Christmas Pie Read online

  Trying very hard to keep her mettle fired up, Polly lifted her chin and looked neither to the right nor to the left when her foot sank into the plush carpeting of the law clerks’ room. She knew they all raised their heads to stare at her. Type-writers never entered the clerks’ room; they were brought work by the clerks and their assistants, who then picked it up again when it was finished.

  It was as though type-writing were a communicable disease, Polly sometimes thought in her few dour moods.

  Not today. Today Polly marched through the double row of clerks with purpose. She was proud when her hand barely trembled as she turned the knob to enter the sanctuary of the Associates, Drayton, Cobb, and Bullock.

  Chapter Three

  As soon as the door opened to reveal this most sacred of inner-sancta, Polly’s fortitude almost failed her.

  Oh, Lord, what had she been thinking of?

  While it was true she was proud of her self-sufficiency in a world where women were more often than not at the mercy of men, it was also true she was not accustomed to running blithely into the jaws of danger. James Drayton’s office bore all the earmarks of such a jaw.

  Maybe she should have taken the gloves to Marcus O’Leary and asked him to give them to Mr. Drayton. Or sent them back to him in the parcel post. Now that she was here, this visit seemed most imprudent. After all, she thought with a gulp of dismay, who was she to visit him in his lair as though she were not a mere type-writer, but a woman of merit in the world?

  Too late. The heavy carved-oak door shut behind her with an expensive click and Mr. Gregory looked up. It didn’t take a woman as acute as Polly MacNamara to realize Gregory resented this intrusion.

  Pinning her with a malicious glare, he barked, “What are you doing here?”

  Polly had the vivid impression his intention was to cow her. It worked. She fought the urge to shrink back against the door.

  Then, with a mental kick for her trepidation, Polly took a deep, sustaining breath, and stood up straight. Whatever her circumstances, she was Miss Pauline Lillian MacNamara, daughter of her mother and father and, as such, a valuable member of the human race. In spite of anything Mr. Gregory or his overbearing employer, Mr. James Drayton, might think.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Drayton,” she said in a voice that, miracle of miracles, wobbled not at all.

  Mr. Gregory snatched his half-glasses from his ferret-like face and sneered at her. “My dear Miss MacNamara, type-writers employed by the firm of Drayton and Associates do not speak to the Senior Partner.”

  Gregory’s nasty attitude ate away at Polly’s nervousness and exposed the grit beneath. Polly drew herself up as tall as she could and glared right back at Mr. Gregory.

  “Nevertheless, I need to speak to Mr. Drayton. If he is not immediately available, I shall wait.”

  So saying, and with a pert flounce, Polly passed a hand behind her skirt and sat, ramrod-straight, on a wing chair placed in the office to hold the bottoms of people more exalted than she. She knew her cheeks were pink, this time with indignation, and she didn’t care. Much.

  In order to keep her anger stoked, she maintained her stony glare at Mr. Gregory. His was a countenance that did not invite scrutiny, being weak-chinned and pointy. He reminded Polly of a rat, and she held the thought close to her heart for courage.

  Of its own, her hand lifted to her breast. She could barely feel her two medals, but it made her feel better knowing they were there. Pressing gently, she wished James Drayton would open his door and notice her, since Mr. Gregory did not seem inclined to announce her presence.

  Just as she’d begun to wonder if she should boldly walk to her employer’s door and knock, another office door burst open and Lawrence Bullock’s ruddy, athletic self emerged. Polly looked up abruptly and was embarrassed all over again when Mr. Bullock, spying her, stopped short. A too-delighted smile spread across his handsome face.

  “Well, well, well, and what have we here, Gregory?”

  Mr. Bullock’s well-oiled voice exuded pleasantness, but Polly did not like it. Nor did she like the way his gaze slid over her body, as though he knew exactly what lay beneath her demure frock and itched to uncover it. She gave him a small frown.

  “Miss MacNamara says she needs to see Mr. Drayton, Mr. Bullock.”

  Gregory’s nasal monotone conveyed none of the unpleasantness he’d used on her, but Polly could hear it anyway. Implication and insinuation oozed from each twanging syllable, and she shot him what she hoped was a withering glare.

  “Does she now?”

  To Polly’s consternation, Lawrence Bullock advanced upon her and held out a tanned and healthy-looking hand.

  “Come along, my dear. I’ll take you to James. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

  Polly did not care to be called “my dear.” Nor did she care for the way Bullock emphasized the word “delighted.” Nevertheless, although her hands did not want to leave the safety of each other’s firm though increasingly panicky grasp, Polly lifted one. It was almost immediately engulfed by the moist, meaty grip of Lawrence Bullock. She stood on unsteady legs and was grateful nobody but she could tell her knees shook.

  Lawrence Bullock tucked her arm beneath his and, Polly thought, held it entirely too close to his robust side as he led her to James’s office door. There he rapped sharply twice and then pressed the gilt handle.

  The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges to reveal James Drayton in deep conversation with a slender Chinese gentleman. Polly had time only to register surprise at the remarkable pair before James’s head snapped up and he cast an annoyed-looking glance at the door.

  Polly felt her cheeks burn, but was encouraged when James’s glare for Bullock transformed into a smile for her. A little uncertainly, she smiled back.

  James stood and walked out from behind his desk. “And to what do I owe this great pleasure, Miss MacNamara?” Less cordially, he demanded, “What are you up to, Bullock?”

  Before Polly could form a single word, Lawrence Bullock said, “This charming damsel was wasting away in the waiting room, James. Said she needed to speak to you and, as Gregory didn’t seem inclined to announce her, I felt it my duty to see her to your office.”

  There were currents and innuendoes rampant in Bullock’s tone of voice that Polly could not fathom. Nor was she reassured when he gave James a sly wink. Her cheeks felt warmer. When Bullock leaned over to whisper something in James’s ear and James gave him a ferocious scowl, she fought the urge to flee.

  “That’s enough of your nonsense, Bullock. And I’d better not hear any hints of it outside these doors, either.”

  “Of course not, old man.” Bullock gave James a large, insouciant grin. “Well, I’d better get back to work. I’ll just leave the two of you—” a glance at the nearly forgotten Chinese man made him amend his sentence. “That is to say, I’ll just leave the three of you alone.” Another wink saw him out the door.

  Polly couldn’t recall the last time she’d been this uncomfortable, unless it was last night, in James Drayton’s horseless carriage. She didn’t know what to say.

  Although James still appeared annoyed, he said pleasantly enough, “May I help you, Miss MacNamara?”

  With an appraising glance at the Chinese man, Polly hesitated a second, then said, “I—I wanted to talk to you about this.”

  Feeling very small and extraordinarily foolish, she held up the somewhat crumpled box full of gloves. James looked at the box and a flash of irritation passed over his patrician face. Polly suppressed a cowardly impulse to tuck in her chin and stare at the floor, and kept her gaze firmly affixed to James’s face.

  With a brusque gesture, James motioned to the Chinese gentleman. When he rose from his chair, Polly decided he was quite young, about her own age, which was twenty-one.

  James spoke to the young man as he walked back to his desk. “Well, Raymond, I guess our business is finished anyway. Are there any more points you want to discuss before you gather our strays together?” />
  Polly noticed James’s smile for the person named Raymond was much more friendly than his smile for Lawrence Bullock had been. How curious.

  “Don’t think so, James.” Raymond gathered up the welter of papers spread out on James Drayton’s desk.

  Then he offered Polly a shy smile and a nod. She smiled and nodded back.

  James noticed their nods and his vexation bloomed. Damn, what had possessed this idiot girl to come to his office? And what had possessed her to accept the escort of Lawrence Bullock, the loosest screw in James’s entire business enterprise? The only reason he tolerated Bullock at all was because he was the son of a gentleman whom James believed to have been gravely mistreated by James’s father. Not that he could rescue all such people, for they were legion. Nevertheless, if Bullock didn’t begin to pull his considerable weight around the law firm soon, James would have to take action.

  Dealing with the situation at hand, he said, “Miss MacNamara, let me introduce you to my friend and colleague Raymond Sing. Raymond, Miss Polly MacNamara. Miss MacNamara is the top type-writer in our law firm.”

  He smiled, but was pretty sure Polly knew he didn’t mean it. She looked intolerably nervous. And annoyed, a circumstance he couldn’t fathom at all.

  “How do you do, Mr. Sing?”

  James was pleased to see her hold out a hand for Raymond to shake. Many white ladies were not so gracious. Considered themselves superior to their Chinese brethren. Like his father. James frowned.

  “Good day, Miss MacNamara.”

  Raymond and Polly shook hands and then Raymond beat a quick retreat.

  Standing behind his desk, James gestured Polly into a chair. “Please, Miss MacNamara, have a seat.” Attempting a polite smile, he said, “I see you found the gloves.”

  Polly sat down and then rose abruptly, as though she’d sat on a tack. “Yes. And—and—well, thank you very much, but I cannot accept this gift.” She walked to his desk and held out the box.

  James stared at the box without taking it. Her hand shook and it looked to him as though she were embarrassed about it because with a quick gesture, she placed the box on his blotter and then withdrew her hands and clasped in front of her. She looked intolerably ill at ease.

  Slowly, James fingered the box. “Did they not fit, Miss MacNamara?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Drayton. I didn’t try them on.”

  Cocking his head in honest bewilderment, James asked, “Why not? You need them; I saw that for myself.”

  Actually, he’d been extremely pleased with himself when he’d passed I. Magnin last night after dropping Raymond off and noticed the display of gloves in the window. Acting on an impulse motivated solely by kindness, he decided his pretty, fleet-fingered type-writer should not have to wander about town gloveless. Besides, what was ten dollars to him?

  Peering up at Polly, who stood stiff as a hockey stick before his desk, he took note of the expression in her eyes. Her eyes were the most marvelously expressive ones he’d ever seen. Right now they expressed disapproval. Well, well.

  Acting on his prior experience with ladies, James asked softly, “Is it the color, Miss MacNamara? Would you prefer a different shade?”

  Her own color brightened considerably at his question, and he realized with surprise that the red patches on her cheeks were banners of anger.

  “Of course not! I can’t accept them, Mr. Drayton. I simply can’t. I-I suppose I should thank you, but I cannot.”

  “Why on earth not, for heaven’s sake?”

  This was ludicrous, and James’s patience was wearing thin. He certainly didn’t mind giving this poor maiden a ride on a rainy evening. And he garnered a certain degree of benevolent good-humor about the gloves. But he’d be damned if he was going to allow this chit of a type-writer to make more of his kindly gesture than necessary.

  As though her emotions would not allow her to stand still a second longer, Polly turned abruptly. Pacing a circle before his desk she said, “I just can’t. It’s—it’s not done.”

  “It’s not done?” Still fingering the I. Magnin box, James sat back in his chair, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “I don’t believe I quite understand, Miss MacNamara.”

  He hadn’t expected this coy gesture from Polly MacNamara. Now if it had been one of the other girls, perhaps he might have anticipated it. But not Polly, who had always seemed aloof and oh, so proper. He felt monumentally disappointed.

  “I can assure you that my motives are pure. I don’t expect payment in trade for a pair of gloves.” James flipped the box in a negligent gesture intended to indicate just how little they meant to him.

  Polly stopped pacing suddenly. Her gasp of outrage made him think perhaps he’d done that and more.

  “Oh! what a—what a perfectly horrid thing to say!”

  Cheeks afire, she whirled away from James’s desk and headed toward the door. Since she was unused to the catch and fumbled trying to open it, he was able to dash over to her before she could escape. His big hand covered hers for only a second before she snatched it away from him and hid it behind her back.

  “I would like to leave now, Mr. Drayton,” she said tightly.

  “Not until you explain to me why these gloves are so damned important that you refuse to accept them. They were meant as a gesture of friendship, nothing more.”

  “Friendship? There is no friendship between us, Mr. Drayton. There cannot be. You are my employer. I accepted a ride home from you yesterday. Perhaps I should not have done so. I certainly did not intend to stir your sympathies or—or to imply that I need anything from you other than an honest wage for honest work.”

  Her lovely eyes were snapping fire now, and James was reminded of red-hot cinnamon candies. “Well, of course you didn’t,” he growled, aggravated that she’d read his suspicions correctly. They sounded mean-spirited and jaded when spoken aloud.

  “My mother and I do not require charity, Mr. Drayton. The wage you pay is perfectly adequate. Thank you for the thought.”

  “For heaven’s sake! The wage is certainly not adequate, if you can’t even afford to buy yourself a pair of gloves!”

  “Mr. Drayton, I may not be rich. I may have expenses that are out of the ordinary because of my mother’s illness, but I can assure you that I do not require gestures of pity from you or anybody else.”

  Polly took an agitated turn around his office while he watched, fascinated.

  “And to leave them on my chair! For pity’s sake, didn’t you give a single thought to what the other type-writers must think of such behavior on your part?”

  “What do you mean by that, Miss MacNamara?”

  She stopped suddenly. “What do I mean? Why, what do you think I mean. They all think we’re carrying on some sort of clandestine affair or something!”

  She apparently shocked herself by blurting out such an incredible supposition, because her cheeks flamed anew. Although James considered the scenario she painted absurd, he was charmed by her straightforward confession, and smiled. Obviously his smile offended her because she uttered a frustrated “Ohhhh,” and stamped her foot. He thought that was cute, too.

  Then she made an odd gesture, one James did not understand. Putting her hand to her breast she whispered angrily, “Oh, I wish you could understand!”

  All at once, James understood. As clear and brilliant as lightning, comprehension flashed into his brain and burned itself into his consciousness.