A Matter of Principal

by Leigh Michaels

  “Not till Sherry wakes up. And it’s Saturday, so it might be a while.”

  Sherry’s young man from the university library had come by last night as promised, and they had gone to one of the campus coffeehouses. Camryn didn’t even know what time Sherry had come home; she herself had not gone to sleep till after midnight, but it wasn’t unheard of for Sherry to arrive with the morning newspaper.

  “Stupid Mrs. Marlow,” Susan grumbled. “Ipswich doesn’t like to be shut up.”

  “That’s quite enough, Susan. You have a right to like cats; other people have a right not to. And, whether we agree with them or not, we have to treat our guests with respect.”

  Susan grumbled. Privately, Camryn agreed with her; Mrs. Marlow alone was as aggravating as three ordinary guests, and so far she hadn’t earned much respect. Thank heaven, Camryn thought, that she would be spending most of her time this weekend with her son, away from the Stone House. He’d be picking her up in a couple of hours, right after she had her breakfast—in bed, as she’d requested. And if it wasn’t delivered to her door on the dot of the hour, there would be trouble. It didn’t take a crystal ball to foresee that.

  Camryn tied her hair back with a silk scarf that matched her slim, high-waisted trousers and said, “Come on, Susan. You can help me make Danish.”

  Outside, the clouds rumbled and the rain fell softly, but the two of them worked companionably in the brightly lit kitchen, Camryn shaping the soft, cheese-filled dough into circles, and Susan topping each pastry with strawberry jam. Her spoonfuls were sometimes uncertain, and their placement approximate at best, but she was having a great deal of fun. Besides, thought Camryn, we can pick out the best-looking two for Mrs. Marlow, and eat the irregular ones ourselves.

  When the doorbell chimed just as the first pan of Danish went into the oven, Camryn felt something very near panic. It can’t be that late, she thought. Unless the rainstorm had knocked out the power last night and made her clocks all wrong.

  But it wasn’t John Marlow who had rung the bell. For an instant as she opened the door she thought she was imagining things. Surely it wasn’t really Patrick McKenna, standing in a puddle on her front porch, with his hair so wet that it was plastered flat against his head? He was wiping raindrops off his face.

  “You’re soaked.” That was a stupid thing to say, she told herself. The important thing is, he’s here. He didn’t give up on me after all. But on Saturday? At this hour?

  “There was a damned cloudburst the instant I got out of the car,” he growled.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” Camryn murmured. “I arranged it on purpose just for your entertainment.”

  He stared at her for an instant and then started to laugh. It was a very pleasant sound, she thought. He ought to do it more often.

  “Come in,” she said. “Make yourself at home. Drip wherever you like. I’m a bit busy with breakfast at the moment, so if you’d like a cup of coffee in the living room while you wait...”

  “Can I watch instead?” He sounded almost like Susan for an instant.

  It caught her off guard, and she smiled at him almost as she would have at the child. “Sure you can.”

  It wasn’t until they got to the kitchen that it occurred to her why he was so interested. Of course, she thought. He wants to see how things operate, and if I really am as disorganized as I looked yesterday.

  Susan was standing on a chair beside the center island, absorbed in decorating the second pan full of Danish. She was working earnestly, her tongue stuck out in concentration, and she didn’t even look up as they came in. Camryn took one look at the pan and said, “Susan, a spoonful, for heaven’s sake! You don’t cover the whole top of the Danish.”

  “But I like a lot of jam,” Susan said reasonably. Her eyes fell on the man following her mother.

  “So do I,” he confided. “We didn’t really get a chance to meet yesterday, did we, Susan?”

  “You’re all wet,” she said.

  “One thing about the Hastings women,” he muttered. “They’re observant.”

  Camryn handed him a towel. “This is Mr. McKenna, Susan.”

  Susan tried the name out, and stumbled over her tongue. Patrick McKenna leaned over the island and held out his hand. “How about calling me Patrick?” he said. “It’ll be easier.”

  Susan grinned at him and licked a spot of strawberry jam off her palm before putting her sticky little hand into his. He didn’t flinch.

  That’s just great, Camryn thought. Obviously her shyness yesterday was a fluke because she was so tired. Now my daughter is on a first-name basis with the man who’s going to throw us out of our house. . .

  That’s not fair, she reminded herself. He did say he’d help.

  She watched as he looked around, obviously assessing her kitchen. Copper pans gleamed under the bright lights above the island; blue and white tiles lined the counter tops. Against the windows, beyond the lacy white curtains, raindrops splashed from the dingy sky, but inside, it was warm and bright. He sighed. “It’s unbelievably attractive in here, you know. I didn’t expect a kitchen like this in an old house.”

  “We started renovating it as soon as we moved in. You should have seen it before.”

  “Who designed it?”

  “I did. We couldn’t afford an architect, so. . .” She rescued the pan of Danish from Susan’s culinary talents and gave her a scrap of leftover dough to play with. “I can hardly believe you’re here.”

  He grinned. “Because you’re so delighted to see me again, right?” He finished mopping water out of his hair and handed her the towel. “You missed me... perhaps even dreamed of me?”

  “You can say that again,” Camryn said dryly. “Mostly nightmares where large groups of men—all with your face—sternly ordered me from my house into a frozen wasteland deep in snow. Is that why you’re here today?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s nothing so crude. You did say I could look over your books.”

  “On Saturday? Whatever happened to banker’s hours? Nine to three, and Wednesday afternoons off to play golf?”

  “That’s a libelous rumor. Only the chairman of the board gets by with that.”

  “Perhaps, but you don’t strike me as average.”

  “Thank you. I try very hard not to be ordinary, you see, because I plan to end up as the chairman of the board.”

  “Still, isn’t working Saturdays a little above and beyond the call of duty?”

  His eyebrows rose. “If you don’t want me, Mrs. Hastings, just say so. I do have other clients, you know.”

  Including the glitzy blonde who’d been outside his office yesterday? Perhaps, she thought, he was working today to make up for the extra hours he’d spent at lunch yesterday.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Of course I want you.” She caught herself just as he started to smile, and added briskly, “My financial records are in the top drawer of the desk.” She turned away to take the first pan of Danish out of the oven.

  “Patrick,” Susan demanded, “come see the funny cat I made.”

  “Susan, Mr. McKenna didn’t come to play with you.”

  But he was already beside the little girl’s chair, approving the dough sculpture, and then forming another scrap into a caricature of a dog, which made Susan giggle. “Don’t you think we could descend to first names, too, Camryn?” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’ll admit that when you’re playing with Susan you both seem about four years old.”

  “Yes, we have so much in common,” he murmured. “For one thing, our absorbing interest in various kinds of dough... Where did you say you keep your records?”

  He settled himself at the table in the breakfast nook and soon had every financial record she possessed spread out for inspection. Her entire business life lay open to his scrutiny.

  Camryn tried not to dwell on what he was finding, or what he might think of it all. Instead, she drizzled icing over the hot Danish and got Mrs. Marlow’s breakfast tray ready.<
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  As she was carrying it up the stairs she was astounded to meet Sherry coming down. On a normal Saturday, even without a late date the night before, Sherry might sleep till noon and then lounge around the house in her bathrobe till mid-afternoon, unless she was helping Camryn clean. Today she was already dressed, in a very nice skirt and brightly printed blouse instead of her usual jeans, and with her hair done.

  Camryn stopped in the middle of the landing. “Is that eye shadow I see?” she said, doing her best to sound impressed. “On Saturday morning? And after a hot date last night, too?”

  Sherry only smiled. “I thought perhaps I’d add a little touch of elegance to a dull day.”

  “Why? Are you going out?”

  “No. I just didn’t want to cause you any more trouble by letting Mrs. Marlow see my ratty housecoat. Want me to take her breakfast in?”

  Camryn handed over the tray without a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t know why you’re auditioning for sainthood today, but I’m not going to argue with my good fortune. It must have been quite a date last night if he left you in this frame of mind.”

  Sherry only smiled, squared her shoulders, and marched up the stairs to Mrs. Marlow’s door. Camryn retreated to the kitchen, shaking her head.

  A couple of minutes later, Sherry came in. “I’m here to collect my reward,” she announced. “After that skirmish, I deserve one. Hand over the Danish, lady.” She saw Patrick at the breakfast table and stopped dead. One eyebrow lifted enquiringly.

  Susan flung herself down from her chair. “Sherry’s up!” she announced. “I’m going to play with Ipswich, Mommy.”

  Camryn said, “Wash your hands first.” But the child was gone.

  “Don’t fuss,” Sherry said as she reached for the coffee pot. “Ipswich won’t mind a little strawberry jam and cream cheese on Susan’s fingers. In fact, he’ll probably give her a full bath.” She was still watching Patrick.

  Camryn introduced him. Sherry looked at the mass of papers on the table and said, “Tax auditor?”

  He grinned. “Banker.”

  “Oh, that’s certainly good news, because Camryn and I make it a rule never to date tax men, no matter how gorgeous they are.”

  Camryn’s jaw dropped. “That is not...”

  Sherry smiled vaguely. “Isn’t Lady Marlow’s son due any time? I’ll take my Danish into the living room, darling, and guard the front door. It would be such a shame if you were interrupted.” She added, under her breath, “And you talk about my hot dates, Camryn, dear.” She drifted off.

  Camryn put her hands on her hips. “I cannot believe that she actually said that!” she began furiously. “As if we were—as if I would. . .” She sputtered to a stop and then added firmly, “Sherry’s not normally quite that dizzy.”

  “She didn’t look so dizzy to me,” Patrick mused. He had risen to shake hands with Sherry, and now he was sitting sideways at the breakfast table, his chair pushed back, toying with a pencil as he looked up at her.

  Camryn’s breath caught in her throat. For the briefest of instants, she found herself wondering what it would be like to feel the caress of those long fingers against the sensitive skin of her throat. They would be strong, and yet gentle, she was sure of that.

  “She got out of here with a plate heaped with Danish, and I’d say that indicates she knew what she was doing.” Patrick eyed the pan hopefully.

  Camryn swallowed hard. I am relieved, she told herself. He might be a very good-looking man, but there is no sense in complicating things. Poor Sherry—all her matchmaking efforts were wasted, because he didn’t even notice what she was suggesting!

  She turned her back on him and started to clear up the mess Susan had left on the counter.

  “I wouldn’t consider it a bribe if you offered me one of those,” he added.

  Camryn looked him over. “You wouldn’t? Then perhaps it isn’t worth it to bother.”

  “Just one, for a starving man,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m not ill-mannered enough to beg for a whole plateful.”

  She got him the Danish and a cup of coffee. “Just to save you the bother of asking for it,” she said acidly as she set the cup down beside him.

  He only smiled and turned back to his paperwork, and she bit her tongue. It certainly won’t hurt me to feed the man, she thought. It is his day off, after all, and he’s trying to do me a favor.

  She tried to be quiet as she moved around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess, but her eyes kept straying to him. He was awfully silent, she thought. What was he finding?

  He rubbed the back of his head once, slowly, as if it ached, and she found herself studying the funny way his hair had dried after his unexpected shower, curling in tiny ringlets at the nape of his neck.

  The kitchen was soon spotless, with every nook and crack scrubbed clean, and still he didn’t look up. Camryn found herself wiping up nonexistent spills, just to keep her hands busy. She had long since heard the front doorbell, and at least a quarter of an hour later the sounds of Mrs. Marlow’s departure with her son.

  Sherry had not come back to the kitchen. She probably thinks we’re in a clinch out here, Camryn thought, and she’s graciously keeping Susan out of the way.

  She tried to fight back a yawn. Last night had been a bit frantic, as she’d tried to catch up on the cleaning in the couple of hours while Mrs. Marlow was out to dinner with her son.

  “This business involves long hours, doesn’t it? And very hard work.”

  Camryn turned around quickly. What had made Patrick say that? To all appearances, he hadn’t taken his eyes off the ledger he was studying.

  “Yes, but then most things worth doing are hard work.” You might as well be honest, she told herself. “And I caused the long hours for myself yesterday. If I hadn’t been lazy all day, I’d have been done long before Mrs. Marlow arrived – which, by the way, was a day earlier than her actual reservation.”

  He didn’t answer. Finally he sighed and pushed his chair back.

  “Well?” Camryn asked.

  “Oh, your records are meticulous. Of course, that’s not the same as saying you’re a mortgage lender’s dream. I’m sure you’ve been considering your options since yesterday.”

  It wasn’t exactly a promising beginning, Camryn thought. She squared her shoulders. “Yes, I have. And if you’re going to suggest again that I move out—”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  She blinked. “Do you mean you’ve actually changed your mind?”

  “About your financial status? No. About your ability to get a loan? Probably not. About you, and your general level of stubbornness—yes.”

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite him at the small table. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be one. But I give you credit for being realistic, too, at least sometimes – which is why I’m sure you’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Do you have a recommendation?”

  “Have you considered marrying a wealthy man who wants you to have a hobby?”

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “I know. Sorry.” He broke off a section of Danish and ate it thoughtfully. “Have you ever thought of doing anything else? I know, you told me that you’re not trained for anything. But there’s no reason you couldn’t start now. You’re certainly smart enough to get any sort of education you want.”

  She stared down into her cup. “I’ve taken some courses at the college—accounting, business management. It was just things to help me get started with the bed and breakfast. I’d like to go on, but at the rate of one class a term, it looks pretty hopeless, and that’s all I can manage. So I decided that when Susan’s in school all day and I won’t have to hire a sitter all the time—”

  “But that’s still a while off?”

  She nodded. “About two years. And then it will probably take three more till I can get a degree. I have to live somehow in the meantime, Patrick.”

 
“You’re taking a class now?”

  She shook her head. “Not during the summer. It’s my busiest season.”

  “What do you want to do after you finish your degree?”

  “I want to run a bed and breakfast.” The cross-examination was beginning to irritate her. “Patrick, I’ve been taking classes for two and a half years, and I’m still considered a freshman. How should I know what else I might like to do?” No sooner were the words out than she regretted them. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. It isn’t your fault. But I really don’t know. It seems so far away. Something in business, I think. At least it fits with what I’m already doing.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. I didn’t mean to nag. But what puzzles me is why you didn’t do this before. I can’t understand why you didn’t go to college.”

  “I didn’t need a degree.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. “I had a marriage license.”

  “But surely Mitch, with all his education, understood the value of—”

  She walked across the kitchen to get the coffee pot, not because she wanted more, but so she didn’t have to look at him just then. “The important thing at that moment was getting Mitch through his internship and residency and into practice. There would be plenty of time to think about me, later. And if I decided to stay at home and raise six kids instead, it was no problem. By then, he’d be well-established and we wouldn’t need a second salary.”

  Her voice cracked just a little. I am not going to cry, she told herself. I will not give him the satisfaction.

  Patrick said gently, “But there wasn’t any time, was there?” He had followed her across the kitchen, so quietly that she didn’t know he was there until he spoke.

  She shook her head.

  He put a hand very gently on the back of her neck. His fingers were warm against the tense muscles. “You were awfully young when you were married, weren’t you? You looked about eighteen.”

  She nodded. Then she frowned. “How would you know?”

  “I saw your wedding picture in the living room yesterday. Were you high school sweethearts?”