“Oh,” he murmured, “you were talking about my family. I should have warned you, I know. It’s sort of overwhelming for the uninitiated.”
“Overwhelming, yes. But very nice.”
“Thanks for taking Nell in, by the way. She’ll enjoy having a vacation, and so will Mother.”
Camryn couldn’t help laughing at the tone of his voice. “Any two women who can share a house for years on end deserve a vacation now and then.”
“It’s not so bad now. They really got into it once in a while, back before all of us kids left home.”
Camryn shivered. “I couldn’t imagine sharing my house with either of Susan’s grandmothers. My mother never really liked Mitch, and—”
“Somebody actually didn’t like Mitch the paragon?” He bit his lip. “Sorry, Camryn.”
She decided that the only civilized thing to do was pretend that she hadn’t heard him say it. “And I was never very close to Mitch’s mother. She seems to think material things are a substitute for personal contact. Take that dress Susan’s wearing. She sent it last Christmas, but she didn’t even bother to ask me what size Susan wore, and she’s only now growing into it. You wouldn’t believe the tears on Christmas morning when she couldn’t wear her new dress.”
He reached across the table and put his hand on top of hers. His fingertips stroked the back of her wrist.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t intend to be gloomy. I just meant to say that you’re very lucky to have a family that cares.”
He didn’t move, and he didn’t speak.
The waiter put a crystal plate in front of her. On it was a picture-perfect crepe, filled with ice cream and topped with strawberries.
“The food’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said, trying to recapture the mood. “It’s awfully nice to eat things I didn’t make myself.”
Patrick drew back and picked up his fork. “Camryn, we need to talk.” There was a note in his voice that reminded her unpleasantly of that first day in his office, before she had come to know what he really was like.
Suddenly, she was frightened of him. She moved Susan’s glass of milk out of spilling range, cut up the child’s crepe, rearranged her napkin to cover the powder-pink dress. But she was only delaying. She knew it, and she also knew that Patrick wasn’t fooled.
Finally, she had to look at him again.
“I want you to think very carefully about what I’m going to ask,” he said. “I’ve thought a lot about this, Camryn, and I’m not taking it lightly.”
Her heart started to pound, and she took a surreptitious grip on her napkin.
He looked down at his dessert plate as if gathering his courage, and then faced her. “I don’t want you to start the restaurant.”
For a long moment, the room spun crazily around her. Only the napkin that she was clutching seemed to be real, and then only because her fingers ached with the pressure she was exerting on it.
Not Will you marry me?, as she had, she realized, been hoping. And not Will you share your life with me?, which she would find almost as appealing. In fact, what he had said was not even a question at all, when she stopped to think about it. It had really been an order.
“I see,” she said finally. There was a brittle quality in her voice.
It was obvious that he heard it. He leaned forward. “Camryn, I don’t think you understand the amount of labor you’re taking on. You can’t work twenty-four hours a day. You’ll kill yourself trying to make a few extra dollars.”
“Don’t you think that’s my choice?”
“Is that what you want your life to be—just like this morning was? All that fuss and nonsense going on...”
“That fuss and nonsense is how I make my living, Patrick.”
“But every day? All day? And half the nights, as well? That’s what it would take, Camryn.” He stared across at her for a long moment, and mused, “And you’re the one who didn’t want to take a nine-to-five secretarial job.”
“I want to be at home with my daughter, yes.” She took a deep breath. “I suppose all this is a prelude to suggesting again that I sell my house and leave her with a sitter.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind. But can you honestly say you’ll be at home with her, when you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to notice what she’s doing? She might as well be in day care.”
Camryn shot a look at Susan. So far, she didn’t seem to be paying attention; she was dreamily surveying the crystal chandelier directly above her head. “And what do you suggest I do? I have a solution; it seems incredibly irresponsible to me to sit around waiting to win the lottery instead.”
“Really, Camryn.”
“Do you have a better suggestion? You once said I should marry a wealthy man — perhaps you have a candidate in mind.”
His face was taut. “Just don’t be in such a rush.”
“Patrick, can we have this argument some other time, when Susan won’t have to listen? Not that there is any point in continuing it; I am not going to give in. I am going to raise my daughter the way her father wanted.”
“Now that’s a charming sentiment,” he drawled.
Camryn stared at him for a long moment. “Just what do you mean by that?”
He set his coffee cup down with a bang. “I mean that it makes me furious to see you working and worrying like this and saying that you’re doing it because it’s what Mitch would have wanted. Damn Mitch! He obviously didn’t care a rap about what happened to you and Susan.”
“That is enough!”
“It’s not enough, not by a long way. Somebody has to open your eyes. It seems to me that when a man has a wife and a kid he ought to be concerned about them, more than about himself. Dammit, Camryn, your precious Mitch didn’t even make an effort to provide for you!”
“Yes, he did!” she said in a furious undertone. “He would have been a good provider. You forget that he didn’t exactly die on purpose!”
“I know he didn’t, but he seemed to think that being a doctor meant he had a guarantee on life. For a guy who was supposed to be so smart, he did some awfully dumb things.”
“I don’t have to listen to this. I’ve given you no rights to tell me what to do.”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. “What about last night, Camryn?” he said quietly.
“Last night didn’t give you the right to talk to me like an army sergeant—the kind who thinks that bending the rules isn’t good for people’s moral development. Your set of rules includes me doing whatever you think is best—is that correct?”
He exhaled slowly, as if he was trying very hard to keep his temper. “Don’t overreact, Camryn. I didn’t mean I wanted to take over your life. I just think you’re getting tunnel-vision about this restaurant being the only answer to your problems. Don’t close the door on your future.”
“The Stone House and Susan are my future. They’re the only things I care about. And I will do whatever I have to do to survive.” She tossed her napkin down beside the crystal plate. “Will you take us home, or shall I ask the doorman for a cab?”
For a long instant it seemed as if he hadn’t even heard. He was looking at her, but he didn’t seem to see her. His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them— dark, and hard, and distant.
He pushed his chair back, without a word.
Susan didn’t want to leave her crepe. Her face started to crumple at the idea, and Camryn thought, Please, not this. So far today she’s been a much better lady than I have—let’s not ruin it with a scene as we go out of the door!
Patrick, too, seemed to have lost all patience. “Put the damn thing in a box,” he told the waiter finally, and thrust it at Camryn when he caught up with her in the lobby after dealing with the bill. He didn’t touch her, or Susan, again.
When they were halfway back to the Stone House, he said, as if the words were being forced out of him, “Camryn, I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut about Mitch.”
She bit her tongue h
ard, until she could say, without a quiver in her voice, “If you hadn’t meant it, I’m sure you wouldn’t have said it. Don’t regret it on my account, Patrick. I’m glad to know what you really think of me.”
“Dammit, that’s not—”
“Your temper is getting the better of you again,” she pointed out.
He said something under his breath that she was glad Susan hadn’t heard. She stared out of the window.
As the car drew up in front of the Stone House, he said quietly, “Camryn, do what you think is best for yourself and Susan. But please stop giving the credit to Mitch for what you’ve done yourself. Don’t turn him into a hero.”
She gathered up the box that held Susan’s crepe, and reached into her handbag for her house key. Her fingers touched something soft. “I keep forgetting to return this,” she said, and handed him a neatly ironed white square. This, she thought, might be the last chance she ever had to give it back. She forced the thought to the far corner of her mind. “Your handkerchief. You were kind enough to lend it to me.”
“I thought you might keep it as a souvenir of another day, in another public place, when I made you cry.” He sounded disillusioned, and discouraged.
The memories of last night would be all the souvenirs she needed, she thought. He was watching her, she knew; she didn’t look at him.
He sighed. “I’ll bring Nell over in the morning.”
Camryn stifled a groan. She had forgotten about Nell.
“And I’ll take you to the bank as soon as it opens to talk to Warren about your plans.”
It should have made her happier that he was no longer going to fight her choice. But it didn’t. “I can get myself there, thank you.” Sheer perversity made her add, “And the afternoon would be much better for me.”
“If you like,” he said finally. “I was hoping to get it over with, myself.”
She stood inside the front door, the melting crepe in her hand, and watched the car vanish around the corner.
I will not cry, she told herself. He isn’t worth my tears.
CHAPTER NINE
On Monday morning, Nell McKenna arrived, right on schedule. She appeared at the front door, carrying her own suitcase. A small, sporty red car was parked beside the garage.
Patrick—much to Camryn’s relief—was nowhere in sight. Nell did, however, have a tart comment about him not being gentleman enough to bring her over and carry her bag to her room, after which she very capably carried it upstairs herself and settled into the big front bedroom.
Thank heaven, Camryn thought, that Nell doesn’t know the way he’s been hanging around here drinking coffee and eating sticky buns, or she’d have enough questions to fuel the Spanish Inquisition!
Nell was back downstairs within fifteen minutes to announce that if Camryn had any plans to pamper her, she should forget them. “My idea of a vacation is not to lie around on a chaise lounge and be waited on,” she said. “I’d be miserable. In fact, I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got a few weeds in your garden. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the exercise of hoeing them out. Don’t worry about finding me a hat and gloves—I brought my own, just in case.”
Somehow, Camryn wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d brought her own hoe, too. Before she could find her voice, Nell was outside attacking the weeds, with Susan and Ipswich along for company.
“She’s certainly a fountain of energy,” Sherry said a couple of hours later, looking out of the window. “We should all be so industrious at her age. She’s even got Susan planting seeds.”
“And Ipswich is digging up the next row, I suppose.”
“No. He’s chasing butterflies, and never catching them.”
“That’s a relief.” Camryn didn’t raise her head from the pile of papers spread on the breakfast table. If she was going to make the best possible impression on Warren Stanford this afternoon, it was going to be up to her; she could obviously no longer rely on Patrick’s whole-hearted backing. And if the man liked neat little columns of numbers, as Patrick had said he did, then she would do her best to make sure he had some to look at. If it took her all morning to reduce her plans to black and white, it would be worth it.
Sherry sat down across the table and glanced at the papers. “Are you going to do weddings, too, Camryn? I mean, besides just receptions?”
“And throw in a honeymoon package, too? Why not?” Camryn didn’t even look up. “That’s not a bad idea, Sherry—everything the bride and groom want for a warm homelike wedding, all in one location. I could ask for referrals from bridal shops and photographers.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t thinking of it as a business, exactly.”
“What were you thinking of?”
“Just that I’d like to be married here. I can picture myself floating down that gorgeous staircase in a cloud of lace, and saying my vows in front of the bay window in the living-room, with sunshine pouring over my dress.”
Camryn put her pencil down and looked speculatively across the table. “Has John proposed yet?”
Sherry shook her head. “No,” she said airily. “But he’ll get around to it.”
“I imagine he will, now that you’ve made up your mind.”
“He’s got another year of residency.”
“He’s also got a crazy mother.”
Sherry shrugged. “If I can’t get along with her, I’ll just adopt a cat, and she’ll keep her distance.”
“You’re determined, I see.” Camryn turned back to her figures and added, “Perhaps someone should warn the man that he’s being stalked.” Her voice was tart, but there was relief in her soul that it wasn’t settled yet. Finding a new renter for Sherry’s apartment wouldn’t present much of a problem, with the whole university community to draw from. But Sherry was far more than just a renter. Her willingness to help out with the work, her pleasant nature, her ability to be a friend to Camryn and to Susan as well—those things would not be easy to find again.
I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might leave, Camryn thought. How foolish of me not to remember that Sherry won’t be in college forever.
Patrick had asked a lot of questions... What would happen if Camryn got sick, or if her clients stopped renting rooms? But nobody had considered what losing Sherry would mean.
And you haven’t lost her yet, either, Camryn told herself. But you’d better remember this: when it comes right down to it, you’ve got only yourself to count on.
Sherry answered the telephone, and then handed it across to Camryn with concern raging in her face. “It’s the city health department,” she said. “What are they after you for now?”
Camryn seized the telephone. “Nothing. I called them this morning with some questions about starting up my restaurant.” Now she was doing it, too, she thought. It wouldn’t be a restaurant, and she’d have to find something better to call it.
Sherry went out to the terrace to study. In the garden, Susan had finished planting the world’s crookedest row of green beans, and was lying on the grass, probably looking for animal pictures in the clouds. Nell had shed her passionate-pink gardening gloves and had her fingers in the soil of the flowerbed that surrounded the birdbath. Ipswich had given up on butterflies and was stalking a bit of paper that had blown into the yard.
Camryn could see them all through the breakfast room window. Everything was normal, everything was just as it should be. Except for the fact that on the other end of the telephone line the disembodied voice of a city health inspector was quietly blasting into smithereens the last, hard-fought hope Camryn had of salvaging her mortgage, her business—her life.
*****
Nobody seemed to notice how quiet Camryn was for the rest of the day. Nell struck up a conversation about rosebushes with the woman next door, and before the afternoon was out she was invited over for coffee. Sherry went back to the campus for a class. Susan took her nap and then carried her box of colored chalk outside and spent the rest of the afternoon tur
ning the front path into a modern-art gallery, full of purple trees and psychedelic flowers and cats that looked like sticks held together with rubber bands.
Camryn went outside to admire the finished product and thought sadly that there wouldn’t be many more afternoons like this. And then what, for them? An apartment somewhere?
I’ll have to start looking for one, she thought. And for a job. How long would it take for the bank to foreclose and force them out of their house, anyway? Six months? A year?
I’ll fight it every day that I can, she told herself, but the determination was short-lived. Fighting, too, would take cash. It cost money to hire lawyers and to pay court costs. And what would she gain, in the end? She would only delay the inevitable. Better to be realistic about it.
Besides, she told herself, did she really want to deal with Patrick for another year? Especially when it was an effort doomed to failure.
A failure. . .but did she mean the house, or her love for Patrick himself? What had gone wrong? For a while she had been so certain that she loved him...
The trouble is, she told herself firmly, that you’re still sure. You do love him. But he doesn’t feel the same way. You convinced yourself that he cared, because you wanted so badly for him to love you.
For a moment, when his car pulled into the driveway, she thought that she had conjured him up out of sheer determination. Then the box of colored chalks went flying on to the grass and Susan darted across the lawn, hands outstretched, calling his name.
I should stop her, Camryn thought. She’s covered with chalk from head to toe, and a hug from her will turn him into a rainbow.
But she didn’t. The chalk would brush off. And it served him right.
He got out of the car and swung Susan up into his arms to carry her back across the lawn. He was headed straight for Camryn, and there was a stubborn expression on his face that she had seen before. It took all her strength of will to stand there and wait for him when what she really wanted to do was turn and run into the house.
A Matter of Principal Page 13
