Dubs sniffed. “I don’t foresee that being a problem. We’ll comb up his hair and put some shoe blacking on his face, and he will no longer look like himself at all. But your concern, dear lady, is noted. Now, we’ll need to recreate the heroic rescue of Miss Pedersen.”
“I’m not writing an article about myself,” Owen said. “Come on, Dubs, that would be obscene. I don’t want to appear in this at all.”
“You’re right. You’re right. When I see a story, I sometimes go charging a little too eagerly after it. Like a hound on the scent of a rabbit. But that’s better. Mystery man saves woman from burning building. Our hero is selfless. But when we let it slip that it’s Vancouver’s most eligible bachelor, Ow—”
“Ross Wister,” Owen said hurriedly.
“Our man Ross Wister, well, let’s just say that someone is about to get even more popular. Not that you weren’t already, old chum.” Owen was red-faced now, but he didn’t object.
In just fifteen minutes, the fire that Jo could still see every time she closed her eyes had become a farce. Ilsa was playing her. Doc Stryker had been edited out. Doc’s bar had turned into a sweet shop, since Dubs said that a woman like Ilsa would never be caught in a bar. (Jo couldn’t manage to hold back a little laugh at that one). Even Mrs. McSheen had a role. She was going to be photographed standing next to the rubble of Doc Stryker’s bar wearing her best sashes, a personification of the town’s fundraising efforts.
If this version of the story brought publicity to Fraser Springs, they all would benefit. Still, she couldn’t get out of her mind the way Mr. Harrison had looked at her when Owen had introduced them. Or rather, the way he had dismissed her. Owen was the hero, Ilsa was the younger, more beautiful version of herself, and Jo was simply a poor widow without even Mrs. McSheen’s sashes to lend her distinction. If this was what people in Vancouver were like, she would gladly stay in the backwoods of Fraser Springs forever.
• • •
It was so good to see Dubs. They’d met shortly after Owen had moved to Vancouver. It was an unlikely friendship. Dubs was a decade older than Owen and moved in the city’s wealthiest circles. Owen was fresh off the farm, without much more to recommend him to the world than a carpetbag full of notebooks. But the two men shared a love of the written word and a lively curiosity about the world. Owen wrote stories, while Dubs had a flair for making real life just as exciting as any novel.
After the impromptu meeting at Wilson’s, the two men retreated to Owen’s room at the St. Alice Hotel. Dubs materialized a flask from his waistcoat pocket and poured them each a brandy.
“To the man of the hour,” Dubs said.
“Cheers,” Owen said, clinking his glass with Dubs’s.
Owen closed his eyes as he took a sip. After a week of Doc Stryker’s hooch, the brandy felt like silk on his throat, which was still raw from smoke and cinders. When Owen re-opened his eyes, Dubs was staring at the seeping bandage on his arm.
“With any luck, that’ll get you a handsome scar to show at parties,” he said. “Before I left, I told Cynthia the vague outlines of the story, and she almost fainted. When you get back, she wants to throw you a party.”
Owen made a face. Cynthia, Dubs’s wife, was a lovely woman whose greatest joy in life seemed to be hosting elaborate, deathly formal dinner parties.
“I’m sure Cynthia would be delighted. Not so sure I’ll be able to talk Jo into it, though.”
Dubs stared out the window for a few moments. “Is that how things are between you and Mrs. Wilson, then?”
“I’ll be straight with you. I’ve never felt so seriously about a woman in my life. Things are a bit up in the air at the moment, but I’ve asked her to come back to Vancouver with me.”
“In which case, I congratulate you.” He lifted his glass in Owen’s direction. “She’s a lovely woman, no two ways about that. Although ... I hesitate to mention this, Owen, I truly do. But do you think that’d be entirely fair to Mrs. Wilson?”
“What?”
Dubs took a sip of his brandy. “Transplanting a country mouse like that to Vancouver. I know you’ve had your fun here, but I can’t imagine she’s going to be very happy in the city.”
“Jo’s no mouse. She’d travel ’round the world and never turn a hair. And what’s she got to be afraid of in Vancouver? Playing bridge with Cynthia? Trying to get caught up on five years of gossip in five days?”
Dubs took another sip. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, dear boy. Gossip. There are certain juicy tidbits that seem sure to follow her to town. Famed author Owen Sterling announces his engagement to a widowed masseuse who’s been working her fingers into backwoods miners for years? Not to mention those rumours about the entire establishment being the worst sort of whorehouse. Do you think that Cynthia’s really going to say, ‘Splendid! I’ll call on her at once!’?” Dubs’s voice was level.
“That’s unkind.”
“I’m not trying to be unkind. I’m telling you this not just as your publisher but also as a friend. You have to admit that I’ve sanded some of your rough edges, and you’ve ... well, thanks to you, I can now go for a hike in the woods without getting eaten by mountain lions. So long as those woods are Stanley Park.” He looked to Owen, expecting a laugh, and when he didn’t get one, he took another sip and continued. “Marriage is a social contract. That’s all I’m trying to say. A man’s wife should help to raise his standing in society. Give him a bit of polish. You’re a good-hearted man. Spontaneous. I’ve always liked that about you. But when it comes to marriage, a man needs to look very carefully before he goes a-leaping.”
“And you need to get to know Jo before you start judging her.”
“Which is another excellent point. How well do you know her? Who are her family? What do the finances look like in that establishment of hers?”
Owen opened his mouth to fire back, to defend both Jo and his own intelligence. Dubs was out of line, but damn it, he was also right. Owen didn’t know if Jo had siblings or parents living. He didn’t know much about her marriage to Albert Wilson. Didn’t even know her maiden name. As to the bathhouse finances, he knew the place wasn’t thriving, exactly, but beyond that?
His silence seemed to be answer enough for Dubs, who nodded. His publisher had always been good at knowing when to drop an argument at the precise moment he’d won it. “At any rate, it’s good to see you ready to write again, my boy, even if you did try to get yourself half-cooked in the process. Let’s go get your beauty shots, and then we can figure out where a man can buy something stronger than lemonade around here.”
Chapter 24
By noon the next day, Jo had finally convinced Ilsa — who seemed to have declared herself a combination of nursemaid and jailer — that she could rest almost as effectively sitting at her desk as in her bed. And she would be in a much better mood at her desk, which seemed to decide the argument in her favor. How strange to think that just a few days ago, Owen had first kissed her in this room. She could practically feel his hands on her hair...
Just then, a sharp knock on the doorframe made her jump. She may have been daydreaming about Owen, but his publisher was the very last person in the world she wanted to see. Still, there he was, standing in the open doorway to her office with his perfectly trimmed little beard and a fresh flower in his lapel.
“I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time, Mrs. Wilson?”
He had, rather. She was wearing one of her least flattering dresses and had ink stains all over hands. Nevertheless, she was glad he had found her in her office rather than the kitchen or the treatment rooms. Conducting business in the office allowed her to channel Albert: authoritative, businesslike yet warm, shrewd yet compassionate. In the short time they’d been married, Albert Wilson had taught her so much.
“Of course.” She flashed her best “business smile”: friendly but not too friendly. “I’m free for at least the next half-hour or so. Is this about the article, Mr. Harrison?” She rose to shake his ha
nd across the desk.
He took the chair across from her, unbuttoning his fine suit coat as he sat. “Oh, not as such. My work’s mostly done on that front.”
“Then you were able to get the photographs you needed?”
“Yes indeed. And I’m sure they will turn out beautifully. Your Ilsa was a very capable artist’s model.”
“I look forward to reading the story in the paper. Will you be staying in Fraser Springs for much longer?” She could not keep a bit of chill from creeping into her tone.
Mr. Harrison’s tone, too, was coldly polite. “Just another day or two, I think. But before I leave, I’d like to speak to you about something other than the story.”
She tried to hide her surprise by straightening her posture a bit in the big leather chair. “Certainly. What would you like to know, Mr. Harrison?”
“I noticed that your front window is boarded up.”
“Yes. There was an unfortunate accident.”
He nodded and walked to the window to look out over Fraser Springs. “I imagine you’d like to get that fixed. I have to hand it to you: I’ve been in business for twenty-five years, and I’ve rarely seen an operation run as smoothly as yours.”
Somehow, it didn’t sound like a compliment. She merely gave a noncommittal, “Oh?”
Mr. Harrison turned back around, smiling broadly. “This ... affair with Owen.” He made a vague gesture. “You’ve set yourself up beautifully.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” It took all of her professionalism to keep her tone even.
“The brick, the seduction, the fire. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself, and I’ve been muckraking since before you were born.”
Jo stood, her hands pressed flat on the desk in front of her. “Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Harrison?”
“Oh no, no, no. No accusations. Just observing, one professional to another. And you are very good, Mrs. Wilson. I’m sure we both see the same qualities in Owen. He’s sentimental, he’s impulsive, he wants so very much to help people and do the right thing. That’s why I sent him up here. Saving some lost girls in the wilderness was the perfect way to jolt him out of this nasty round of writer’s block, get his mind off reporting and back into the drama of the fiction game.”
The man’s roundabout meaning was becoming clear. “You knew all along that my bathhouse wasn’t a brothel. You intentionally sent him here on a wild goose chase.”
Mr. Harrison smiled. “Sometimes a small failure can deliver a healthy shock to the system. I intended no mischief towards you, Mrs. Wilson. I certainly never thought he’d get himself tangled up so seriously.” He picked up the brick on her desk, testing its heft in his palm. Then he set it back down again. “It’s so hard for a woman alone to make a living. You do what you have to do to survive. You reeled him in perfectly, but unfortunately, it’s my duty to tell you that it ends here.”
Seething anger replaced her confusion. “Are you implying that I’m some sort of ... confidence artist? That I’ve schemed my way into Owen’s affections?”
“Oh, my dear. ‘Scheme’ is such an ugly little word. Indeed.” His smile faltered; he seemed genuinely troubled by her choice of words. “I don’t wish to imply anything criminal. Any woman in your position would make a grab for that particular brass ring. I’m merely cautioning you that if you think that this affair is going to end in marriage and a baby carriage, you’re mistaken.”
“But Owen was the one who asked me to ...” The words came out of her mouth before she had a chance to bite them back.
Mr. Harrison remained unruffled. “I’m not surprised that he may have... entangled himself a bit. You’re a lovely woman, Mrs. Wilson. But I think I am safe in assuming that he did not offer you a proposal of marriage?”
Jo felt her jaw tighten. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.” An awful thought occurred to her: exactly how much had Owen told his publisher about their affair? The idea of this stranger knowing her most intimate actions was horribly lowering. Owen wouldn’t do that, would he? But why else would Mr. Harrison have come to see her?
He looked at her steadily. “Mrs. Wilson, you have been acquainted with Owen for a week. I’ve known him for fifteen years. I suppose, for example, that he hasn’t yet told you about Anne McKinnet?” He waited for an answer, and so she gave a small, tight shake of her head. Another lover, perhaps? Oh, God ... a fiancée? Is that why he’d been so awkward and hesitant when she’d mentioned marriage that morning after the fire? “Such a pretty little thing, from one of the best families. Plays the harp, I believe. He courted her single-mindedly a couple of years back. But then, out of the blue, it became very important for him to spend three months alone in the woods writing his next book. Suddenly, he needed total peace and quiet, and he needed it so badly that he simply wrote her a letter and left town. It was quite a little scandal until her mama arranged an engagement to a nice young doctor.”
“Owen was never so vulgar as to tell me about his history with other women.”
“Of course, of course. But I ask you to consider, honestly, what happens if you find yourself abandoned, without family or your business here to fall back on?”
All the Wilsons on the walls in their gilded frames seemed to be smirking in assent with Mr. Harrison. Owen wouldn’t leave out of meanness, but what seemed so right in a grotto sometimes didn’t translate when the real world intruded. All she knew about Owen Sterling was that he was brave, and gentle, that he kissed her like she was necessary to his survival. And that he had come to town under false pretenses and was already ready to leave. She’d met the type before: men comfortable with running into a burning building, but not so good with the slow, painful rebuilding after the fire was put out.
“I don’t say this to insult you,” Mr. Harrison said. “But you have to know that Owen needs change. Novelty. Adventure. Always has. He wants to throw away a perfectly respectable career to become a muckraker, for God’s sake. What do you think happens to you when his wanderlust sets in again? He’ll rush away as quickly as he rushed in.” His words were so close to thoughts that she herself had had about Owen, but coming from him they sounded cynical. Hurtful.
Jo took a deep breath. Outside, the lake was calm and the sky was cloudless. She suddenly felt just as calm. It was clear what she had to do.
“You’re right. Owen is a grown man who makes his own decisions. I can give you my word that I won’t pressure him to stay if he wants to leave.”
Mr. Harrison nodded once and rose briskly to his feet. “Well then,” he said. “I’m relieved to see that you’re so reasonable on this subject. And this little chat has taken a great deal of worry from my mind when it comes to my friend’s future. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.” He tipped his bowler and headed to the door.
The “little chat” with Mr. Harrison didn’t change anything, really. He’d only told her what she’d already known about Owen. He was impulsive and not likely to make the kind of commitment she’d need from a man if she were to even begin to consider uprooting her life. Things were so unsettled in Fraser Springs that it seemed wisest to stay the course and take care of her business and her girls. She would simply have to be grateful for the time she had with him, without foolishly hoping for more. She rolled her neck to relieve the tension that had built up in the past quarter-hour, settled back into her chair, and got to work on the accounts.
Chapter 25
In the two days since the fire, Jo had barely managed to get more than a few words alone with Owen. He’d been constantly surrounded by his new admirers or holed up in his room with his publisher, writing that article for the papers. If she were being entirely honest with herself, she’d been a bit hurt that he hadn’t made more of an attempt to see her. So when he walked into her office, she wasn’t quite able to keep the foolish smile off her face as she stood to greet him.
“Owen, it’s such a pleasure to—” Before she could finish the sentence, he crossed the few short steps to her desk, wrapped her i
n his arms, and captured her lips in a deep, searing kiss.
She pressed against him with a speed and ease that almost embarrassed her, slipping her hands around his shoulders and up to tangle in his thick, golden hair. He gave a little groan of pleasure as she nipped at his lower lip, and swept his own hands down the small of her back to pull her even more tightly against him.
“I came here to ask you something, but damn if I can remember it now,” he murmured after they finally broke apart to catch their breath. She giggled into his neck. She, Josephine Wilson, giggled. Good Lord.
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Anything.”
“Does that door lock?”
• • •
A little while later, as they set their rumpled clothing to rights, Jo found herself play-fighting Owen for the handful of hairpins he was holding hostage.
“But I like your hair down. I think I’ve earned some concessions, don’t you?”
“Stop it!” She tried to sound stern and businesslike, but she kept slipping up and laughing. “I can’t go downstairs like this.”
“Then don’t go downstairs. We’ll have our meals delivered to your room for the rest of the week, and you can issue your orders from the bathtub. Like Marie Antoinette.”
With a final lunge, she captured the hairpins. “Ha!” Owen held his hands up in mock surrender.
She turned away to the window looking out over the lake, attempting to use the glass as a makeshift mirror. She pinned her hair into a decent semblance of a chignon and turned back to see a suddenly solemn Owen staring back at her.
“I have to leave soon, you know. I’ve been putting it off as long as I can, but I need to be in Vancouver when the article runs. And I’ve got a dozen invitations and commitments I’ve been dodging too long already.”
“Oh.” This wasn’t a surprise, of course, but her throat tightened anyway. “When is ‘soon,’ exactly?”
The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson Page 15
