Christmas Pie Page 8

  “Don’t waste a moment worrying about it. I was glad for the interruption.” James sat down again and stared at the dog, who was inspecting his office with noisy efficiency. “Believe me.”

  “Whew.” Raymond sank into one of the chairs opposite James’s desk. “I don’t recall ever seeing the old man here before. Does he visit often?”

  “I’ve never seen him here before, either.”

  And that circumstance both puzzled and worried James. He’d never even imagined his father actually visiting, in person, his place of business. The old man didn’t operate that way.

  “Did he tell you why he came?”

  “Yes. At least, he gave me a reason. I guess it was the truth. Although with my father, truth is a variable commodity.”

  “Well? What was it?”

  “He said he wants my law firm to represent his shipping concerns. Says he wants to switch from Forrest, Godfrey, Welles and Boston and give the business to me.”

  Raymond’s eyes opened wide. “Good heavens. That would mean a windfall for Drayton and Associates. Are you going to do it?”

  With a bark of mirthless laughter, James said, “Are you out of your mind, Raymond? It took every ounce of my determination to get out of the old man’s grasp in the first place. In fact, I had to borrow some fortitude from others and have yet to pay it back. I’m not going to sell my soul to him on purpose. Not for any amount of money.”

  Neither man said a word for a moment. Then James muttered, “That’s why he came here. He wants to control me again.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Raymond’s voice, always gentle, sounded especially so when he asked the question.

  “Why else would he come here?” James was annoyed to hear the hurt as well as the anger in his question.

  Raymond shrugged. “To make peace?”

  “Peace! My father doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Another moment of silence fell between them, broken only by the interested hound. The animal had found James’s heavy mahogany waste-paper basket by this time, and started in to disembowel it with evident delight. Grabbing one particularly tasty piece of crumpled paper in his teeth, the dog flopped down on the expensive carpet, held the wad between his front paws, and began to shred it.

  James sighed and smiled. “I swear, Raymond, what possessed you to bring that creature here.”

  “Well, you’ve been saying you’d like a dog.”

  Inspecting his friend for signs of irony and finding none, James laughed softly. “I was thinking more in terms a purebred, Raymond. I have an image to maintain, you know.”

  Raymond eyed James critically. “A poodle would never do for you, James.”

  “A poodle? Good grief. I could live this creature down before I could live down a poodle.”

  A lopsided grin split Raymond’s face. “Well, there, you see? I’ve just done you a favor.”

  James only sighed and wondered what Mrs. Pruitt, his housekeeper, would have to say about cleaning up after an ill-kempt, ill-favored, ill-mannered hound. Nothing good, he was certain.

  “I saw your type-writer at the Sisters of Benevolence this afternoon.”

  Raymond’s innocent comment lifted James’s brooding gaze away from the disgraceful hound. “Polly MacNamara?”

  “Is that her name? I’d forgotten. The one who came to your office this morning.”

  “Yes. That’s Miss MacNamara.”

  James’s interest in Polly had been deepening as the day progressed. One reason he’d stayed so long at the office was to see if he couldn’t work her out of his system. So far, he’d been singularly unsuccessful. “What was she doing there?”

  “Seems she reads to the orphans every Wednesday evening. According to Mother Francis Mary, she’s been doing it every Wednesday for two years now.”

  “Really.”

  James’s broody frown found the dog again. Hell. Now why did he have the feeling he should have expected something of the sort from his pretty type-writer? “So that’s what she does with her Wednesday evenings.”

  Gratitude that Polly was not seeing a gentleman on her free evenings butted head-on with James’s irritation that her Wednesday-night occupation should correspond so closely with his own charitable inclinations. James had spent most of his adult life ridding himself of complications, and he’d done a remarkably good job of it. Wealthy beyond avarice, free of his father’s overbearing dominance, he had established a reputation that held all but his closest friends at a comfortable distance.

  He had women when he wanted them, and for none of them did he feel more than a brief hot flicker of carnal desire. He wanted nothing more. Why did he suddenly have the gut-sinking feeling that Polly MacNamara was a complication sent by the fates to test his fortitude and character?

  Although he hated himself for asking, he said, “How long does she stay? It must be very late when she leaves. Does she have a safe way home?”

  “Oh, yes. Mother Francis Mary sends her home in Billy Peabody’s wagon, straight to her door. I asked because it worried me, thinking she had to walk home alone after dark.”

  “Good man, Raymond.”

  Raymond cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Yes. Well, anyway, Billy takes her home in the wagon.”

  “Well, well, well.” James stared at the dog doing mischief on his office carpet.

  Then he recalled he and Raymond had begun an experiment that very day and his attention left the hound and reverted to his friend. He chose to ignore the perceptive grin Raymond was giving him. “How did it go today? Did the boys work as well as they said they would?”

  Raymond’s grin transformed from one of conspiracy to one of satisfaction. He breathed a deep, contented sigh. “They did better than even I expected, James. I guess they really meant it when they said they wanted to earn an honest wage.”

  Pleasure overtook James’s worries. “Good. That’s good. If they continue to work out so well, perhaps we’ll be able to expand the program; find some other institution that can use help. Hell, even businesses. Why, I’ll warrant there’s more than one soft-hearted businessman in San Francisco who’d be willing to employ the services of a young man who’s made a mistake and is willing to make up for it.”

  “Don’t judge too many people by yourself, James,” advised Raymond, sounding much more caustic than he usually did. “There are more hard-headed people out there than soft-hearted ones.”

  With a grin and a shrug, James said, “Well, I don’t know why a body can’t be both.”

  Raymond only laughed.

  # # #

  At ten o’clock that evening, as James held the seductively swaying Cynthia Ingram in his arms and waltzed her around the Crockers’ impressive ballroom, his mind was not on his partner. Several times he had occasion to be grateful to his boyhood dancing lessons when something in the room captured his attention and he realized he’d been keeping to the beat of the music without thinking.

  “James, darling,” Cynthia purred in his ear, “I believe your mind is elsewhere this evening.”

  “Mmmm?” James peered down at her and smiled.

  A beautiful woman, older than he, practiced in all the arts and artifices of seduction, Cynthia was a widow and a merry one. She graced James’s arms and bed more often than any other lady of his acquaintance. He even harbored faint affection for her, although he seriously doubted hers for him. He had no doubt at all, however, that Cynthia cared a great deal for his wealth.

  “Sorry, my dear,” he said in the artificial voice he used during these tedious social occasions.

  With an accomplished pout, Cynthia cooed, “It’s not very flattering when one’s partner prefers staring at the walls to one’s eyes.”

  James gave her an extra whirl and forced a laugh. “Ah, my sweet, you know better than that.”

  “Do I?”

  Cynthia peered at him through artfully lowered lids. James figured she knew her lush lashes made her sapphire eyes look especially alluring from that angle, a
nd he generally appreciated her flirtation. Tonight, though, he was hard-pressed to keep from yawning.

  Almost by rote, he whispered, “Of course you know it.”

  “Are you bored with the party, dearest?”

  “A little,” he lied. He was bored to death, is what he was.

  “I believe I can offer an alternative you might find more alluring.” Her warm breath caressed his cheek.

  James found his first genuine grin of the evening. “I’m absolutely sure of it, my love.”

  Cynthia had taught him more about the mysteries of love-making than any of his other amours. He often thought he owed her a good deal for that alone although, since he was a generous man, he felt in no debt to her now.

  He also found himself peculiarly indifferent this evening. Although he knew Cynthia didn’t expect him to speak words of love or, thank God, spend the night with her after their liaisons, he couldn’t seem to drum up much enthusiasm for such an interlude tonight.

  His thoughts seemed to spin exclusively around the prim, virginal Miss Polly MacNamara. Had done ever since he picked her up on that sloppy Chinatown street yesterday. He’d never been much interested in virgins. Still wasn’t, if it came to that.

  This attraction of his had nothing to do with Polly’s innocence, however. Rather, it had to do with her character. He’d never before met a woman who fascinated him so much.

  Damn.

  Chapter Five

  Polly decided Thursday afternoon after work would be a perfect time for her to drop into the curio shop in Chinatown. She wanted to thank her elderly benefactress properly for giving her the pretty coin which she had come to like so much.

  The air was as thick and milky as barley water when Polly approached Grant Avenue. She didn’t mind the weather, though. A San Francisco native, she was used to the city’s famous fogs although such a dense atmosphere was unusual during the autumn. She felt her coin warm against her skin, and was glad to have it.

  Peeking over her shoulder, she discerned Lawrence Bullock striding manfully along Montgomery Street. She frowned as she turned the corner onto Grant. There was something not entirely pleasing about Mr. Bullock, although Polly couldn’t put her finger on any one quality that disturbed her.

  He’d held the door for her as she left work this evening and smiled winningly as she passed by. There certainly was nothing in his manners to give her this uneasy feeling, but it nibbled at her, nevertheless.

  Now if it had been James Drayton who had smiled at her in that way—but, no. Polly wouldn’t allow herself such fabulous thoughts; they led only to unhappiness.

  “I’m just imagining things,” she muttered as she walked swiftly up the street. “Oh, there it is.”

  She felt very cheery when she neared the shop. There was such an inviting air about the place. Pushing the door open, she heard the familiar tinkle of the bell, and as soon as she entered the faint fragrance of sandalwood teased her nostrils.

  An elderly gentleman sitting behind the counter on a tall stool nodded to Polly. His embroidered cap caught the lamplight and when the cap’s shiny threads flung the light back into the room, Polly entertained the whimsical impression of muted fireworks. The effect was charming, and she gave the old man a big smile.

  “Good evening.”

  With a small formal bow, the old gentleman said, “Good evening, lady.” He wore his white hair in the Chinese manner and his long, tidy braid bounced against his dark blue shirt when his head bobbed.

  Polly walked up to the counter and saw that his parchment-colored hands held several cards, the backs of which were ornamented with intricate Chinese patterns. He laid them on the counter and spread them out face up, as though he wished Polly to inspect them. Then he poked at one of the cards with a long, thin finger and peered at Polly with the twinkliest black eyes she’d ever beheld.

  “Sad news. Happy news. Love. Contented life. Good fortune, Missy. Good fortune.” His voice sounded as creaky as a rusty hinge, but he smiled and gave her a cheerful chuckle after his announcement.

  Polly blinked at him. Was he talking to her? About her own future? Unsure what to say, she managed a sociable, “Is that what you see in the cards?”

  The old man nodded with a good deal of vigor and gave her another blithe chuckle. “Good fortune. Happy life.”

  Hoping he was merely eccentric and not a dangerous lunatic, and also wishing to be polite, Polly asked, “And whose good fortune and happy life do the cards foretell?”

  He pointed his skinny finger straight at Polly’s heart. “You.”

  “Me?”

  Another creaky chuckle accompanied his, “You.” Then he seemed to find the whole matter tremendously amusing. He slapped his knee and chortled so hard he had to wipe a tear from his withered cheek.

  “Oh, my.” Polly wondered if one were supposed to thank a seer for predicting a rosy future and decided it couldn’t do any harm, so she tacked on, “Thank you very much.”

  As soon as the old man’s attack of levity abated, he said, “Old lady not here tonight.”

  “Oh, bother.” Then Polly realized what he’d just said and gaped at him. “How did you know I wanted to talk to her?”

  Her question provoked another spate of rusty chuckles. “She be back when you need.”

  Polly was beginning to feel as though she’d stepped into some melodramatic production and didn’t know her lines. “When—when I need?”

  He nodded again, enthusiastically. “When you need.”

  “When I need.” Good heavens.

  “Yes. Yes. When you need.”

  The old man collected his cards from the counter top with a swish and hopped down from his stool, smiling at Polly all the while. Then he gave her a delighted nod and hobbled through the beaded curtain into the back of the shop.

  Polly watched him go and wondered if she should stop him and attempt to wrest some sense out of him. There were apparently no lights on back there and the old gentleman seemed to vanish as soon as the beads clacked together behind him. It was an odd visual illusion, and Polly shook her head and blinked to try to clear away the image.

  It wouldn’t be cleared, though, and she found herself alone. She wasn’t surprised when silence settled on the shop again and nobody else appeared. She heard the front doorknob rattle, as if someone planned to enter. She glanced at the door, but it remained shut.

  Peering around the shop and wondering what to do, she noticed one or two items she’d missed the day before yesterday. In the hope that somebody else would come out from behind the beaded curtain, Polly decided she’d peruse the shop’s wares. Maybe if she waited a moment or two the old lady would show up and she could thank her in person. Of course, the elderly man said she wasn’t there, but since he couldn’t know who Polly wanted to see, how could he be sure?

  She shut her eyes and shook her head once more, trying to rid it of cobwebs. Why on earth was she even trying to make sense of the old man’s ramblings?

  Still, it was pleasant to be told one’s future was bright, she guessed. Even if the soothsayer did seem to be a little crazy.

  After waiting as long as she dared, Polly sighed and decided she’d just have to come back and thank the old lady yet another day. Her mother worried so when she was late. She opened the front door and started up Grant Street.