his employer. Strange emotional currents rode the air in the nun’s stuffy office. Raymond seemed every bit as affected by them as James.

  The nun’s smile broadened. She did not take James’s fingers, but rather waved her own wrinkled hand at him.

  “I’m not trying to be offensive, Mr. Drayton, although I seem to be doing a very good job of it. And I’m not refusing your offer, either. I think your plan is well thought out. I also believe it to be the product of a generous heart. The two attributes do not often go hand-in-hand, unfortunately.”

  She sighed. “I could tell you stories never-ending about the kindhearted, disorganized people who waltz into my office, expecting dispensation for their benevolent thoughts, even though thoughts are all we ever get from them.” The Mother Superior gave a grimace that did amazing things with her wrinkles.

  James was more than a little put-out by the nun’s odd attitude and odder conversation, and he did not sit again immediately. He felt quite huffy, in fact. He hated talking about his father. As far as James was concerned, he and J. P. Drayton did not see eye to eye about anything on the face of the earth except that James was not the son his father wanted.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Drayton,” Mother Francis Mary said in a voice of boundless serenity. “I’m afraid my old neck gets a crick when I have to look up for too long a period. Too many years spent on my knees with my head bowed, I expect.” Her smile was almost, but not quite, wicked in it playfulness.

  With a nod to Raymond, James sat. Raymond sat, too.

  James was not amused. “Are you interested in my proposal, Mother?”

  The nun peered at him for some seconds; long enough for the urge to fidget to attack him. James had been taught well, though, during those long-ago lectures in his father’s study, and he suppressed his urge.

  Finally Mother Francis Mary said, “I am very interested in your proposal, Mr. Drayton. I am very interested in you, as well.” She gave him another creaky smile. “Your father must be very proud of you.”

  James gaped at her for a moment before he said, “No. My father is not in the least proud of me.”

  “Are you absolutely certain about that, Mr. Drayton?”

  Wondering if the old woman was completely out of her mind, James muttered, “Absolutely.”

  When Mother Francis Mary laughed, the strange rustling sound was so unexpected that James and Raymond looked at each other in surprise for a moment. Then they both stared at the nun.

  At last she rose. She was no taller standing than she had been sitting. Wiping her eyes on a pristine white handkerchief, she murmured, “Ah, Mr. Drayton, it has been such an unexpected pleasure to meet you. I seldom receive unexpected pleasures, you know. I fear both my vocation and my age preclude excitement.” She extended a papery hand. “I look forward to meeting your Chinese criminals tomorrow, Mr. Drayton.”

  “They’re not criminals, Mother Francis Mary,” James grumbled as he shook her hand.

  “Of course not.” Her smile got bigger. “And you, young man, will be bringing them to us. Is that right?” She turned so abruptly toward Raymond that he gave a start.

  “Er, yes, ma’am,” he said in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

  “Good.” She nodded sharply. “Good. I shall expect to see you then. Noon sharp.”

  “Noon sharp,” Raymond repeated, a little dazed.

  James and Raymond heard the nun’s rusty laugh all the way out to the street.

  “My goodness,” murmured Raymond. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone quite so singular before.”

  “Me neither,” grumbled James. He was glad of it, too. “Hop in, Raymond. I’ll drive you back home.”

  Even after he cranked his new motorcar into submission and drove off, James was still annoyed.

  # # #

  Polly felt warm all over as she stared at herself in the mirror. Although it was late and she needed to rise early in order to go to her job, she couldn’t resist putting on the beautiful gown. Now she was glad she’d given in to her weakness.

  She and her mother had found it, folded up in tissue paper, at the bottom of the trunk. The wealthy lady who had relinquished the garment had tucked lavender sachet in amongst its folds, and the tantalizing fragrance clung to its soft creases and kissed Polly’s nostrils in powdery, elusive waves.

  With a swirl, Polly watched the creamy satin skirt bell out, as though caught by the lilt of a waltz as she danced across the floor in the arms of a handsome young man. She could even picture her partner. He had dark, curly brown hair, and deep hazel eyes which warmed when they looked at her. He was tall and elegant and terribly handsome. He looked, in fact, exactly like James Drayton.

  With a sigh, she wondered what James would think if he could see her in this magnificent gown. Not that he ever would.

  Still, Polly had never even seen such a gorgeous gown up close before. The fact that this one was hers, and that it fit her to perfection, made her wonder if wishes might really come true. Only this evening she had wished she owned such a gown. Her ancient coin, threaded on a thin red velvet ribbon, gleamed softly from where it rested against her bosom.

  Her ensemble was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Now she wished she had somewhere to wear it. With a giggle, Polly swirled once more and thought what a greedy girl she was.

  The gown might have been made just for her. Sewn of cream-colored satin and overlaid with delicate ecru lace, it molded to her ripe curves, curves she’d never appreciated until right now. The result reminded her, although she would never say so aloud, of one of Mr. Gibson’s famous drawings. The neckline was cut low—daringly low, in her estimation—and exposed an expanse of shoulders and a very little of her swelling bosom. A red satin rose was the gown’s only ornament aside from its lace, and it nestled at her waist, emphasizing its smallness. There was something about the cut of the gown, or perhaps it was the color of the satin, that coaxed a glow from her skin.

  Oh, how she wished James Drayton could see her this way instead of as he usually did, clad in her demure type-writer’s costume. How she wished he could see her as a woman and not a mere employee.

  Then she commanded herself to stop day-dreaming.

  Polly’s stern lecture subdued her fantasies, although she still stared into the mirror with a thrill of satisfaction. Never vain, she was nonetheless elated to discover how pretty she could look, at least tonight, in the soft light of her bedroom. With one last satisfied sigh, she stopped twirling and began to unhook her new delight.

  I shall wear it on Christmas Eve, she decided suddenly. Even if I never wear it again in my life, at least this Christmas Eve, with Mother, Aunt Grace, Cousin George, and Mrs. Plimsole, I will look elegant.

  Carefully, she folded the gown up in its tissue paper and wished she had some more lavender sachet. With the thought in mind to store her new-old coin
with the dress, she took it from around her neck. Holding it in her palm, she stared at its ancient etchings for some time before she closed her fingers around it.

  No. She would store the ribbon with the gown. The coin she’d carry with her. For good luck.

  She giggled at her absurdity. More than most folks, Polly MacNamara knew that luck did not abide in ancient coins.

  Some time ago, Stephen had brought Polly a St. Christopher medal from one of his many voyages. The medal now hung on a golden chain looped over her mirror. She picked up the chain now, unclasped it, and slipped her coin over its small links.

  There, she thought with contentment. Now she had two charms to wear.

  And, while she eschewed wearing jewelry as frivolous and immodest for a young lady of her age and station in life, Polly slipped the chain over her head. The two medals came to rest between her breasts, and she placed her flat palm over them. One of them felt cold against her flesh, the other warm. She didn’t have to look to tell which was which.

  # # #

  The next morning, Polly felt an unusual bounce to her step as she walked the three-quarters of a mile to her place of employment on Montgomery Street. Her mood was sunny, even though the fall weather nipped at her cheeks and chin. She still wore her charms under her chemise. The skin-warmed St. Christopher medal made her feel as though Stephen were nearby. And, although the old coin did not carry the sentimental value of the St. Christopher, she liked it, too, and enjoyed knowing it was with her. The coin didn’t need her skin to warm it; it bore its own atmosphere.

  The liveried doorman at the firm of James Drayton and Associates, Attorneys at Law, smiled as soon as he beheld Polly turn the corner onto Montgomery. With a wink and a little bow, he held the door for her.

  “Top of the morning to you, Miss MacNamara.”

  Polly loved the way Marcus O’Leary’s resonant voice trilled over the “R” in her name. At first she’d been a little put off by the drama-loving Irishman, but now she held him dear, a friend decorating a life thinly populated with friends.

  “Good day to you, Mr. O’Leary. And how are you this fine November day?”

  “Just grand, me dear. Just grand.”

  “Thanksgiving’s right around the corner. Do you plan to dine on a turkey or a goose this year?”

  “Ah, me dear. It’s turkey on Thanksgiving and goose for Christmas.” With another wink, Marcus said, “That’s the way it should be, y’know.”

  The argument was an old and amicable one. Marcus embraced firm rules about everything, from holidays to the proper way of entering a door. Polly laughed and her light-hearted mood carried her into the building.

  Her smile lasted all the way through the plush entryway of the law firm, survived a wintry scowl from Mr. Gregory, James Drayton’s personal secretary, and accompanied her into the type-writing room. Although she was usually the first of the four type-writers to arrive in the morning, Polly’s three fellows were there before her today. She’d never felt comfortable with the other women. Their lives seemed so different from hers.

  Nevertheless, she nodded, smiled a greeting and sat down. Almost immediately, she shot out of her chair and looked at the seat to see what on earth she’d just sat on.

  It was a box, slightly squashed now. Puzzled, Polly lifted it from her chair. The name “I. Magnin” slanted across the box in elegant, golden letters.

  A giggle from one of the other girls brought Polly’s head up. Apart from a knowing look on Rose O’Brian’s face, she could detect nothing amiss. Hoping for enlightenment, she asked, “Who does this belong to?”

  “Did you read the card, dearie?” Constance Pry was the only one of the three type-writers whose expression held kindness.

  Polly noticed a card tucked under the box’s gilt string for the first time, and saw her name scripted in bold, black strokes across it. She felt embarrassed as she untied the string and opened the box. There, on a nest of tissue paper, lay a pair of warm kid gloves.

  “My goodness!” She stared at the gloves, flabbergasted.

  “I’d give a good deal to know what a lady has to do to earn a gift from the boss.”

  Rose’s nasal comment carried to Polly across the silence of the room, and she looked up. “What?”

  Rose pushed herself away from her own work table and sauntered to Polly’s side. Although Polly herself had not touched the gloves, Rose picked one up and ran it through her fingers.

  “Genuine kidskin. Must have done something special, all right.” She gave Polly another wink and laughed. Then she dropped the glove beside its mate and strolled back to her table.

  “But—but who left them here?” Polly scanned the faces of her fellows. She read on them a combination of titillation and resentment, and she didn’t understand it at all.

  Deciding it must be some elaborate joke, she grinned and asked, “Whose are they really?”

  Juliana Kenny, the youngest and least compassionate of Polly’s sister type-writers, sniffed, giving Polly to understand it was no joke. Her smile faded. Picking up the card, she turned it over and over in nerveless fingers, as though hoping to discern through touch the gift-giver’s identity.

  Snickering, Juliana said cattily, “Oh, don’t play sly with us, dearie. I don’t know what you did to turn the boss up sweet, but it must have been rich.” Her thin, freckled face bore the marks of hard use and strain, although Juliana was no more than seventeen by Polly’s reckoning.

  Polly was becoming irritated by this silly mystery. “I don’t understand. To whom do these belong? They’re certainly not mine.”

  Rose sat with a flourish and rolled a sheet of foolscap into her Underwood Visible Writing Machine. She gave Polly a smile more nearly friendly than any Polly had received since she stepped into her work area. “Sweetie, all I can say is more power to you. If you can get something besides a wage from the hoity-toity Mr. James Drayton, it’s all the same to me.”

  “Mr. James . . .” The sentence died before Polly could even formulate the end of it. Out of developing habit, she placed her palm over the two charms hidden at her breast. “Oh, I wish somebody would explain this to me.”

  “I saw ‘im,” Juliana declared, resentment souring the words. “Came in here early, he did, and looked at the name plates on every table. When he came to yours, he smiled-like, and dropped the box right there. Smack on your chair.”

  “Reckon it pays to work after hours, eh, girls?” Rose winked at Constance and Juliana.

  Constance did not respond, but Juliana tittered artfully. “What I want to know is what kind of work warrants ten-dollar gloves from I. Magnin.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Polly pressed a hand to her overheated cheek.

  Oh, how could he? How dare he! Did he consider her such a pathetic creature that he had to bestow this humiliating piece of charity on her? In full view of her fellow workers, all of whom would naturally take exception to his singling her out? And their sly insinuations! Especially given their employer’s reputation with the ladies.

  Well, it was simply beyond endurance. Furious, hands shaking and nerves galloping like a runaway dray horse, Polly refolded the tissue over the gloves and closed the box. Her fingers were so unsteady it took her two attempts to retie the bow. Then she tried to smooth out the creases the box sported from having been sat on.

  Taking a deep breath to calm her jitters—which didn’t help in the least—Polly squared her shoulders and stepped toward the door of the type-writers’ workroom. Theirs was a room apart from the busy center of the law firm, a carpetless, windowless, clattering cave of a room. Polly always felt as though the type-writing staff was being hidden from the world; that they were not considered grand enough to be viewed by the wealthy San Franciscans who entered Drayton’s portals in search of legal advice. The thought daunted her.