A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS

by Barbara Daly

  "Until now."

  "We're still keeping our mouths shut."

  "You want me to talk to Benton."

  "I know you'll do the right thing."

  Hope was embarrassed to feel tears in her eyes. "I don't know what made you think you could trust me," she said haltingly, "but I feel—honored." It was the best word she could think of. "Magnolia Heights is your home, isn't it."

  "No. My mother's. You went there."

  She nodded.

  "You saw what it was like."

  She nodded again. A leaden feeling came over her. "So there is something wrong with the pipe."

  "Ask Mr. Quayle."

  She'd have to. Didn't want to, wasn't looking forward to it, but she had to live up to Slidell's opinion of her.

  "Benton," she said a few minutes later, poling her head through the doorway, "can you give me a minute?"

  "Sure." He looked as if he'd rather give her a kick in the rear end.

  She stepped in, closed the door behind her and sat down opposite him.

  "You're looking festive today," he said.

  "I'm not feeling festive," she said, "and I suspect you aren't, either."

  "Oh, every company has its legal battles, its little setbacks," Benton said, gesturing vaguely. "We'll get through it."

  "Benton," she said gently, "I think there is something wrong with Number 12867. You know it, at least one person at Stockwell Plumbing knows it. Cap Waldstrum discovered it and he's blackmailing both of you."

  Frightened, suddenly, by what she might have done, Hope watched the red flush climb Benton's face, watched his features harden. But his eyes told her he was stunned, confused. He looked like a hunted animal.

  "It's you," he said. "You're the one who infiltrated my private communications. You. The last person I would ever have suspected."

  "That part was an accident," Hope said, trusting her spine to hold her together a little longer. "But Benton, when I realized what was happening, I couldn't let it go on." She gazed at him. "You don't really want it to go on like this, do you?"

  She saw the man she looked up to, the man she respected and admired, fall to pieces in front of her. "It was a die," he said. "The die we used for the first run of the nineties, the ninety degree angle joints," he added unnecessarily. He sounded like a bad recording, wooden and scratchy. "It got damaged somehow in the installation. They changed it as soon as they tested samples out of the first run, but there we were with a whole run that wasn't quite right."

  "But the low bid meant the company couldn't afford to throw it away and start over."

  "The low bid and the commitment to Stockwell to deliver on time."

  "You told Stockwell the truth, didn't you."

  "Yes. Just one person. Between us, we decided the joints couldn't do that much damage and it would be unlikely anyone would ever find them since they'd be installed randomly all over the project. They were such a small part of the whole plumbing system."

  "Then Cap did some very thorough research when he was working on the settlement."

  Benton's face darkened. "Found out the truth and decided to use it for personal profit."

  "Surely he doesn't need the money," Hope whispered, remembering Cap's lavish life.

  "Are you kidding?" Benton said tiredly. "He was broke, leveraged to the hilt and didn't have the guts to tell Muffy. Blackmail was a way out of the hole he was in."

  "How much?" Hope asked.

  The sum staggered her.

  "You can't let him do this to you," she insisted.

  Benton got up to pace back and forth behind his desk. "My responsibility is to the shareholders of this company." He darted a sharp glance at her. "You have a choice. I don't. You've got the vice presidency, Hope. You can take it, keep quiet, and life will go on."

  "What about the people in Magnolia Heights? What about their lives?"

  "They'll haunt me forever." He rested his hands on his desk and bowed his head. "But I can't betray the company."

  Benton wasn't an evil person. He'd gotten stuck in the middle of his priorities—Palmer and his own sense of what was right. Who was she to say if he'd made the right choice or the wrong one?

  Maybe she ought to show Sam the same generosity of spirit. But that was different. She wasn't thinking of sharing her life with Benton. She had her own choice to make, and she'd made it the night before.

  "I'll submit my resignation at once, Benton," she said. "You'll have my letter by noon."

  He only nodded.

  She had one thing left to do. She called her friend Sandi to tell her how sorry she was that she couldn't make it to the party tonight after all.

  * * *

  Sam sat at his gleaming rosewood desk contemplating the project that lay before him. It consisted of a wooden tongue-depressor-type coffee stirrer balanced on the edge of the desk. His goal was to flip a penny off the end of the coffee stirrer directly into a paper cup which still had a couple of inches of coffee in it.

  What he had right now was a few pennies down under the surface of the cold coffee and a whole lot of pennies scattered all over the floor. He'd run out of pennies, in fact, and was moving on to dimes.

  What he needed was an instrument more flexible than the coffee stirrer.

  What he needed—was to take back everything that had happened the night before. What he needed was Hope.

  The coffee he'd bought at a street stand and brought with him to the office wasn't as good as the coffee Hope made, the coffee she'd been making when she sent him out of her life.

  But that wasn't why he needed her.

  He needed her strength. He needed her strength the way his dad had needed his mom's strength. It was all starting to come clear to him. What happened to their family hadn't been his father's fault. Or the banker's fault or God's fault for holding back on the rain. It had just happened. It had happened to lots of people. And his mother had understood that and had stood behind the man she loved, worked with him, held him up, kept him going.

  Just the way Hope would have done if he'd had the courage to imagine giving up one goal and setting out toward another one. The courage to start over.

  He was in love with her and realizing it just in time to lose her. Now his life was—Hopeless.

  It was too late to make her love him. But it wasn't too late to stop hating himself.

  Instead of meeting Cap at the library, he made a swift trip to the Palmer plant in New Jersey and when he got back, did some rapid nosing around in things that were none of his business. As the result of his hard work, he was right there at the bank, behind Cap at the teller's window with a long line of people yelling at him to wait his turn, when Cap made a huge deposit in cash to an account under a different name.

  It didn't take him long to get the story out of Cap. Just as he'd told Hope he would, he made a deal with Cap, but it wasn't quite the deal he'd told Hope he intended to make.

  Each of the thousand times Hope had popped into his mind he'd felt exhausted, depressed by the knowledge that what he was doing wasn't going to bring her back. He was doing it for himself. Sam checked his watch. The partners would hold their annual meeting at six. He'd given Cap enough time to do what he'd promised to do. He squared his shoulders and went in to talk to Phil.

  "This is terrible news, terrible," Phil said. He was pale with concern. "My responsibility is to the firm. I must protect its reputation at all costs."

  "I know, sir." Sam stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "For that reason there are some things I'm not telling you. If I did, you'd have to take actions that would be even more embarrassing. The firm itself is not at fault."

  There was no need to tell Phil about Cap. If Cap had kept his side of their deal, he'd resigned earlier in the day. He'd get another job. He would level with Muffy about their real financial situation. Muffy was a trooper. They'd sell the house, change lifestyles, tell their friends Cap had made a choice to leave the rat race and do something more meaningful. Together they'd make it.
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  For a minute Sam almost felt jealous of the man. His own lonely road was going to be so much harder to travel.

  "…have to handle this in a way that keeps the firm's reputation clean," Phil was saying.

  Sam sat down heavily. This was the hard part. "As you said, sir, that's your responsibility. Mine is somewhat different."

  Phil looked even more distressed. "But Sam, the partnership, your future…"

  "Doesn't mean much to those folks at Magnolia Heights."

  "No, I guess it doesn't." Phil sighed and closed his eyes. "Charlene is going to be deeply disappointed." He took a minute to reflect upon Charlene's disappointment, then turned a steady gaze on Sam.

  "You're a good man, Sam Sharkey," he said. "Do what you have to do. I'll support you to the extent that I can."

  "Thank you, Phil. The first thing I have to do is resign. Whatever I do, I'll be doing it independently."

  "I was afraid that's what you were about to say." Phil's eyes sparked briefly. "That's two of you in one day. Seems Cap's leaving us."

  "Is that so," Sam said.

  "Says he feels a higher calling. Wants to do good for his fellow man. What's with you guys? Christmas getting to you?"

  "You never know everything about a person, do you, Phil?" Sam said, getting up to leave.

  "Not about some of them," Phil said.

  Something in his voice made Sam turn back for one last look at him. He saw that Phil was smiling. It wasn't a happy smile, but it was an admiring one.

  It was nearly six when he got back to his office. He found the coffee cup gone and the pennies washed and gathered up from the floor and lying in a neat pile in a heavy glass ashtray on a newly gleaming desk. There were some things he'd miss about this job. Summoning up all the courage he had left, he gritted his teeth and called Hope.

  "This is Hope Sumner," said Hope's familiar, smooth and professional voice. "I am not able to take your call. If this is an emergency, please dial zero now."

  Zero wasn't going to be much help to him, so he dialed her at home. "You've reached 212-555-1313." Her voice sounded depressed now. It must be a new message. His heart was already thudding violently when he heard, "I'll be out of the city until the Sunday after Christmas. Please leave your name and number…"

  He hung up. She'd gone home early. He supposed he could call every Sumner in Chicago until he found her…

  Or not.

  He could go home early himself, rent a car at the airport and pop in on the folks, surprise the socks off them.

  Or not.

  For a long time he just sat there, too sad to take any action at all.

  * * *

  Maggie and Hank Sumner were delighted to see Hope arrive late Friday night instead of Saturday. Hank took her bag up to her old room, and Maggie led her into the kitchen. "You must have a piece of my snowball cake," she insisted.

  "No, thanks, Mom," Hope said. "You know how I love your coconut cake, but I ate so much for dinner…"

  "You ate on the plane," Hank said, joining them at the kitchen table. "That's not dinner."

  Hope looked at her parents fondly. They were in their sixties now, but in Hope's eyes her mother just got more beautiful every year, her blond hair silvering gracefully, her figure still trim and her smile—it would never change, never lose its warmth and hint of feistiness.

  If she hadn't been feisty, she'd never have made it through their childhoods.

  Hank still taught history courses at the University of Chicago, swearing he'd never retire. They still lived in Oak Lawn where the girls had grown up, in the same Craftsman-style, homey, comfortably shabby house.

  "It's so good to be here," she said simply. She managed a smile. "Okay, cut me a chunk of that cake and I'll take it up to bed with me."

  Hope slept late on Saturday, then helped her mother make batch after batch of cookies. "I'll never forget that day," Maggie said nostalgically as she dripped frosting onto the angel cutout cookies, "that day you three girls showed up at the door."

  Hope would never forget that day, either. Out of sheer determination and an organizational ability she must have been born with—she'd only been six at the time—she'd gotten the three of them away from their mother's family and brought them here, to Maggie and Hank, which had been their mother's wish.

  "I especially remember the look on your face," Maggie said. "Determined, stubborn… I didn't know until I put my arms around you and felt you shaking that you were scared to death."

  "I don't think I started shaking until you gave me that hug," Hope said. "I suddenly realized that maybe we were home free, that maybe somebody else could take over for a while. If I'd let down my guard for even a second in front of Faith and Charity, we wouldn't have made it here."

  "You were always their leader," Maggie said. "Still are." She arched an eyebrow. "I even think Faith and Charity are waiting for you to fall in love first, test the waters before they jump, so to speak."

  Hope's eyes widened. "Then you're never going to have any grandchildren," she said wildly, "because I'm never … I'm never…"

  "Hope, baby, what is this?"

  When Maggie laid a hand on Hope's shoulder and looked at her so sympathetically, Hope sat down with a thud at the kitchen table and cried all over the yellow-frosted stars.

  But she still couldn't talk about it.

  * * *

  Faith's plane was arriving late that afternoon. Charity, who had a cottage in the country north of Chicago, picked her up at the airport, so they arrived together in a flurry of laughter, hugs, kisses and untidy parcels of gifts. Their first question after the hugging was over was about Sam.

  "It didn't work out," Hope said, smiling a smile she'd practiced in the mirror. "Nice while it lasted, though."

  They would never know how nice it had been, nice, naughty, hot and fulfilling. What it was now was over. No, it had not worked out. That was the truth.

  "I'm getting the cat as soon as I get back to New York," she told them as they sat around the Christmas tree sipping coffee after one of Maggie's wonderful pot roast dinners.

  Her sisters were treating her with unusual delicacy. They might be the world's worst teases, but not when they knew she was unhappy. "What kind?" Charity said brightly.

  "I still haven't decided. All suggestions appreciated."

  A lively discussion ensued. Conversations at the Sumner house always seemed to turn lively, even conversations about cats.

  "The long-haired ones are gorgeous, but they shed all over the place," Charity warned her. Charity had a houseful of pets, strays she'd brought home.

  "Are you sure you aren't allergic to cats?" Maggie asked her.

  "No."

  "Oh, well," Faith said, "if you turn out to be they have shots for it, don't they?"

  "That's a typical reaction from you," Charity said. "Keep the cat, take a shot."

  "You'd do the same thing," Faith countered.

  "Yes, I guess I would," Charity admitted.

  "Siamese, I understand," Hank said in his slow, thoughtful way, "are less apt to cause an allergic reaction than some of the other breeds."

  "White cats with blue eyes are usually deaf," Charity said.

  "I wasn't planning to talk to it much," Hope said. "Or at least I wasn't thinking about any deep, meaningful conversations."

  "In cats, the mixed breeds are often preferable." This was Hank again, quoting, undoubtedly, something he'd read.

  "I bought a book," Hope said. "But what I'll probably do is go to an animal shelter and take home the cat that speaks to me."

  "That might be the best thing to do," Maggie said. "Rely on your own best judgment."

  "Let us know, so we can send presents," Charity said.

  "I hardly think presents are called for in this…"

  Hope had suddenly gotten distracted by the television set they hadn't bothered to turn off in the kitchen. The words she'd heard were "Magnolia Heights." She got up and moved toward the sound.

  On the screen
she saw a scene of utter chaos as police, firefighters and television crews fought for space on the lawns of Magnolia Heights. Glaring lights showed that they weren't exactly lawns any more. They were more like lakes. Hope gasped, already knowing what she was about to hear.

  "…a disaster on a major scale," a frozen-looking reporter said. "Magnolia Heights has been engaged in a legal battle for several months involving the plumbing leaks that have plagued the project from the beginning. What happened tonight will probably lead to the restitution the parties involved have so far refused to agree to. Major breakage occurred in Building B, flooding the grounds…"

  "Oh, no," Hope whispered, thinking of Mrs. Hotchkiss and her teething baby, of Slidell's mother, Mrs. Hchiridski.

  She found that her family had gathered behind her. Charity said, "Isn't this the project…"

  "Yes," Hope said, and then, "Sam!"

  His face, grim, haggard and unshaven, filled the screen as reporters shouted, "Mr. Sharkey! May I ask you…"

  "Is that Sam Sharkey?" Faith breathed. "Oh, Lord, Hope, he's gor…"

  "Sh-h-h," Charity said fiercely.

  "Mr. Sharkey, is it true you were assigned to argue the Palmer Pipe case in court?"

  "No comment."

  "Mr. Sharkey!" The shout came from the back of the mob of reporters and cameramen. "Is it true you resigned your position at Brinkley Meyers today?"

  "Resigned," Hope breathed. "Oh, Sam…"

  "No comment."

  "Does your resignation have anything to do with new evidence…"

  Hope whirled, filled with a wild need for action. "I have to go back," she said abruptly.

  "Oh, honey, you can't," her mother pleaded with her. "It's Christmas. The problem's not going to go away. It will still be waiting for you when you get back."

  "Mom," Faith said gently, "you know how Hope feels about her job. She can't help feeling responsible."

  "It's not my job," Hope said distinctly.

  The news story faded into the background.

  "I quit my job. I'm going back to help Sam." As she raced out of the kitchen to call the airline, she heard Charity say, "Oh. My. Gosh," to an otherwise silent room.

  * * *