“It’s not just a bit of money that you need, Camryn.” He shut her door and walked around the car to slide behind the wheel. “And I don’t own two cars. The convertible belongs to a friend.”
A glitzy blonde friend, I’ll bet, Camryn thought. Yes, that made sense; the car was just her style.
“Convertibles are not practical for this climate, actually,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to own one.”
“But as long as she wants to loan it to you. . .” It was a soft, insinuating statement.
He smiled. “That’s different. I make it a point not to insult anyone who wants to do me a favor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said dryly.
At the theater, she offered to pay her own way. “This is not a date, you know,” she protested as he handed over the cash and got two tickets. “In fact, maybe I should be paying your admission, too.”
“Don’t forget I’ve seen your financial statement.”
“I didn’t say I was rolling in money. I just thought if favors made such an impression on you, it might be worth doing you one.”
He only smiled and urged her into line at the refreshment stand. “Butter on your popcorn? I’m sure if you really thought about it, Camryn, you could come up with a much better offer than just a movie ticket.”
“You know, you really should grow a moustache, Mr. McKenna,” she said tartly. “It would fit right in with your character.”
He gave a villainous chuckle, handed her a box of popcorn, and ushered her into the auditorium, where he watched the movie in such a gentlemanly way that she might as well have been alone. Sherry would be horrified, Camryn found herself thinking, and then told herself firmly not to be an idiot. Would she really have preferred the sort of wrestling match that Sherry seemed to think was the hallmark of a good time? After all, Camryn herself had announced that it was not a date, and now she was irritated because he wasn’t treating it as one!
No, she wasn’t irritated, she told herself. Not exactly.
But it did sting a bit that he didn’t even try to hold her hand. It might have been a long time since Camryn had dated on any steady basis, but it wasn’t because she hadn’t had the opportunity. And for Patrick McKenna to sit there munching popcorn as if he was taking his sister to the movies—or Susan—was annoying in the extreme.
She shifted a little in her seat.
“Are you scared?” he whispered. “I forgot. You can put your head on my shoulder if it would make you feel better.”
“Thanks, anyway,” she hissed, and sat up straight. His muffled chuckle was no consolation.
After the show, he took her to an avant-garde ice cream parlor near the university campus. The twisted-iron tables and chairs were antique classics, but the soda fountain itself was a modern wonder of glass and stainless steel. Behind it, against a gorgeous antique mirror, was a row of neon sculptures, featuring everything from a stethoscope in a painful shade of purple to a hot-pink silhouette of a saguaro cactus.
Camryn blinked. “It’s unusual,” she managed to say.
“It’s well-lit,” Patrick said, soberly. “And it’ll banish all the spooks from the movie. I don’t want to have nightmares.”
They found a tiny marble-topped table in a secluded corner, with two high stools that were more comfortable than they looked, and he ordered double-chocolate sodas for them both.
“Is that why you offered me the use of your shoulder?” Camryn asked tartly. “Because you were scared?”
“Of course. I would have found it very consoling if you had relied on me for comfort. In fact, I’d been counting on it all day.”
“Enough, Patrick. Sherry isn’t around, so you don’t need to perform.”
He dug into the soda with his long-handled spoon, and for a moment his long, dark eyelashes lay heavily against his cheekbones. A blinking neon sculpture of an ice-cream sundae cast a greenish glow across his face at irregular intervals, but even the garish light couldn’t conceal the fact that he was a very good-looking man. Camryn was well aware that most of the women in the ice-cream parlor had taken at least a second look at her companion.
And that has nothing to do with anything, she reminded herself. They’re welcome to him—as soon as I get my loan.
“Have you always had such shocking taste in movies?” he asked lightly. “After what Sherry said about you needing company, I expected you to be a quivering mass of nerves after the opening credits. Instead, you were a rock and I was the one who needed soothing.”
“Sherry sometimes edits the world to fit her own romantic notions.” Camryn was proud of her steady voice. “She thinks every woman needs a man, while I make a habit of standing on my own two feet—depending only on myself.”
“What would Mitch think of that?” His voice was careless.
It stung, and she was less than pleased to realize that it was the first time all evening she had thought of Mitch. “It would be different if Mitch had lived,” she said stiffly.
Patrick spooned up a lump of chocolate ice cream and inspected it. “What was he doing in that small plane, anyway?”
The question annoyed her. “People do fly, you know,” she said tartly. “It isn’t as though he was a daredevil, or something.”
“I didn’t think it was likely that he was a wing-walker in his spare time.” It was quiet, and very polite. “I just wondered where he was going, Camryn.”
“And why I wasn’t with him?”
“That question had also occurred to me.”
There was no good reason for refusing to answer him. Finally, reluctantly, she said, “One of Mitch’s buddies had just gotten his pilot’s license and a new plane. He was a whiz kid, and he’d started a business in his garage and made it big—very big. Anyway, Jack was taking a couple of his employees to Canada for a week to hunt, and he invited Mitch to go along – to celebrate his long-delayed entry into the real world of making money, Jack called it.”
“You didn’t mind?”
She shook her head. “Mitch needed a vacation. He was exhausted when he finished his residency. Besides, Susan was only a few months old, and I wouldn’t have wanted to leave her.”
His eyes were dark with intensity; she could almost feel the weight of his gaze. She looked down into her glass, where the textures of ice cream and soda water had created a paisley pattern. He hadn’t asked what had happened to the plane. Perhaps, if she just stopped there, he wouldn’t ask. But she went on anyway. There was something deep inside her that demanded she tell him about the crash.
“There was a storm.” She shivered, involuntarily. “Much worse than had been predicted. The plane went down in rough country, in a national forest up in Minnesota. It took nearly a week just to find them.”
“Hell, Camryn.”
“They hadn’t survived the crash. That was some comfort. At least they didn’t have to wait, and suffer.”
“I’m sorry.”
She swallowed hard. “It was a long time ago.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded dissatisfied. “But—you just accepted it? Just like that?”
She looked up at him again then. She was beginning to know that tone of voice. “What else was I supposed to do? If you’re going to suggest that I should have sued Jack’s estate because he was flying the plane—”
“I wasn’t planning to say anything of the sort, actually.”
She was chastened for a moment.
“But I suppose you could have made a case that a more experienced pilot could have avoided the crash.”
“Probably,” she agreed in a brittle tone. “And after a year or two in court I could have collected about ten dollars, which was all Jack’s company was worth by then. Without him at the wheel, it went downhill fast.” She sipped her soda. “Which brings us right back to the problem we started with, you know. I still need that mortgage loan.”
There was a brief pause. “I know. And I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
For an instant, Camryn’s breath se
emed to catch in her throat.
“You and Susan. Nevertheless, the rules haven’t changed since yesterday, and there’s not a lot I can do about it.” He sounded dejected. “It takes the bank president to make exceptions, so I think you should meet with him as soon as possible.”
She thought it over for a moment. “Does that mean you’re going to recommend that he make an exception for me?”
For an instant she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was frowning, and his fingertip was tracing one of the marble veins in the table top as if it were the most important task he would ever perform. Then the dark blue gaze lifted to meet hers, and he said firmly, “Yes, I am.”
A pleasant glow rose from the pit of her stomach. Relief, she thought, and happiness. She reached impulsively across the table and touched his hand. His fingers were cold from the frosty glass and the marble. “Patrick, thank you! I knew there had to be a way.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said sternly. “I’m not guaranteeing anything, Camryn, I’m just sending you one step up the ladder. And we still have to improve this application. You may have a sterling character, but Warren Stanford is more impressed by numbers that come out in neat little rows.”
She drew back. “I don’t quite see...”
“What you’ll gain? Well, you certainly can’t lose. I can’t approve your application; he can. Whether he will is a different question. He isn’t known for bending the rules lightly. Can you get hold of your doctor friend this week? Once you have an answer from him, we can work out how best to present it to Warren.”
She nodded. “I tried this afternoon. He was gone for the weekend, but he’ll be calling me back.”
“All right. I’ll hold up the paperwork till I hear from you. In the meantime, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to think of alternatives.”
“Like selling my furniture? Come on, Patrick.”
“All right, you made your point. But how about the china you used for coffee yesterday? That’s good stuff, and worth quite a bit, and surely you could do without it?”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Camryn said stiffly.
“Nevertheless, if it comes down to that...”
She set her glass down on the marble-topped table with a crash. “You’re heartless, Patrick McKenna!”
“I’m trying to be businesslike.”
“Well, as long as we’re talking about selling things, I’m sure Susan would have a little value on the black market, too. Shall I sell her?”
“Camryn, you’re going to have to be reasonable. The fact is, I can’t simply wave a magic wand and make your financial problems go away.”
“I’m being reasonable! I work hard, and I’m quite willing to continue working hard. I’m not asking for a miracle, just a fair chance!”
“You’re going to have to take this seriously, and be willing to make some sacrifices.”
“Take it seriously?” She stared at him. “You’ve got a nerve. Do you think I see this as some sort of joke? One you created because you were dying to meet me, I suppose! You and Sherry!” Words failed her.
“Camryn...”
“You’re the one who’s made all the hilarious suggestions! I’ve just been trying to stay calm, and show you that I can handle stress, that I can get through this and make it all work, if you’ll only give me the opportunity to try.”
Her voice cracked, and to her own horror a tear rolled down her cheek and splashed into the remains of her soda.
That does it, she told herself. That’s just exactly what you need to do—dissolve in tears and let him think that you’re one of the clinging-vine types who can’t manage to do anything more for herself than to carry a handkerchief.
In fact, however, she didn’t even have a handkerchief.
She scrabbled through her handbag twice, cursing herself for having been in such a hurry to get dressed, before she gave up and sniffed defiantly a couple of times.
Patrick sighed and handed her a large white square that looked as if it had never been used.
Of course, she thought. The perfectly groomed banker never needs to blow his nose!
She would have thrown it back at him, except that her only alternative was to drape herself in her napkin and slink out. People were starting to notice, she saw out of the corner of her eye. There was a couple near the front door, eating banana splits, who had looked at her for a moment as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.
She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, mopped her cheeks dry, and said, “I don’t suppose you want this back.”
Patrick looked at the damp handkerchief with faint distaste. “Not exactly, no. Are you ready to leave?”
He’s ashamed of me, she thought. So much for making a good impression on him. . . Not that it matters, really. And he’s the one who’s to blame. Telling me to be realistic. Acting as if I thought the whole thing was a practical joke!
“I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other, that’s true.” She slid down from the high stool without waiting for his help and started for the door. He caught her hand and tucked it firmly into his elbow, as if to say that she was not going to make the scene any worse.
Deep inside her, Camryn felt the stirring of a childish impulse for revenge. Just what would he do, she wondered, if she pulled away and told him in loud tones never to touch her again—?
He stopped, suddenly, and said under his breath, “Damn!”
She looked up at him, startled. It was an awkward position to be in, threading her way between the close packed tables, her arm extended full-length behind her, with her hand held prisoner by a man who seemed, at the moment, to be imitating a lamppost.
“My parents are sitting by the door,” he murmured.
Camryn followed his gaze and wanted to swear; he was looking at the couple who had appeared so startled when she had burst into tears.
“Well, there’s no way out but through.” He pulled her closer and cupped his other palm over her hand, resting quietly in the crook of his elbow.
“Didn’t the people in the Light Brigade say something like that?”
Patrick smiled ruefully. “If they didn’t, they should have.” He paused beside the small table nearest the door. “Having a mad night out on the town, you two?”
The man at the table put down his spoon and said to the woman across from him, “Now will you believe me, Kath? It’s not a persecution complex; the kids are checking up on us. We can’t even go out for a concert and a snack without running into at least one of them.” He stood up and flashed a smile at Camryn, his hand extended. “I’m Dennis McKenna. My wife, Kathleen.”
Camryn would have recognized the smile anywhere. It was Patrick’s, too, though she got the feeling that his father used it more often. She swallowed hard and gave him her hand, but she didn’t meet his eyes as she murmured her name.
“Won’t you join us?” Kathleen McKenna waved a hand at the table.
“And sit where, Mother?” Patrick asked bluntly. “Besides, we’re just going. Camryn’s not feeling well.”
Camryn could have kicked him.
“Yes, I noticed earlier,” Kathleen said. “It’s been a terrible season for allergies, hasn’t it?” She smiled a bit vaguely at Camryn. “It’s all the pollen sweeping up from the southwest, I suppose. Patrick, I was going to call you about the Fourth of July party next weekend. Are you bringing–” She stopped suddenly, as if, for the first time, she had really seen Camryn. “—someone?”
Darn it, Camryn thought. For a minute there, it seemed that I might actually hear her name! Then she told herself not to be an idiot; for all she knew, there might be a dozen glitzy blondes — or their equivalent — in Patrick McKenna’s life.
“Bring all your friends,” Dennis said. “She’s talking about making it into a painting party.”
“It’s logical,” Kathleen murmured. “We could get the whole house painted in a weekend, that way.”
“It might appear to be logical,” Dennis
told her, “but it doesn’t make a lot of common sense.”
Patrick smiled at them both and said he would let his mother know when he’d decided if he was bringing anyone to the party, and swept Camryn out. Her head was swimming.
“Did your mother really think I was having an allergy attack?” she demanded.
“Why? Are you worried about it?”
That puts me in my place, Camryn thought. Of course it doesn’t matter what his mother thinks of me, and he’s making very sure I know it. “Absolutely not,” she said coldly. “I’d much rather she think I’m an ill-mannered slob who likes to throw tantrums in public places!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry about that. If anything, she’ll dress me down for treating you badly and making you cry. Maybe I should invite you to the Fourth of July party.”
“Don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”
“It’s purely self-interest, Camryn. If you’d agree to go to the party with me, it would convince my mother that I’m not such a bad guy after all.”
“She didn’t seem to be the sort a guy like you would be frightened of.”
“Do you always make these snap judgments about people’s characters?” he asked plaintively. “You seem to think I’m wicked to the core, but I assure you...”
“Oh, you’re a charming guy,” Camryn said. “And I fully expect that your next helpful suggestion for raising money will be to take in some female boarders with—how shall I say it? Flexible morals and lots of gentlemen friends, that’s it.”
“Camryn, selling your china is not in the same league as running a house of ill fame.”
He was right, and she was momentarily ashamed of herself. She was silent for a couple of blocks, staring out of the window at the quiet neighborhood. “Sorry,” she said stiffly. “But I don’t think you understand.”
“Yes, I do, better than you think.” The car turned into the driveway beside the Stone House, and he turned the engine off and came around the car to help her out.
A Matter of Principal Page 6
