Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn you down. My folks live here in Boston and they’d be pretty cross with me if they found out I was in town and didn’t stop by to see them. Especially since Marjorie and I are engaged and all.”

  His fiancee stared at him like a deer caught in someone’s headlights. Did he say parents? Oh no, and me wearing this old dress!

  “You’re engaged,” Vanessa exclaimed. “What a delightfully handsome couple you make. Congratulations.”

  Marjorie brought her hand up to her hair and began running her fingers through it self-consciously. God, that was a mess too. “Thank you. And thank you for your invitation. I hope your chef hasn’t already started cooking.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vanessa assured, “he’s a marvel with leftovers. I’m just sorry I won’t be able to spend more time with Creighton and his friends.”

  “Well there’s no reason Creighton has to come with us,” Jameson pointed out. “Not that he isn’t welcome, but we do have two cars, so he can drive back to Ridgebury whenever he wants. Not to mention, by the time we finish with my folks, it’ll be late, so it’s probably best Marjorie and I stay in town for the night before heading back home.”

  “You may have something there, Jameson,” Creighton agreed. “By the time we finish with dinner and enjoy our brandy, I’m not sure I’ll feel like driving back to Ridgebury. You have several bedrooms in this house, don’t you, Vanessa. Maybe I’ll stay here overnight. Then Marjorie and Jameson can meet us for breakfast in the morning.”

  “That sounds like a perfectly lovely idea!” Vanessa declared. “I’d love to have a good long visit with you. To catch up on old times.”

  The Englishman smiled. “Then maybe I should extend my visit even more. Perhaps I’ll stay a few days. That is, if you don’t mind me rattling around the house.”

  “Now, you know I don’t mind,” she replied.

  Vanessa might not have objected to the idea, but Marjorie did. What was Creighton thinking, leaving during the middle of a murder case? Couldn’t he see that she needed him? “But Creighton,” she reminded him, “aren’t you forgetting something? You didn’t bring a change of clothes. Neither did I, or Robert.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll give Arthur a call and have him send over some of my things. As for you two…”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Jameson spoke up. “I have some things at my parents’ house. My mother may have something you can borrow, dear. Although she is a lot shorter than you are-”

  “Why don’t you stay here tonight, Marjorie?” Vanessa offered. “I’m a woman and I’ve been married. You don’t want to face your future in-laws in the morning without the proper attire. I know I wouldn’t have. How mortifying!” She winked in the young writer’s direction. “Detective, bring Marjorie back here this evening. She can borrow one of my nightgowns and a robe to wear tonight and, as for tomorrow, I have a whole dressing table full of cosmetics and hairdressing items and my housemaid is a wonder with laundry. She can have your entire ensemble cleaned and pressed before noon. It’ll be fun! As for Creighton, I have a pair of Stewart’s pajamas he can use. The trousers may be a little short, but they’ll be good enough for one night. And if either of you need anything else, I’ll have my staff go out and get it for you”

  “Thank you, Vanessa.” Creighton smiled at Marjorie. “See? We’re both in good hands. Go run along and meet your future in-laws.”

  Marjorie smiled at Vanessa. She still didn’t feel comfortable leaving Creighton behind, but whatever may have occurred in their past, Vanessa’s hospitality was beyond question.

  Jameson glanced at his watch. “Yeah, we should get going, honey. My mom always puts supper on the table at six thirty. We want to get there with plenty of time to spare.”

  Marjorie stared blankly at Jameson, trying desperately to find the words that would make him change his mind and decide to spend the evening with Vanessa and Creighton. Something that would get her out of the meeting with his parents and back in familiar territory. She glanced at Vanessa. True, she was generous, but what else was there about this woman that so enchanted Creighton? Could it be love?

  “Well, don’t dawdle, Marjorie,” Creighton goaded. “Go on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. Over breakfast.”

  “Breakfast,” she repeated as though the word were foreign to her. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Jameson took Marjorie by the arm and led her through the hallway. After the two couples had exchanged farewells, he walked her to the police car and helped her into the front passenger seat. As she waited for Robert to walk around to the driver’s side of the car, she gazed forlornly upon the Randolph house and the silhouette of Creighton Ashcroft framed in the front doorway.

  Jameson sent the squad car barreling down the Boston roads at top speed, all the while relating happy tales about his family and his childhood. “You’re going to love my parents, Marjorie,” he said proudly.

  Marjorie had been listening with only half an ear. “Hmm”

  “And they’re going to love you.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Almost as much as I do.”

  “Hmm” Try as she might, she couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the man they had left behind. “Sweetheart,” she started, deciding to get Robert’s take on the situation, “did you notice anything different about Creighton today?”

  Jameson pulled a face. “Different how?”

  “Quiet. Introspective.”

  “Yeah, he was a bit subdued.”

  “So you noticed it too,” she sighed in relief. “I bet it has something to do with Vanessa. There seems to be a tension between them. It makes me wonder if they were old flames. Did Creighton tell you anything when you were alone with him?”

  “Why are you so interested?” Robert scowled.

  Indeed, why was she so interested? She sidestepped the question. “You know me, I’m interested in everything.”

  “No, Creighton didn’t mention anything about Vanessa. We were too busy talking about you.”

  “Me?” she exclaimed in surprise.

  “Maybe not you directly,” Jameson amended. “Creighton just told me that he planned on resigning as your editor.”

  “What? Why?” she demanded angrily.

  “Because he and I agreed that it would be inappropriate for the two of you to work together after we’re married.”

  “How very nice of you and Creighton to make decisions for me,” she quipped.

  “Now don’t get angry,” he beseeched. “We were just thinking of your reputation.”

  “Damn my reputation! What do I care what people think? The only opinions that matter to me are yours, Creighton’s, and Mrs. Patterson’s. Anyway, what’s so inappropriate about Creighton and I working together?”

  “It’s not so much the work, it’s the idea of the two of you alone, in the house, while I’m not home.” “

  I never thought you were the jealous type, Robert.”

  “I’m not jealous, but I’m not crazy about the idea of him hanging around all the time. After all,” he blurted, “the guy is in love with you.

  Marjorie was thunderstruck. “C-Creighton,” she stammered. “In love with me? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Oh, come on, Marjorie! Wake up. Haven’t you noticed the way he fusses over you? The way he conveniently shows up when ever we’re together? Heck, you can even tell by the way he looks at you…

  Marjorie, feeling as though the earth were swirling about her, leaned her head back against the seat. Creighton. In love with me. It can’t be true!

  “But that’s in the past,” Robert continued. “We’re together now and Creighton has given me his word not to interfere.” He reached over and rubbed her arm. “Besides, what difference does it make if Creighton resigns as your editor? Once we’re married, you’ll have other things to occupy your time, such as children.”

  Marjorie picked her head up. “Children?”

  “Y
eah. You want children don’t you?”

  “Well, yes…” In reality, she hadn’t given the subject much thought.

  “Good, because you know, I’m kinda used to having a lot of kids around.”

  “Yes, you told me you were one of six.”

  “Yeah, and I decided a long time ago that I wanted a big family of my own one day.”

  “What do you mean `big’?” she asked, panic-stricken.

  “Oh not six,” he replied reassuringly. “Four would be fine”

  “Four?”

  “Yeah, well, unless you decide you want more and then we can negotiate.”

  Marjorie was too stunned to argue; she wasn’t yet prepared to be a mother to one child, let alone four. However, even this crisis paled in comparison with Jameson’s earlier revelation. She played the detective’s words over and over again in her head: `Can’t you see the guy’s in love with you?’

  She closed her eyes and hoped that when she reopened them, she would find herself back in her cozy little house, or Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen. Anywhere, so long as it was away from the cramped interior of the speeding police car. Yet, she knew her wish would go ungranted. Opening her eyes and finding that her situation was unchanged, all she could do was watch mutely the blur of passing buildings outside the passenger side window and listen to the sound of the tires as they moved over the seams in the pavement, their rhythmic bumping seeming to chant, “Creighton loves you. Creighton loves you. Creighton loves you…”

  She leaned back against the headrest and exhaled deeply. This was supposed to be one of the happiest times of her life. So why was it that she felt like crying?

  THIRTEEN

  AFTER A DELICIOUS REPAST of caviar, chateaubriand with bearnaise sauce, and fresh asparagus tips, Creighton followed his hostess to the study for cognac and coffee. It was a masculine room, with dark wainscoting and bulky furnishings. Vanessa hoisted herself out of her wheelchair and into a straight-backed Biedermeier armchair while Creighton selected a plump, mahogany-colored leather sofa. Coffee, cognac, and all the accoutrements were laid out on the cocktail table between them.

  Creighton took to the task of serving while Vanessa opened a hinged wooden box filled with tobacco and rolling papers.

  “Since when do you smoke?” he asked.

  “I don’t,” she replied as she rolled a cigarette between her gnarled fingers. “This was Stewart’s. Every night after dinner, he and I would come in here and he’d have a cigarette. It was his personal blend of tobacco. I used to complain about the smell, but now that he’s gone, I miss it” She placed the cigarette in a long, slender holder, lit it, and then balanced the whole instrument against a crystal ashtray on the table beside her chair. “It’s ironic,” she said with a wry smile. “I used to tell Stewart that these cigarettes would be the death of him, and it turns out I was right.”

  Creighton passed her a demitasse cup filled with coffee. “How? He died in a fire at the Alchemy lab.”

  “He did,” she took the cup and added a lump of sugar to it, “but the fire marshal’s report proved that the fire was caused by a lit cigarette.” She sighed. “I don’t know how many times I had warned Stewart against smoking in the lab area. And each time, he’d assure me that he was the soul of caution. He never smoked near any of the chemicals, nor when anyone else was in the lab.”

  “Then how did it happen?”

  “An overturned ashtray as much as the fire chief could guess. Strange that Stewart should have gone that way. He was always in control; always did exactly as he pleased.”

  “Yes, good old Stewart. He was a strong man, but kind, too,” Creighton settled back with a glass of cognac. “One of my deepest regrets in life, Vanessa, is that I wasn’t here for his funeral.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she dismissed. “You were in New York at the time, and you sent those lovely flowers.”

  “That doesn’t justify my behavior. I should have delivered the flowers myself. But, instead, I acted with complete indifference. I only hope you can forgive me.”

  She gazed at him lovingly. “You, Creighton, I could forgive anything.”

  He took a swig of cognac. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. It was beastly of me, leaving you alone, especially in your condition.”

  Vanessa was quick to correct him. “My illness was somewhat under control at that point. Just before Stewart’s death, I heard of this so-called `wonder drug’ that would alleviate my symptoms. Well, I walked straight into my doctor’s office and demanded that he prescribe it for me, and let me tell you, it has helped immensely. I’m not cured, mind you, and I’ll never be able to reverse the damage done, but at least the pain isn’t as intense as it used to be. Why, if circumstances were different, I’d say I had been given a new life. So I don’t want to hear you wallowing in your guilt over my condition.”

  He smiled. “I’m English, Vanessa. Obsessing over perceived impoliteness is my stock-in-trade.”

  “Then find something else to obsess about, because I won’t have you beating yourself up any longer,” she stipulated. “You were a different person then, Creighton. Working fourteen hours a day, seven days a week at your family’s business. Traveling around the globe. You were beginning to turn into … well, you were beginning to turn into your father”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “what a narrow squeak that was.”

  “You seem more relaxed now; more like the Creighton Ashcroft I know and love.” She drank some of her coffee. “What finally made you give up the business and move to Connecticut?”

  “My thirty-fourth birthday. I spent it alone, in my apartment, looking out the window, watching the people on the sidewalk below scurrying about. Some had arms full of groceries, others carried small children, but they were all hurrying, as though there were someplace important they couldn’t wait to get to, someone special they couldn’t wait to see. And I realized that in my thirty-four years, I had never rushed anywhere. Sure, there were meetings and appointments, but I had never rushed for something that I had chosen to do, never with any true sense of purpose. I had spent my entire life trying to be someone I’m not, making other people happy, living up to expectations.”

  “So you resigned,” she filled in the blank.

  “The very next day. Then I called a real estate agent and went house hunting. I never liked the city. Noisy, dirty, full of those society phonies. So I searched for a house in the country. A house suitable for a wife and a family. Not that I had either of those things, but hope springs eternal.” He fell silent as he became conscious of how hollow his words sounded. What hope? All his hopes had been dashed.

  Vanessa, watching him, cited, “`But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, then falls thy shadow, Cynara, the night is thine, and I am desolate and sick of an old passion”’

  “Ernest Dowson,” Creighton attributed.

  She took a sip of coffee and then flashed him a look of pity. “The lady has quite a hold on you.”

  He was intentionally obtuse. “What lady?”

  “Marjorie McClelland.”

  “No, Vanessa. If I’m sick and desolate of an `old passion’, it’s you,” Creighton chuckled.

  “Watch how you use the word `old,”’ Vanessa laughed. “Seriously though, I was a crush, a schoolboy’s fantasy. But Marjorie-you’re in love with her aren’t you?”

  He polished off the rest of his drink, placed the empty glass back on the table, and rose from his seat. “What does it matter?” he replied impatiently as he leaned his arms against the back of the sofa he had just vacated. “She doesn’t love me.”

  “I think she does,” Vanessa countered. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “When will she know it?” he asked sarcastically. “When we’re both too old to do anything about it? Eh, Vanessa? When will she know?”

  “Maybe soon. Maybe never.”

  “Thanks for cheering me up.” He retraced his steps to the other side of the sofa and plopped back into it. “We
ll, never mind. I’ve washed my hands of her. I decided last night that I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for her to come to terms with her own emotions. If she wants to marry Jameson, then let him have her and I hope they’re very happy together. I have a life of my own to live: a house, a car, an extensive library to read, and someday a wife.” He set his jaw. “And when I do marry, it will be to a woman who knows what she wants, who doesn’t play games, who doesn’t tease you half to death only to resuscitate you and tease you again. Someone reliable and sincere. Someone like you, Vanessa.” His eyes grew large as an idea formed in his fevered brain. “Yes, someone like you.” He lunged from the sofa and dropped to one knee before the Biedermeier chair. “And who’s more like you, than you?”

  She looked at him as though he were completely daft. “You’re speaking in tongues, Creighton. I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying why don’t you and I give it a go? We always said we’d get married someday.”

  “We were children then!”

  “Yes, but children sometimes see these things more clearly than adults do.”

  She shook her head. “You know that there was only one man for me, Creighton, just as there is only one woman for you.”

  “Yes, but you see, that’s the beauty of it. Neither of us has any unrealistic expectations for our relationship. We care for each other, of course, but neither of us is under the delusion that we’re in love with each other. Therefore, there are no hearts to break, no feelings to hurt, no dreams to go unfulfilled. Ours would be a marriage based on friendship and companionship.” He grabbed her by the hand. “It could work, Vanessa. You could move to Connecticut with me. I have plenty of room and the fresh air would do wonders for your health.” He added, to sweeten the pot: “And I would see that you wanted for nothing.”