“We all have our cross to bear,” Demi said, laughing. “I’m glad you’re getting on with Hagen. You two were always good together. He’s not so easy to deal with these days.”
Marigold had no intention of talking about Hagen or his moods. “He’s the invisible man. That’s the best sort of boss to have when you don’t have any idea how to do a job you’ve been told you will find easy. By the time I think I know some of the answers, Tiggy will be back. She was quite mysterious about what she is doing. Is she being overly modest about her volunteering work?”
“I’m sure she’s not.”
“What is she doing in Cambodia?” Marigold asked directly.
“I’m sure she’ll tell you when she arrives back. Now, should I be doing a righthand turn here?”
“The next crossing. The more I don’t know what’s going on with her, the curiouser and curiouser I get.”
“It’s a common failing, my darling. I’ll turn just up here, then.”
Marigold sighed. Demi would give her nothing, and Marigold couldn’t understand why. “You can trust me.”
“I know, darling, I know, but I can’t tell another’s secret, now can I?”
“You told me I was like a daughter to you,” Marigold said in her grumbling voice. “Okay. I won’t ask again.”
“Thank you.” Demi briefly rested her hand on Marigold’s knee and then she negotiated her way through the narrow street on the outskirts of the city where Eight’s Late was sited. “Rob said I could park out the front of the restaurant. That’s if anyone left a space.”
Marigold gave an amused glance. “I can already see the perfect space, not quite in front, but one all the same.”
“We’re early.” Demi looked satisfied. “The crowds won’t arrive for another hour. I’m not so much lucky as crafty. I don’t like trying to find parks around here.” She pulled up in an angled park and swung out of the car.
Marigold did the same and met Demi on the footpath. “Lead on.”
The warm and cozy restaurant was furnished with wood tables, black leather chairs, and a dark patterned carpet. The waiter led them to a table for two, set with water and glasses and white starched napkins. “The balsamic chicken here is divine,” Demi said as she scanned the menu. “I’ve had it before. But you’ll need to save yourself for dessert.”
“Good idea. I never bother with dessert at home. I think I have to try lamb shanks in red wine.”
“Your family used to own Hagen’s house, didn’t they?” Demi leaned back after they had ordered.
“Long story in a nutshell. My great-grandfather inherited a fortune and the house from his father, who was one of the first settlers. He did well. He was the only son and a lawyer, too, but his son—my grandfather—helped his two brothers lose or spend most of their inheritance. None of them could afford the upkeep on the family home, and so the property was sold.”
“After three generations. How sad.”
“That’s the problem when there’s no primogeniture. My father had three siblings, so he inherited nothing but a quarter of his father’s property, which wasn’t much anyway. Luckily he married my mother who had her parents’ tiny new house.”
“And that’s where you live now.”
“Haven’t moved an inch. I’m just about to do the place up. I thought a lick of paint here and there would make the world of difference.”
“Would you do it yourself?”
“Uh, huh. I don’t have a problem with the physical aspects of designing, that is, making things look good. The problem I have is in the business side. I’m not used to making endless phone calls to track down how to do the job I’m expected to do.”
“That sounds very frustrating, but what do you need to track down? Didn’t Tiggy leave you instructions?”
“She probably thought I would know more than I do know. For instance, I have a note in her book for today that says, ‘Do the reception area for Rundle Street.’ What reception area, where on Rundle Street, and do what to the reception area? Sandra gave me the lowdown on the Rundle Street property, but she doesn’t know what I should do or when.”
Demi tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Ask Hagen.”
“These questions are so piddling, Demi. I can’t interrupt him every half hour. Aside from that, most times I don’t know where he is.”
“Give me your phone.”
Marigold fossicked in her bag and passed over her phone.
“This is an antique,” Demi said with a frown. “We must get you a better one. You should have a company phone. In the meantime, I’ll put in Hagen’s number.” Demi fiddled for a while and then she showed Marigold what she had done. “Call him if you can’t find him.”
“He has important things to do, and I shouldn’t interrupt.”
“When he can’t be interrupted, he will turn off his phone.”
Marigold stared. “Are you sure he won’t yell at me?”
“No.” Demi smiled carefully. “You will cope if he does, though. You could always get him out of a mood. We all used to love the way you distracted him.”
“You all?”
“As a lad, he was always too serious for his own good. He was very conscious of being the older brother and he thought he had to look after his sisters. He included you in that group, too, and it was so funny the way you wouldn’t let him. He never quite knew what to do with you.”
Marigold wrinkled her nose. “I’m an only child. I wasn’t used to reacting in a family group. I expected to be independent.”
“I know it’s tough without your mother, sweetheart, but we’re here for you.” Demi reached out and covered Marigold’s hand. A presence loomed behind her, and she glanced up with a smile. “Food already? Thank you,” she said to the waitress. She gave one last squeeze of Marigold’s hand.
Marigold breathed in the aroma of the rosemary and bay leaf. The lamb dish had been slow cooked and the first tender mouthful slid down her throat, leaving behind the taste of the rich red-wine sauce. “This is gorgeous. Thank you for bringing me to this place.” Again, she mulled over Demi’s word all. The whole family had watched Hagen’s reaction to her? She wished she had watched it herself. She had no idea she distracted Hagen, and she gave a little wriggle of pleasure.
“Hagen needs distraction these days,” Demi said, as if channeling Marigold’s thoughts. She cut off another slice of her herbed chicken. “It’s not for me to say how long a person should mourn, but he hasn’t taken a day off work since Mercia died, and I know he doesn’t have a social life. It wouldn’t hurt him to laugh once in a while. You could always make him relax.”
“Perhaps he feels too guilty to laugh. When my mother died, I did. I kept thinking I should have spent every waking minute with her because I always knew she would die soon, but not when. And sometimes I went out with friends.”
“But you know you shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”
“I do. But it’s worse for Hagen. He had such a short time with Mercia. I was not surprised when I heard he was going to marry her.” Marigold swallowed awkwardly. “She was kind of perfect for him.”
“At first, I couldn’t see what they had in common, but she certainly knew how to play the role of the corporate wife. She dressed beautifully, and she was the perfect hostess.”
“I don’t suppose anyone will ever match her,” Marigold said in a gruff voice. Of course Hagen had chosen the perfect wife. That’s what golden men did.
“I don’t suppose anyone will.” Demi concentrated on her plate for a moment and then said, “What do you think about the plans for the new tramline the government wants to give us?”
Marigold had an opinion but perfect Mercia remained in the back of her mind until the last plate was removed and a stocky dark-eyed young man, her age or a little more, pulled a chair over to their table. “I’m Sam Habib, Rob’s assistan
t chef.”
Demi shook his hand, Marigold shook his hand, and he sat, his portfolio on his lap. “I have three menus here for you to look at. I’ll want to know which you prefer by Thursday.”
“I think Marigold can make up her mind right now,” Demi said firmly.
Marigold scanned the menus. “The dinner is for men and women, so we’ll want the lighter meat dish for mains. Rum beef ribs, perhaps? What do you think about a fish entrée, Demi? Or should we have something vegetarian?”
“Prawns and fennel. That looks nice.”
“Yes. I suppose we don’t want to bloat everyone before dessert.” Marigold grinned at Sam who returned her smile cautiously.
“Will you want a cheese platter, too?” he asked, holding her gaze.
“Fruit and cheese. And canapés to welcome the guests. Truffles.”
“Truffles?”
“I don’t think I’m spending enough money,” Marigold said with mock guilt. “Hagen said about two hundred dollars per head.”
Demi stared at Marigold. “Perhaps that’s how Mercia did it, but it’s not compulsory to spend that much. If a menu works for you, that’s what you should have. Right, Sam?”
“My boss wouldn’t mind if she wants to spend a fortune,” Sam answered, smiling at Marigold. He was a good-looking, broad-shouldered man with eyelashes as dark as the stubble on his buzz cut.
“I think as long as we can pass around vegetable dishes and salads—and perhaps include a substitute meal for anyone who has a problem with the table menu—that we will be okay.”
Demi breathed out. “You don’t want to start listening to Hagen’s catering ideas.”
“I took them with a grain of salt, Demi. Trust me.” Marigold turned to Sam. “On the night, we will be using an antique dinner set that can’t be put in the dishwasher. You will make sure your server washes every piece by hand, won’t you?”
Sam aimed a careful glance at her. “The waitress who is serving you today is the one Rob asked to help. She is efficient with service and responsible enough to look after the customer’s property.”
“I’ll have a word with her before we leave, then. Okay, no truffles, but you will do a good selection of canapés, won’t you?”
“I have your e-mail address. I’ll send you a mock up tomorrow of everything I will prepare.” Sam rose to his feet, clutching his notes, and left. His back view was kind of manly, too. While Marigold mulled that, she realized that she also was having a return of hormones. She thought Hagen was the only man she could look at and appreciate, but apparently she could also enjoy other men.
Congratulating herself on the return of her good sense, she left with Demi and was dropped at the huge front doors of the AA & Co. multistory building. Normally she used the back entrance. Like a successful negotiator, she strode through the glass-roofed atrium to her office, where Hagen stood at Sandra’s desk apparently waiting for a printout. He glanced up at Marigold. “So, you’ve taken to business lunches as to the manor born.”
“Now I know what I’ve been missing all these years,” she answered flippantly.
“You don’t want my mother leading you astray.”
She straightened. “Of course I do. I’ve been waiting to be led astray for many years and this is my first chance. Do you want to hear all this, Sandra?”
Sandra folded her arms and leaned back. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I meant,” he said frowning, “that you don’t have to take her advice.”
“I appreciate her advice.”
“You don’t need to be polite about her. I know she likes to meddle, and I know she thinks her way is best.”
“You’re speaking from a son’s point of view. I’m speaking from a learner event co-coordinator’s point of view. If I didn’t have her help, I would be floundering.”
He spread his hands and stared at her, clearly not about to offer his help. Frustrated, she huffed back into her office.
* * * *
Hagen didn’t want to work with Marigold. He didn’t want to be near her day after day. He didn’t want to laugh when she laughed, and he didn’t want her to get on with his mother. Mercia hadn’t. She had disliked Demi and said she was a control freak. He could have cut the atmosphere between the two of them with a knife and a man had to be loyal to his wife, even if he couldn’t see that his mother had too many faults. Naturally, as Mercia said, he was biased.
When he sighed, Sandra said, “You have to admit that since Marigold has been here, you’ve had a load of meetings. I can’t help her with Tiggy’s job. I’m nothing more than a glorified typist.”
“Who says you’re glorified?” He folded his arms.
She smiled. “I haven’t been insulted by you for a year. Welcome back.”
With no idea what she was talking about, he stalked into his office, glad that he had found so much to do that he had a perfect excuse not to be at Marigold’s beck and call. If he were available most of the time, she would be bothering him with questions, or asking him if he wanted to have coffee with her in the staff room, or she might touch him or smile at him. Since Saturday at his house when he had grabbed her hand like a pathetic sex-starved widower, he had known he couldn’t trust himself with her. If she hadn’t dragged her hand away, he might have snatched her into his arms, thrown her across his shoulders, and raced her up the stairs to his bedroom.
Mercia’s bedroom.
He breathed out. Fortunately, during the dinner at his house, business associates would surround him and serve as chaperones. His lust for the redhead would remain unsatisfied. When she had been suggested for Tiggy’s job, he had been dead against the idea, but with both his parents and his sisters on the other side, his vote didn’t count. He sat staring at the wall until his office door swung open and Marigold stood staring at him.
She hitched up her lovely mouth and gave an apologetic smile. “Hagen, I’m sorry I was rude to you about your mother. I’m a bit sensitive about mothers these days, the same way you’re sensitive about wives. Let’s not be mean to each other.”
He concentrated on her worried tawny eyes and her expression of helplessness. “Let’s not.” He stared at her until she turned and walked out again. He would have to grow immune to her presence, and he would have to grow used to the fact that when she laughed, he laughed.
* * * *
Marigold arrived at Hagen’s house at six on Friday night, dressed for what she considered to be her role, that of an event co-coordinator. She had wavered over her gray-and-black dress after she had spent the morning adding color to his house, and she had decided not to add color to herself. Dressing discreetly would make her seem more like part of the service team than a guest. She had plaited a knot of hair on the nape of her neck and as a touch of femininity she wore her mother’s pearl-drop earrings.
When he answered the door to her, Hagen scanned her from head to toe. He had always known how to dress, and his camel-colored trousers and a black knit clung to his broad shoulders and showed off his flat belly. His eyebrows lifted. “You look very nice.”
“I hope I look like a background noise,” she answered ruefully.
“You are a beautiful woman, Marigold. You will always stand out in a crowd. You owe it to other women to occasionally wear something that they can compete with instead of simply your coloring and your elegant bones.”
She gave an impatient click of her tongue. “You still judge people by the price of their clothes. I know you will look good no matter what you wear. I’m quite happy to admire you in anything.”
One side of his mouth lifted up. “I will await that happy event.”
“So, we lied to each other.” Remaining cool, she shrugged. “You told me I was beautiful, and I told you that you were admirable.”
He looked down at her. “You lied. I told the truth for a change. You are incredibly beautiful.
I’m sorry I wasn’t home while you were turning my house on end but without my supervision you have done a superlative job. Thank you.” Indicating she should come inside, he stood back and waited.
Incredibly beautiful? Willing herself to believe that the man who had once called her scrawny thought so. Shivering with the thrill of the compliment, she entered and after he had closed the door, she followed him across the colorful carpet she had placed in the hallway. Enjoying the red vase full of arum lilies she had arranged on the white hall table, she focused on his impossibly gorgeous back view. The man had the sort of tight behind that any woman would want to check out with both hands. Her breath hitched. Every tiny cell in her body wanted Hagen—always had—even before the first time he had kissed her.
Fortunately, she turned into the passageway that led to the kitchen and distracted herself by breathing in the herbal aroma of cooking food. “All underway?” she said to Sam as she nodded to Rosie, his helper for the night.
Sam’s gaze met hers. “I think we have this under control. Could you check the table setting?”
Rosie wiped the cooking utensils she had finished washing. “I haven’t put out the small plates because I wasn’t sure which was which. You have so many of different sizes.”
“In the old days, they had a plate for every purpose. It will be okay to warm the dishes in the oven, by the way, but not for too long. Just before service, I think. These big flat bowls are for soup. These entrée plates go under the soup dishes. I’ll put those and the smaller bread plates on the table. When you remove the soup plates, take the under-plate and the bread plates, too.” Marigold gathered up the dishes she had mentioned and took them into the dining room.
Hagen followed. “Where did you find this service?”
“It belonged to my family. I thought that would be an interesting touch to return the plates to the house where they originated.”
“They’re yours?”
She nodded.
“Antiques? They would be too valuable to use.” He frowned.
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