Chapter Eight
Harry made a monumental effort to hide his aggravation as he turned and smiled at the short, stocky man behind his chair. "Hello, George.”
George Joost was the owner of a small software company for whom Harry had written an overview and business plan when the company filed for a listing on the stock market a year ago. George, whose wife in Toronto refused to move west with their two children, had spent several evenings at Harry's house, and he’d made a huge fuss over Sadie, even bringing her a Barbie doll with a wardrobe of clothes.
"Good to see you out and about, you old hermit, you." But George’s spectacled gaze wasn’t on Harry. His eyes were feasting on India.
Harry knew the other man was waiting for an introduction.
Harry couldn't chance it. George, affable and talkative, would undoubtedly say something about Sadie, or ask what Harry was writing these days.
“I’ll call you, George. We’ll get together for lunch," Harry said in the most dismissive tone he could muster.
"Sure, Harry.” George took the hint, good-natured as always. “Enjoy your dinner. Oh, and give Sadie my love and tell her I said hi." He gave them a small salute and then walked away.
“Business acquaintance," Harry' managed to croak through a throat that was suddenly parched. "Sadie’s my, er, secretary'."
India’s expression told him nothing, and he could only pray that she bought this new addition to his fat folder of lies.
He was relieved that the waiter brought the menus just then. They studied them in silence for a while.
"It all looks wonderful,” she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been afraid she’d ask him more about George, or worse, about Sadie. But obviously she’d bought his explanation.
He studied the menu. Now that the crisis was over, he was starving. Lunch had been baked beans on toast. Since Sadie, he’d mastered some of the absolute basics of cooking, but his menus ran strongly to stews and soups and Kraft dinners, because he’d learned there was little possibility of going too far wrong.
India, undoubtedly, was accustomed to far more sophisticated fare.
He was convinced of it when she ordered mustard herb-basted free-range chicken and some complicated salad he’d never heard of.
Harry had a steak.
Awkward silences filled the interval between ordering and the arrival of their food. India wasn't as talkative as he’d imagined she’d be, and there was a strain between them that hadn’t been there when they had talked on the phone.
It might have something to do with the powerful sense of attraction he felt every time he looked over at her. He kept thinking about kissing those lush lips and forgetting that this was really just an interview. The neckline of her suit dipped low enough to show the swell of creamy breasts, and he kept breathing in her seductive perfume.
When the food arrived, they ate for a while in silence. Harry was having a hard time remembering the list of questions he’d compiled. He finally came up with a couple that needed answering.
“You mentioned that your mother had died. Is your father still alive, India?”
She paused with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. She set it down and picked up her wineglass instead, taking a hearty gulp before she answered.
“Yes, he is.”
He could sense this wasn’t a subject she was comfortable with, but it would make a difference to the article to know about her family.
“What does he do?” As he pursued the subject, Harry realized it wasn't just the article that made him want to know about her; she fascinated him. She had interested him when they’d had only a telephone relationship, but now that he’d met her in person, the attraction was even more powerful. . . and disturbing.
She was still toying with her wineglass.
“My father’s a minister in the small town where I grew up.” Her words were emotionless, but when he looked at her face, he could see strain there. Those full lips were compressed, and a tiny frown came and went between her eyebrows.
A minister’s daughter? He couldn’t have imagined a more ironic scenario, or one more perfect for his article. He should have dropped the topic; he knew by her expression he should have. But some demon made him go on. “Does he know what you do for a living?”
Her voice was brittle. “Not to my knowledge. I haven’t spoken to him in seven years. He didn’t exactly approve of me then; I doubt he would now.” She smeared butter on a piece of roll and then abandoned it on her butter plate. She pinned him with those green eyes and his breath caught.
“Did you get along with your father, Harold?” There was a subtle challenge in her tone.
Here, at least, he could be honest. “I wasn’t close to him, but we got along fine. He was a colonel in the Canadian army, and he was strict but fair. He died five years ago.”
She nodded, and he thought she might be trying to imagine what his childhood had been like. He was doing the same thing about her.
“Being a minister's daughter must have been tough. I guess you’d have to be sort of a model for the community?”
She smiled, an ironic twist of her mouth. “Can you imagine me as the perfect minister’s daughter?” Her voice changed, and he knew she was mimicking her father. "Ladies don’t walk that way. A proper young woman doesn’t wear makeup. That dress is too short; it’s a disgrace. You’re a disappointment to me, Ma—India McBride.”
She’d caught herself quickly, but he now had a clue to her real name. "Ma” what? Mary, Matilda, Maureen?
"After Mom died, when I was sixteen, I quit school and came to Vancouver. I stayed with an aunt for four years. She was sick and I took care of her until she died. She was my mother’s only sister. They both died really young.”
“And after that?” He had an insatiable need to know about her, to know what path had led her to where she was, to what she did.
He didn’t want her to be someone who did phone sex. That sudden realization shocked him, surprised him. Scared him, too. There was no way he should be having opinions about what she did. He shouldn’t care.
She gave him a quizzical look, and he wondered what his face revealed about his thoughts. He cleared his throat, tried to assume an interested but bland expression, and repeated his question. “What did you do after that, India?”
“After that I worked as a waitress, went to night school, got my high school diploma. Then I applied for and was accepted for training as a stewardess with a regional airline."
He nodded. "I remember your telling me that you developed a fear of flying. Isn’t there help for that? I remember reading—”
"I didn’t go for help,” she interrupted.
The waiter arrived, collected their plates, and asked about dessert. She declined, but Harry ordered Grand Marnier chocolate cake and amaretto ice cream, with two forks. "You'll share, I hope?”
She didn’t reply. Instead she gave him a long, considering look that made him apprehensive. He knew he’d been clumsy about questioning her. He shouldn't have asked so many questions. She’d guessed that he was interviewing her. For an instant relief poured through him. He’d welcome a chance to be truthful, whatever the cost. They could start all over again, on different footing.
“It bothers you that I do phone sex, doesn’t it, Harold?” Her voice was unemotional, but her eyes weren’t. They shot green sparks.
It caught him totally off guard. In some uncanny fashion, she’d picked up on his unspoken thoughts.
"Not at all, India.” His denial was too quick and too formal, and it sounded phony. He did his best to repair the damage. “Hell, no. Why should I mind? It’s the way we met, isn’t it?”
Even to him it sounded overly earnest, less than honest. He saw a flash of hurt in her eyes. She looked away, and he silently cursed himself.
“I should have realized it would bother you. I guess I’m not exactly someone you could introduce to your friends. Especially not when they know your wife.”
“My wife?”
He felt stunned. “I haven’t got a wife, India.” Harry cursed his own stupidity. She was hurt because he hadn’t introduced her to George, and she’d gotten the wrong slant on Sadie. He should have guessed that she’d misunderstand his reasons for not introducing her.
“And as far as George goes . . .” he began, but she was getting to her feet. It wasn’t until she tossed her shawl around her shoulders that he realized she was planning to walk out on him.
"India, please sit down. I'll explain.” He got up and reached toward her, but she moved sharply away.
"Thank you for dinner, Harold. Please don’t follow me out.” She snatched up her purse and moved quickly toward the doorway to the dining room.
He tried to catch her, but there was the bill to deal with, and by the time he finally managed to race out of the restaurant, she was gone, and the room key in his pocket felt like hot lead.
It took Maxine a long, frantic time to find Edna’s car. She was shaking, on the verge of tears, and her brain wouldn’t work properly. There seemed to be dozens of sleek black cars in the parking lot, and she’d foolishly forgotten to mark down the exact location where she’d parked—or Edna's license number, for that matter.
By the time she finally located the car, her feet hurt in the high heels, and her heart felt scalded by the way the evening had gone.
Trembling, forcing herself to concentrate only on driving, she made her way home through the heavy Saturday evening traffic. She parked the car in front of her house and sat for a moment, trying to control her runaway emotions before she ventured inside.
Polly and Edna were seated at the kitchen table having coffee and cookies, and they both looked surprised when Maxine walked in the door.
“You’re back early.” Polly got a glimpse of Maxine’s face and scowled. "Okay, what’d that jerk do to you?”
She got up and put her arm around Maxine’s shoulders, and Edna quietly got another cup from the cupboard and poured her some coffee.
Their warmth and concern were more than Maxine could bear. The tears she’d been fighting all the way home began to pour down her cheeks, and sobs made her gulp and snort. She sank down in a chair and put her face in her hands.
“Did that dickhead attack you?" Polly’s voice was fierce. “Because I’ll have him up on charges so fast. . .”
Maxine shook her head and blew her nose on the tissues Edna tucked into her hand.
“You were . . . right, Polly. I... I should ne- never have gone out with him,” Maxine managed to choke out. "He’s . . . he’s way out of . . . out of my league.”
"Don’t even start with that rot,” Polly snapped. "Just for God’s sake tell us what happened. What’s this dork like?”
Maxine got control of herself. “He’s . . . he’s tall, and he’s got thick black hair that curls a little around his ears. And clear, sky-blue eyes, and I liked his smile. He’s got good teeth and a strong jaw. He’s got a cleft in his chin, and sort of a crooked nose. He’s not really handsome; he's more, I guess. ... I’d say rugged-looking. And he’s confident, but also a little shy, and . . . and I really liked him. I liked him right away.’’
“Okay, so he didn’t make you scream and upchuck on sight. So what’s the story?" Polly shoved the plate of chocolate cookies over, but food was the last thing Maxine wanted.
Her throat tightened and she had to clear it. “He was ashamed to be seen with me," she said in a tight voice. “At first I tried—" She suppressed another sob at the memory. “I tried really hard to pretend to myself that I was wrong, but he kept asking me these questions, like how my fa—” Her voice broke. She bit her lip and Edna patted her back until she could get hold of herself again. “How my father felt about my doing phone sex. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out Harold was embarrassed about being seen with me. A friend of his came by and Harold nearly passed out. He didn't introduce us or anything, and then the guy asked about someone named Sadie.” She swallowed. “Harold’s married; I’m sure of it."
“The bastard. The low-down, dirty—” Polly swore fluently, a long string of curses, graphic and, Maxine thought, very satisfying.
They didn’t ease the hurt, though.
“I should have guessed. I thought I heard a woman’s voice once when he was talking to me, then his voice changed and he hung up fast.”
“Lots of our clients are married,” Edna said matter-of-factly.
“Which doesn’t matter as long as they stay just clients,” Maxine agreed. “But I thought he was an honest guy," she added bleakly.
“It’s just like I always say, their brains are wired differently. There’s no sense in expecting logic or reason or especially honesty from them,” Polly concluded. “They’re men.”
The business phone rang and Edna went to answer it.
"I’m sorry, but she’s not available,” Maxine heard her say.
Edna made a face and gestured at the receiver, and with a sick feeling in her stomach, Maxine knew it was Harold. She was going to have to deal with him, and she might as well do it right now and get it over with.
"I’ll take that.” With trembling fingers, Maxine reached for the phone.
“Don’t you let him charm you,” Polly said in a hiss. “Give him hell. He deserves it.”
"India here.” Her voice shook a little.
"India, it’s Harold,” he began, as if she didn’t already know. "Listen, please don’t hang up on me. I’m sorry for what happened tonight. You got the wrong impression of me, and—”
“I got the wrong impression? I don’t think so.” Maxine was very aware of her friends, one on either side of her, both listening avidly. Her heart was hammering, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to reveal in any way the confusing muddle of emotions she felt just hearing his voice. “What I got tonight was a hard dose of reality, Harold."
He tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice and talked right over him. “You lied to me, and I hate being lied to. You and I have nothing in common, absolutely nothing.”
Polly gave a thumbs-up sign.
“I don’t want you to call me ever again. If you do, I’ll simply hang up the moment I recognize your voice. If you persist, I’ll make a complaint to the police, that you’re . . . that you're—”
"Harassing,” Polly hissed.
“That you’re harassing me.” Maxine felt as if she were choking. Before he could say another word, she slammed the phone down and tried to get her breath.
“Yes!” Polly exclaimed, smacking one fist into the other palm. “Way to go, Maxine.”
“Good for you,” Edna echoed. “I wish I'd said something like that to John. All I ever did was start to cry.” Edna shook her head. “I was so pitiful.”
The phone rang again, and they all looked at one another.
“If that’s Harold, hang up,” Maxine instructed, but when Edna answered, it was one of her regulars.
Maxine and Polly left her to it. They went back to the kitchen and their coffee.
“Graham went to sleep like the little angel he is," Polly reported. “I rocked him and sang to him, and then when I put him down I rubbed his back.”
“Don’t you ever think about having a baby of your own?” Maxine said. “You’re so good with Graham.” Talking about babies took her mind off Harold, which Polly probably realized.
"I’d love to have a baby," Polly said wistfully. "But I’ve never met anybody I’d even consider as a genetic donor.”
"Don’t you believe in love at all, Polly?” In spite of Ricky, in spite of everything, Maxine always had. But tonight she wasn’t sure.
"I’d like to,” Polly said slowly. “I just don’t see much of it around, particularly in my work.” “Did you always want to be a lawyer?" Maxine needed to talk, to keep her mind off the evening’s events.
“I actually took a teaching degree first,” Polly said. “I wanted to be a primary school teacher, but when I graduated there weren’t any jobs, so I went back to college and got my law degree. I figured there’s always
a need for lawyers.”
"And you enjoy it?" Maxine thought of Harold, asking her whether she enjoyed what she did.
Polly shrugged. “Sometimes. When I can make a difference, when I see that some woman’s life is improved because I’ve managed to get decent maintenance. But you don’t hear a lot of happy stories in this job.”
“So what would you do if you weren’t a lawyer?" She was borrowing all her lines from Harold, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Polly frowned. “Y’know, I’ve thought about that sometimes. Something to do with babies. Maybe a midwife?”
“A midwife?” That was surprising enough to make Maxine forget all about Harold—for a moment or two. "That’s pretty messy, Polly.” Maxine could not imagine the stylish Polly dealing with amniotic fluid. "And you don’t make much money at it. Plus you don’t get to meet any single guys, either.”
"So? We’re only playing make believe here. It’s not as if I’m gonna give up a job that’s finally paying me some real money for one where all the perks are in the product.” Polly studied a perfectly manicured nail and tried to look nonchalant. “How about you, Maxine? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Harold had asked her that same question. He’d asked a great many questions. He’d seemed sincerely interested in the answers, too. It went to show how wrong a girl could be.
“A radio announcer.” She’d thought a lot more about it, and she’d even ordered a book from the library that would tell her what the requirements were to attend broadcasting school.
“No kidding?" Polly thought it over and nodded her head. “You’d be really good at it. You’ve got that fantastic voice, and you’re quick with answers. Yup, Maxine, you’ve gotta do it."
“There’s this little problem called money. It would mean no income for quite a while, and there’s Graham to think about.”
Polly was a realist, and she nodded again. "Yeah, but don’t give up on the idea. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Maxine had to smile. “My father used to say that. He knew every old saw in the book.”
ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) Page 7
