Wife for Hire (5 page)

Hank looked at her more closely. “Something wrong with your eyebrow?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It's twitching.”

“Oh no! Oh, that's just great.” She slapped her hand over half of her face. “Now on top of everything else your parents will know I'm a twitcher. Tell me the truth. Do you think this could get any worse?”

Aunt Marvina's voice carried in from the dining room. “For goodness sakes, it's Fluffy! And she's skulking around looking scared to death.”

“Fluffy?” Hank and Maggie mouthed the word in unison.

Maggie groaned. “I must have left my bedroom door open.” Her hand clamped back onto his shirtfront. “Horatio's outside, isn't he?”

“Horatio is under the dining room table.”

There was a bloodcurdling cat screech, and Hank and Maggie rushed to the dining room. Fluffy was backed into a corner. Her ears were flat back to her head, and she growled low in her throat. It was a sound that would put fear into the heart of any living creature…with the possible exception of Horatio.

Horatio bounded up to the cat, gave a joyful bark and pinned the cat with one heavy paw. There was another feline growl, followed by a quick right claw to the snoot. Horatio yelped in pain and Fluffy took off, climbing up the first available object—Harry Mallone's rigid back.

Horatio snapped at the cat, and Fluffy hurled herself onto the table, knocking over a candlestick. In an instant the white linen tablecloth was a wall of flames. Hank grabbed a corner and yanked the tablecloth into the kitchen and through the back door, leaving a trail of singed food and broken crockery.

Everyone followed Hank outside and circled
the little bonfire of food and linen that was burning on the back lawn. Their eyes glazed over in rapt fascination and their jaws went slack in stupid silence as the buttermilk biscuits burned one by one, then the carrots and broccoli and, last but not least, the beef incinerated.

So this is what my first dinner party is reduced to, Maggie thought. A bunch of people standing around watching a rump roast burn. She had a ridiculous urge to sing camp songs and checked to see if anyone else was smiling. Only Hank was.

Their gazes caught and held, and Maggie felt her heart begin to beat faster. She couldn't remember a man ever looking at her quite that way. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were hungry and possessive. There was a moment of perfect understanding, a meeting of minds and emotions, and an acknowledgment of genuine affection that passed between them.

The rump roast got boring after a while. It had burned itself into a charred chunk about the size of a baseball. It was black enough to look like a Cajun delicacy and had the density of a meteorite.

“So,” Maggie said, “anyone ready for dessert?”

“I think I'll pass,” Linda Sue said. “I have to be getting on home now.”

Holly tiptoed around the mashed potatoes on the back porch, following Linda Sue. “Yeah, me too. This has been great, but it's getting late.”

Harry Mallone clamped a hand on his son's shoulder. It was a gesture of condolence usually reserved for sickrooms, wakes, and the passing on of a severance check.

Hank chose to ignore the obvious. “About that loan—”

Helen Mallone gave Maggie a hug. “I'm going to take Harry home now, and don't worry about the roast, dear. Hank never was much of one for leftovers. Maybe it's all worked out for the best,” she said gently.

Elsie met Maggie in the kitchen. “Do I smell something burning?”

Maggie sniffed the air. “I think that's the pot roast. Fluffy knocked over a candlestick and the tablecloth caught fire. Hank dragged it all out into the backyard.”

Elsie looked through the screen door at the smoldering rubbish. “It don't look so bad. You didn't burn down anything important. Is that black chunk the pot roast?”

“Yup.”

“I've eaten worse,” Elsie said.

Half an hour later the remains of the fire had been shoveled into a garbage bag, the floors were fresh scrubbed, and the unbroken dishes had been washed and dried. Mabel and Aunt Marvina, Elsie, Hank, and Maggie sat at the kitchen table, eating pie and ice cream.

“I remember my first party as a new bride,” Mabel Toone said. “I'd only been married for three weeks and I had dinner for fourteen on Christmas Eve.”

“I can see it like it was yesterday,” Marvina said. “I wore that green velvet dress with the rhinestones on the bodice. Everything was perfect, except that Great-aunt Sophie had too much to drink and fell into the pineapple upside-down cake. Her elbow slipped off the table,” Marvina explained, “and Sophie went face first into the whipped cream. It made a terrible mess.”

“We didn't mean to interfere with
your
party,” Mabel said to Maggie. “It's just that we were worried about you, so we came to check up.”

“Mom, I'm twenty-seven years old. I can take care of myself.”

“You left in such a hurry, and all you said was that you were going to live with this man in Vermont. We weren't even sure you were getting married. There's something fishy here. Are you…?”

Maggie put her finger on her fluttering eyebrow. “No. I'm not pregnant.”

Mabel Toone looked Hank over. “Did he force you into this? Did he kidnap you? He looks a little shifty to me.”

“I wasn't kidnapped,” Maggie said. “I needed a quiet place to write my book, and Hank sort of showed up…”

Mabel looked horrified. “You mean you got married so you could write a book?”

“Yes. No!” She didn't want her mother to worry about her. And she didn't want her mother to think she was an idiot. “I got married because…I wanted to.”

Hank inched his chair closer to Maggie and slung his arm around her shoulders. “Love at first sight,” he told Mabel. “As soon as we saw each other we knew this was it.” He gave Maggie a big, loud kiss on the top of the head. “Go ahead, buttercup, tell your mother how much you love me.”

“Uh…I love him lots.”

Mabel didn't look convinced. “I don't know.”

Hank loosened his hold on Maggie. His chin rested against the mass of orange curls over her ear, and his voice grew softer, more serious.

“I know this must be difficult for you, Mrs. Toone. You're worried about Maggie, and I don't blame you. We shouldn't have been so secretive about our romance, but the truth is, it sort of took us by surprise. I think it would be nice if you and Aunt Marvina could stay with us for a few days. I'd like the opportunity to get to know you better.”

His fingertips lightly combed through the
wisps of hair at Maggie's temple, and a rush of tenderness for the woman he held in his arms almost left him breathless. “I love your daughter,” he told Mabel Toone. “And I intend to take very, very good care of her.”

“I guess a mother couldn't ask for more than that,” Mabel said. “It's nice of you to invite us to stay, but we've got a room at one of those bed-and-breakfast places, and then we've got to get back to Riverside. Marvina has an appointment to get a permanent on Thursday, and nobody will water my plants. Besides,” she said with a broad smile, “I know how it is with newlyweds.”

Hank made a masculine sound of appreciation. It hummed against Maggie's ear, sending vibrations all the way to the soles of her feet. In spite of all her good resolve, she felt herself relax into him.

It was almost impossible not to like Hank Mallone. He might be a womanizer and a schemer, but he was also sensitive and charming and there was something about Hank Mallone that touched her. He didn't just heat her blood—he also warmed her soul. It was nice, and it was sad. And it was infuriating
that he'd lied so smoothly about loving her. Hank Mallone was a rascal, she thought.

“Well,” Mabel said, “we should be getting on. The pie was delicious,” she said to Elsie. She gave her daughter a kiss and hugged her son-in-law. “You keep in touch.”

“They're nice people,” Hank said when he and Maggie were left alone on the front porch. “They really care about you.”

He was being generous, Maggie decided. He could have said they were meddlesome. “You think I'm a bad daughter?”

He laughed. “No. I think you're struggling to find a balance between being a daughter and being an in de pen dent adult. And I think you're mother's struggling to relate to an adult child.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked. “Do you think your father will give you the loan?”

“I don't know. He didn't look too happy when he left.” He tugged at an orange curl. “I don't suppose you'd consider getting pregnant?”

“No. I don't suppose I would.”

“Just checking.”

 

Maggie was used to hearing cars leaving the parking lot first thing in the morning. She was used to the sound of the garbagemen emptying the dumpster, and to hearing old Mr. Kucharski's smoker's cough, as he shuffled overhead from bedroom to bathroom. They were sounds she'd always hated, and it surprised her to find that she missed them. She dragged herself out of bed, shrugged into a worn navy T-shirt and cutoff gray sweats, and padded barefoot to the kitchen, following the smell of fresh-made coffee.

Hank was already at the table. He looked up and groaned. His worst fears and best fantasies were coming home to roost. Maggie Toone was a vision of morning allure with her mussed hair and sleep-softened face. She poured herself a cup of coffee and immediately took a sip. She'd been about to say something, but the plea sure of that first sip of coffee erased all thought. Instead, she smiled and gave a contented sigh.

Elsie took a tray of homemade cinnamon rolls from the oven and knocked them out into a napkin-lined basket. “Don't think I'm going to do this every day,” she said. “It's just that I felt like eating cinnamon buns this morning.”

Maggie sniffed at them. “They smell great.”

“Yeah, they're pretty good,” Elsie said. “There's
cereal in the cupboard and juice in the refrigerator. You're supposed to be a wife, so I guess you could help yourself.” She took a bun and broke it up in a bowl for Horatio. “He's got a sweet tooth,” she said to Hank.

“Yeah,” Hank said, “and you've got a soft heart.”

“Well, don't let it get around,” Elsie said. “People take advantage.”

A huge bear of a man ambled through the back door. “Howdy,” he said. “Smells like cinnamon buns here. Boy, I love cinnamon buns.”

Elsie looked at Hank. “He belong to you?”

“Afraid so. This is my best friend, Bubba.”

Bubba turned his attention to Maggie. “Wow,” he said softly. “I don't mean to stare, but what happened to the rest of your pants?”

Maggie tugged at the cutoff sweats. “I wasn't expecting company.”

“I'm not company,” Bubba said. “I'm Bubba.”

“I'm Maggie,” she said, shaking his hand.

Bubba took a cinnamon bun and tore off a huge chunk. “So, why'd you have to go and get married?” he said to Hank. “One day you just disappeared, and we all thought you got run out of town by some husband, or something. Then next thing here you are married.” He
leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Is she pregnant?”

“No. I'm not pregnant,” Maggie said. “Do you want coffee?”

“Do bears crap in the woods?” Bubba said grinning.

Maggie rolled her eyes and poured the coffee. “I'd like to stay and chat, but I have work to do.” She took a roll and her coffee and eased herself out of the kitchen.

“She's pretty,” Bubba said, “but I still don't see why you had to marry her.”

“She just begged and begged,” Hank told him. “It was pitiful.”

Maggie paused halfway to the stairs and considered going back into the kitchen to strangle her fake husband. He had a diabolical sense of humor, and he loved provoking her. Strangling would be satisfying, she thought, but it involved touching, and probably it was best to avoid physical contact. Once she got started there was no telling what she might do.

 

By ten-thirty she was flying through Chapter One. Bubba had left and Hank was working in his orchard with a machine that was going “thunk, thunk, thunk.” The day's heat was
filtering through the open window as Maggie tapped a sentence into her computer. She paused to study what she'd written.

She supposed most people would frown on what Aunt Kitty had done, but she didn't feel it was her place to judge. Aunt Kitty had lived to be ninety-three years old, and Maggie had known her as an old woman. She'd been kind, intelligent, and in love with life. Her diary had been filled with wonderful trivia, pressed flowers, romantic images, and from time to time the confessions of self-doubt and regret of a woman who'd spent the prime of her life in disrepute.

The bulk of the diary consisted of the day-to-day business of running a bordello, and this is what Maggie found most fascinating: The number of linens purchased, the salary of the piano player, the garters ordered from a specialty shop in New Orleans, the bills from the iceman, coal company, green grocer. Mixed in with all of this were descriptions of customers, hilarious anecdotes, and trade secrets that were for the most part unpublishable.

Two hours later Hank stood in the open door to Maggie's study and watched her work. She
looked completely absorbed in her project. She was typing rapidly, occasionally referring to the pad at her elbow, occasionally stopping to read from the screen. She muttered something and gestured with her hand. She shook her head and began typing again.

Desire slid through him. If he hadn't been holding her lunch in his hand, he might have locked the door behind him and taken his chances. As it was, he watched her for a moment more, trying to understand her determination.

He found it hard to take this writing business seriously. Maybe if she'd wanted to write science fiction, or a book for kids…but a book about a madam? It seemed more like a hobby or a whim to him. Like looking up your genealogy. And it seemed presumptuous to simply sit down to write a book. He imagined there were skills to be learned, a style to be developed. It probably wasn't much different from growing apple trees, he thought. First you had to acquire a lot of knowledge, and then you had to make a lot of mistakes.

In the meantime she was going to be the scandal of Skogen, and she was going to ruin his last chance to get a loan. He should be furious. But he wasn't. He understood about crazy ideas
and substituting enthusiasm for expertise. And he was head over heels in love with her.

He rapped on the doorjamb to get her attention. “I brought you some lunch,” he said.

She put her hand to her heart. “You startled me!”

“Mmmm. You look pretty wrapped up in this. How's it going?”

“Great! I've researched and planned this book for two years, and it's practically writing itself. I've had it all in my head, you see—” She bit into the egg salad sandwich. “Probably when I get farther into the book it'll slow down, but it's so satisfying to finally see it on the screen.”

“Do I get to read it?”

“When I'm farther along.” She wolfed down her sandwich, drank her iced tea, and wiped her mouth. “That was good. Thanks. I didn't realize I was so hungry.”

Hank took the plate and the empty glass. “Elsie's going into town. She wants to know if you need anything.”

“Nope. I'm fine.”

He hated to leave her. He wanted to stay and talk and learn about all the horrible things she did as a kid. He wanted to know if she was ever
afraid or lonely or discouraged. He wanted to know about the men in her life and how she felt about babies. He searched for an excuse to prolong lunch.

“Would you like dessert? Elsie made chocolate chip cookies this morning.”

“I'm absolutely stuffed. Maybe later.”

“Okay, 'bye.”

 

It was six o'clock and Elsie was bustling around the kitchen. “We got chicken soup for supper tonight,” she said, slapping plates and bowls onto the kitchen table. “There's corn bread in the oven and chocolate pudding in the refrigerator for dessert.”

Hank looked at the two place settings. “Aren't you eating with us? Is there something good on television again?”

“I got a date. I met this nice young man in town today. He don't look a day over sixty-five. We're going to get a burger, and then he said there's a bingo game in Mount Davie.”