The Man She Married

by Muriel Jensen

  “Ha!” she scoffed. “You are my favorite nephew, but I’m having too much fun to leave anybody anything just yet. I’ve tracked you down because I want to talk to Prudence.”

  “Ah…Aunt George. You know Prue and I are separated.”

  “I do. But I also know that she’s in Maple Hill, wherever that is, and so are you.”

  “I just came to try to straighten things out with her before I went to Alaska. But she still doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “But you’re still staying there?”

  “I’ve been offered a challenging job. And it’s a beautiful place to be until I go to Alaska. Why do you want to talk to Prue?”

  “Because I heard about her line of clothes. Your mother faxed me the photos that appeared in the Boston Globe.”

  “The Globe?” he repeated in surprise.

  “Apparently their fashion reporter was there for Leaf-Peeper weekend and decided to stay for the fashion show. She was very impressed. So, I remembered that I never gave you kids a wedding present.”

  Gideon laughed. “That was probably wise, or it’d be in storage in New York with a lot of our other things.”

  “Well, I insist on making it up to you. Or rather, to her. I always did like that girl. In the communications division of one of my companies, there’s a very prestigious little fashion magazine that would love to have photos and a story about a young American launching a sophisticated new line.”

  He knew Prue would be thrilled at that opportunity. And in spite of all her animosity toward him, he wanted her to have it.

  “I can be there in three days with a photographer,” Georgette said. “And I’ll do the story myself. I often contribute to the magazine because of my fashion experience. Can we stay with you?”

  Gideon hesitated, only because he knew his aunt’s presence would put paid to all his hopes of peace and quiet.

  “Ah…sure. But Prue doesn’t want anything to do with me. If you want to deal with her…” And suddenly, like a shaft of sunlight through a storm cloud, he saw a way to turn this to his advantage.

  Georgette waited a moment, then demanded, “What?”

  “I…ah…” He stalled for time as his brain churned with an idea.

  “Gideon?”

  “Can you do some dramatic work for me, Auntie?” he asked as he mulled over the idea again, looking for flaws. There were many, but he was an optimist.

  “You know me, dahling,” she said in a theatrical tone. “I live for center stage.”

  “I’m thinking,” he said, unreeling the plan, “that if you tell her that I told you we were reconciled and that she’s living here with me, she’ll come over demanding to know what I’m up to and I can explain that I didn’t want her to miss this opportunity to make a big splash in the press. She’ll think I’m noble. Maybe.”

  “That sounds plausible.”

  “So, she’ll have to stay with me for the time that you’re here so that it really does appear that we’re reconciled.”

  “But would my opinion of your marital status be that important to her?”

  “I think it’ll be all entangled in her wish to have this opportunity. And in my noble and self-sacrificing insistence that she get it.”

  “Ah. Insidious. I like it. Give me her number.”

  As fate would have it, he’d run into Camille when he’d been in the supermarket buying coffee, and she’d given it to him—both her cell and the studio. He gave both numbers to his aunt.

  “All right, Gideon,” she said briskly. “I’m going to bring the fashion world a bright new star and possibly save a marriage in the bargain. Is there an aunt anywhere more wonderful than I?”

  “I doubt it,” he replied. “Go to it, Auntie.”

  She hung up, obviously pumped to come through for him.

  All he had to do was wait.

  And he might invest in a little body armor, just in case.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PRUE SORTED THROUGH her orders, listed them according to garment and size to place her fabric order, then listed names and phone numbers in preparation for setting up a fitting schedule. She sipped at a cup of coffee, stared at her long list and fought a sense of panic. She’d have to work flat-out—with help—in order to get everything done so that her first customers could wear their fall and winter fashions before spring came!

  She fell back against her chair, momentarily daunted by the task, and looked around at the studio she’d finally acquired after years of dreaming about it. It was far more functional than glamorous—a lot like her life. The room had a collection of tables, one for cutting fabric, one that held two sewing machines, one for simply working out patterns. There was a rolling rack of finished and half-finished projects, two overstuffed chairs for collapsing into, shelves with bolts of fabric, drawers with trim, buttons, notions.

  On the wall above her desk, a bulletin board was covered with fabric swatches, design ideas, fast-food coupons and the occasional business card.

  It occurred to her that she finally had this place because Gideon had sent her half the proceeds of the sale of their condo.

  But she didn’t want to think about him right now, and was happy to be distracted by the ringing telephone.

  She picked it up, hoping it wasn’t a client already wondering when her order would be filled.

  “Hello,” she said with false cheer.

  “Hi, darling! I never sent your wedding present and I’m coming to make it up to you!”

  Prue was surprised by the vaguely familiar female voice and the odd, completely out-of-sync remark.

  “Ah…” she began hesitantly.

  “It’s Aunt Georgette, darling!” the theatrical voice clarified. “Remember me? We only met once, but I’m generally considered to be pretty unforgettable.”

  Prue had to laugh, remembering the tall, attractive woman in head-to-toe Gucci she’d met in New York at the engagement party Gideon’s parents had given them.

  “What a lovely surprise.” Prue remembered finding her funny and sincere. But she couldn’t imagine why the woman was calling her. Last she’d heard, Georgette lived in Europe with a new husband, who’d since passed away.

  “I’ll tell you why I’m calling,” Georgette said, launching into a story about receiving a fax of the Globe story about Prue’s fashion show, and how she wanted to prepare an advertising campaign for her through the firm she’d inherited from her husband. “I’m so sorry I missed your wedding, but I’d like to make up for it now. What do you say?”

  Prue was flattered, astonished, and very aware of just what such exposure could do for the future of Prudent Designs.

  “Well, I’d love that, of course,” she said, then felt honesty required that she tell her just what had happened since the wedding she’d missed. “But I think you should know, Aunt Georgette, that Gideon and I—”

  “Were getting a divorce,” Georgette interrupted. “Gideon told me. But since you’ve patched things up, you’re still deserving of a wedding present.”

  Prue repeated dumbly, “Patched things up?”

  “Gideon explained about the misunderstanding, but I’m so happy you had the good sense to hear him out and trust that he’d never do such a thing to you.”

  Prue was trying hard to grasp what Georgette was telling her, but her brain just wouldn’t make sense of it.

  “When I decided to offer this little gift, I called Maggie.” Maggie Hale was Gideon’s mother. “She told me Gideon had followed you to Maple Hill. He must really love you to leave New York for a tiny town on the edge of the Berkshires to put your marriage back together.”

  Prue opened her mouth but could think of nothing coherent to say with it. A male voice in the background shouted Georgette’s name.

  “Got to go,” she said quickly. “I have a few things to clear up before I leave. Oh, incidentally, when I first got this idea, I thought we’d have to hire a male model to be in the shots with you, but now that you and Gideon are reconciled, I can’t
imagine a more photogenic couple. What do you think?”

  “I…I…”

  “Good. And it’d simplify things for me if I could just bunk with the two of you while I’m there. I’ll book a hotel, motel, whatever you’ve got there for the photographer.”

  “Ah…”

  “I’ll be there in three days.”

  Prue’s mind tumbled over and over itself trying to make sense of what was happening. Then necessity made her grasp the important issue. A very influential woman in fashion was going to create an advertising program for Prudent Designs. At the moment, that was all she needed to know.

  “We’ll see you then.”

  “Good. I’ll call Gideon with details of my arrival.”

  The moment she hung up the phone, Prue realized what she’d done.

  She’d gotten herself an ad campaign! And into a tangled mess.

  She called Berkshire Cab. “Paris, you’ve got to take me to Gideon’s!”

  Paris’s voice exuded hope. “Really?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m going to kill him. You know where this A-frame is?”

  Paris sighed. “Yes, I do. He bought a new truck this afternoon. I dropped him at the car lot, then tooled by later to see what he’d decided on. It’s beautiful!”

  “Can you pick me up?”

  “Do I have to search you for weapons?”

  “Paris…”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  THE A-FRAME WAS on the wilder, less populated side of the lake. It had a full front porch and big double-glass doors. On either side of the doors was a large pot of flowering cabbage, and the boxes under large square windows were filled with yellow mums.

  Parked near the porch steps was a red pickup. Prue remembered that Paris had told her he’d bought a truck, but it hadn’t registered at the time. As long as she’d known him, he’d driven a sports car.

  Then the doors opened and he appeared with a Berkshire Cab coffee mug in his hand. Paris had had the blue-and-white mugs printed when she’d first started the company, offering them to anyone who took a trip of twenty miles or more. It was easy, Prue thought, to see whose side she was on.

  He wore jeans and a gray Whitcomb’s Wonders sweatshirt with red lettering. The jeans were as out of character for him as the truck, though he looked wonderful in them—long-legged, lean-hipped and dangerously informal. She didn’t like the fact that her pulse accelerated ever so slightly.

  Prue paid Paris for the ride.

  Paris tried to push the money away. “What are you doing?” she asked with a frown. “I never charge you…”

  “Well, that’s going to stop,” Prue insisted. “He told his aunt we were back together!”

  “What aunt?”

  “Georgette. The one who lives in London.”

  Paris nodded slowly, as though trying to figure out how one thing related to the other. “Why does that mean you have to pay me for the ride?”

  Prue knew it had nothing to do with that. It was because the cup and the sweatshirt were examples of how he’d been accepted by everyone, and it made her want to do something mean.

  “It isn’t the mug, is it?” Paris asked suddenly. “Because it was just a friendly gesture—not a slight against you, just something for him. And if you’re offended, you should know that there’s a small set of Fiestaware Mom sent over for him when I picked him up at the dealer’s. So you can hate all of us.”

  “I don’t hate you,” Prue said, chin raised in affronted dignity as she unlocked her door. “I just think it’s interesting that you’re all helping him, when he’s making my life so difficult.”

  “I don’t understand about his aunt.”

  “She’s coming to visit,” Prue explained, “and she says he told her we’ve patched things up. So she’s expecting us to be together when she arrives.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just correct her?”

  Prue opened her mouth to explain about the advertising campaign, but she didn’t know where to start. It was all so convoluted.

  “Never mind,” she said, climbing out of the car. “Thank you for the ride.” Her tone didn’t sound very grateful.

  “Sure,” Paris replied stiffly, then put the cab into gear and turned around to head out onto Lake Road.

  “You two still fight all the time?” Gideon asked as Prue approached the steps.

  “Yes,” she replied. Then realizing that wasn’t entirely true, Prue amended, “No, not as much. Sometimes.” Remembering that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about, she met his dark gaze as she climbed the steps. “Georgette called.”

  GIDEON SMILED in a friendly way, keeping any sexual suggestion out of the gesture and adding a look of understanding. “Ah,” he said, pulling the door open. “Come on inside. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

  She used to like his coffee, he remembered. She’d usually made breakfast when they were married, but he’d made the coffee. She’d claimed to be unable to strike the perfect point between strong and too strong the way he did.

  He’d always loved her “Mmm!” of approval when she took her first sip.

  It had been a simple but comfortable routine, the memory of which could bring him to the edge of despair when he made coffee in New York in his quiet and lonely kitchen.

  But despite his warm memories, he felt fairly sure she didn’t have any so he half expected her to refuse his offer of coffee and choose to have this discussion on the porch. He was pleasantly surprised when she preceded him inside.

  He pointed her to the new leather sofa and went to the rustic bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He poured coffee into a bright yellow cup, her favorite color, and carried it out to her.

  “You told Georgette we’ve patched things up,” she said, sitting on a corner of the sofa, looking like a duchess displeased with one of her serfs. She reached up to accept the cup. “Thank you.”

  “She seemed to have that impression when she called me,” he lied easily. This could work if he was convincing. “I think she probably got it from Mom, who was sure when I told her I was coming here before going to Alaska that you’d either want to come with me or plead with me to stay here.”

  “Why didn’t you set her straight?” she asked coolly. Then she took a sip of his coffee. There was no “Mmm!” this time, but she did close her eyes for an instant, her appreciation there but silent.

  “Because she started raving about Prudent Designs,” he replied, looking her in the eye because that part was true. “Then she started reeling out this whole ad campaign idea launched from the article using the two of us as models, and before I could explain to her that she was mistaken, she was giving me names of publications where the ads would appear, numbers of consumers who’d be reached, big names who’d be clamoring for your clothes.” He shrugged with what he hoped appeared to be sincere nobility. “So I let her think what she wanted to think. I figured if you thought it was all just too distasteful, you’d correct her yourself.” He took a sip of his coffee and asked innocently, “Did you?”

  He knew very well she hadn’t. If she had, she’d have simply called him and chewed him out. Only a strategy meeting would require her physical presence.

  She sighed and glanced away, obviously feeling guilty about maintaining the deception. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “Selfishly, I thought the opportunity too good to pass up.” She angled her chin in that infuriatingly disdainful way he’d grown so used to in the last few months of their marriage. “Now, I suppose, you’re going to tell me you’ve done this just to set me up so you can refuse to go along with this after all?”

  She made him wish they’d bring back thumbscrews and the rack. “Now, that’s a nice thing to say to someone who’s gone out of his way to help you. After all you’ve put me through this past year, how much fun do you think this is going to be for me?”

  She studied him, apparently searching for a chink in his believability. He guessed that because he was sincerely dedicated to the project—eve
n though for entirely different reasons than she thought—she couldn’t find one. She finally sighed and said grudgingly, “I’m sorry.”

  He accepted that with a shrug and sat in the opposite corner of the sofa with his own cup. “No matter what’s gone between us, I couldn’t blow this for you. But I think it’d be a good idea,” he said reasonably, “to try to put away all the old stuff between us, at least until Aunt Georgette’s gone again. I’m sure if we put some effort into it, we can be civil to one another in the interest of your career.”

  She took a sip of her coffee and studied him with uncertainty. “I’m sure we can,” she finally conceded. “I guess I just don’t understand why you’re willing to do it.”

  “I thought I explained that,” he replied. “Even though our marriage is over, I’d never be vengeful enough to step on your dreams. If Georgette can help you to realize them, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  He thought he sounded sincere, but she still appeared unconvinced. Because he was sincere, he snapped at her. “Okay. I’ll do it because if you make a bundle, you won’t need alimony. Is that easier for you to believe?”

  He expected her to find relief in that fib so she could go on believing he was the rat she thought him to be. But she didn’t seem to. There was a brooding quality about her, and she looked just a little lost—an unusual state of affairs for the usually confident and capable Prudence O’Hara Hale.

  She tossed her hair, a sign that meant she wanted to change the subject. “She said she’d be here in three days.” She looked around the room as though noticing her surroundings for the first time. Then she patted the sofa. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

  He shrugged. “I liked it. And I think it’ll fit into a fishing-lodge atmosphere when I go to Alaska.”

  She nodded and got to her feet, walking around the large, mostly empty room. “You were lucky to find such a great place to rent month to month,” she observed.

  “I know. It’s good to have friends in the right places. Hank knew about the house and put in a good word for me with the owner.”