by Miles, Ava
Harriet threaded her fingers through her sister’s and squeezed. “I know it’s hard right now, but we’ll make the best of it. We can make cookies and—”
“Keep our minds off everything we’ve lost. I know you keep saying I’ll be able to go back to Wellesley, but we both know they might not welcome me back, even if you can prove father is taking the blame for someone else.”
Harriet stood and walked across the room to the white linoleum counter. Untying the twist cinching the Wonder bread, she took out a piece and popped it in the toaster, taking her time to craft a response. Fortunately, her sister let her. She located the orange marmalade in the ancient white Kelvinator refrigerator and spread it on the toast when the bread popped up. The slightly cracked white dish she carried it on wasn’t the Wedgewood china they were used to, but it served its purpose just as well.
“I don’t want you to be afraid,” she said, praying for the right words. “We’ll figure something out.”
“What about the money?” she asked, gazing at Harriet steadily.
The toast crunched when she bit into it, and she took her time chewing, searching for the right words. “We aren’t poor, Maybelline, but we’ll need to make some changes. The full extent of the fallout wasn’t immediately apparent until I met with our accountant. Dad had invested everything into the company.” Which had gone bankrupt months after Hale’s first story broke.
“And his hospital care isn’t cheap,” she commented.
They both remembered the day they’d installed their father in the hospital. He barely recognized them anymore, having retreated so far into himself that even their pleas could no longer reach him.
The makings of a wry smile broke across Maybelline’s face, putting a little of the usual sparkle into her hazel eyes. “Then I guess it’s a good thing Hale’s paying you.”
“Yes,” she replied, licking the orange marmalade off the corner of her mouth.
It would take time, but she would find what she was seeking.
She couldn’t wait to pay Arthur Hale back for what he’d done to her family.
Chapter 3
Arthur watched as Harriet chatted with Ernest Pinkel, Dare’s long–standing postman. From his position at his doorway, he could see that her smile was a lot brighter with the older gentleman than it was with him. He’d turned up the charm, trying to get her to add some warmth to her cool–as–a–cucumber attitude toward him, and when that failed, he amped up his banter. Her tense mouth hadn’t moved a millimeter, and he’d started to think he was losing his easygoing effect on people. She was a total professional, he couldn’t fault her there, but underneath it all, he could tell she didn’t like him.
He hadn’t asked her about that. That would have been stupid, and he wasn’t a stupid man.
Plus she was the best damn secretary he could hope to find in Dare, so he wasn’t complaining. Much.
“Harriet,” he called, hating to interrupt their chat, but big news had just come over the teleprinter, and he wanted to start his Sunday editorial for The Boston Herald.
Her whole frame tensed up, and he watched as she pasted a fake smile on her face. “Yes, sir?” she asked.
Her formal, icy tone even sent Ernest’s brows sky high. “Sir? Well, if that don’t beat all. I seem to recall you getting into trouble for throwing mud pies at the girls at the church picnic when you were in short britches and then having your daddy paddle your behind. Now you’re being called sir. My how things change.”
Had her mouth twitched for a second there? Well, he could take a jab to his ego if it made her relax around him. “Yes, and I seem to recall I threw one of those mud pies at your daughter. Even at six years of age, I had good aim.”
Ernest puffed out his chest. “Why do you think I remember it so well? She fairly screamed bloody murder. That girl still hates getting dirty. Calls me to kill a spider even though she’s a grown woman. She needs a husband. Why don’t you come by the house tonight for supper, Arthur?”
He’d had many offers like that since returning to town. Fortunately, he’d managed to duck most of them, saying he was too busy getting the newspaper up and running. He wasn’t sure how long it would last. He was prime marriageable age, after all, and being home, people expected him to settle down like everyone else did.
“Thanks, Ernest, but I’ll be working late tonight. Had a big story come in. We’ll have to make it another time.”
“Of course,” the postman said. “Seems like you’re working like a slave here, not even stopping for a coffee break with folks when they stop by.”
Because those breaks could take an hour, and he didn’t have that kind of time. He’d even turned down his mom and dad when they popped in for a visit.
“It’s hard work, starting a business. I’m happy to take a rain check though.”
“Good. If you forget, I’ll remind you. I’m just like the movie, The Postman Always Rings Twice.”
God, he hoped not. That movie had involved murder and betrayal, although Lana Turner had been steamy on screen. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur said, and waved to him as he departed.
Some days he had to curb his impatience at the slow pace of his life in Dare Valley. Tell himself this wasn’t New York. That he was starting up a newspaper, outfitting the old bottling factory outside town for printing and distribution in addition to creating this office as the hive. He had an operation to prepare.
He was more than a journalist now, Emmits had told him. He was an owner. And that made all the difference in the world.
“What’s the big story?” she asked, rising from her chair situated perpendicular to his office, allowing him to see her if he angled himself to the left of his desk. Her heels made a tapping sound as she came into his office.
“France just lost another colony. The Ivory Coast has declared its independence. Colonialism is on its last legs in Africa.”
“Goodness,” she commented. “I wonder what that will do to France’s exports and imports.”
Not a typical comment from a woman, which made him more curious about her, but she was still tight–lipped about her past. He chewed on a pencil and kicked back in his chair.
“So if you’re ready.” He started dictating his editorial on how independence was sweeping its way through the former colonies of France and Britain, linking it back to Civil Rights in the U.S.
“Freedom is on the move,” she commented when he finished. “I like that. You sound like a regular crusader when you talk like that.”
“I am. I believe in justice. In freedom.”
She bowed her head and studied the Steno pad in her lap. Since she’d dispensed with wearing her gloves in the office, he could see the whites of her knuckles.
“Harriet?” he asked quietly. “Is everything okay?”
She shook her head, making him wish she wore her hair down. He’d love to see it cascade down her shoulders just once.
Then the fake smile appeared, revealing her perfect teeth. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “I know you don’t want me to ask you any questions, and I respect that. But if you’re in any sort of trouble, I’d like to help you.”
Every day he saw her confirmed it. Something was wrong, and she was miserable from it. She worked like a fiend, filing more than anyone he’d ever seen in a day’s time. She even stayed late like he did.
Her mouth tensed, and the fake smile disappeared. Her green eyes transformed into burning emeralds before she lowered her lids. “Thank you. That’s very kind, but everything is fine.” And then she rose.
His impatience got the better of him, and before he knew it, he’d sprung out of his chair and cupped her elbow in his hand. Her perfume, something floral—was that hyacinth?—tickled his nose. With a foot between them, he realized she only came up to his shoulder. And he had the almost irrepressible urge to pull her close and make her tell him why she was trying so hard to keep her secrets.
&n
bsp; “Everything is not fine,” he uttered in a soft voice. “You’re in some sort of trouble, aren’t you? Let me help you, Harriet.”
Her gaze flew to his, and for the first time, he looked into the part she kept under lock and key. The confusion, the fear, the rage. It was all there, boiling and bubbling inside her like a white–hot inferno.
She put a hand on his suit jacket, right below his shoulder. He didn’t know if she meant to push him away or was seeking a connection. Waiting for her seemed like the right thing to do.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she whispered and lowered her head again.
“Bull.” He couldn’t stand it, so he pulled her close. “You’re suffering for some reason, and I hate seeing that. Please tell me how I can help you. I promise you can trust me.”
She lurched in his arms, and he pulled his hands away. She stood gaping at him, fists clenched by her sides. “Trust you? I don’t even know you.”
The outer part of his heart was burning, perhaps from the fire in her eyes. And then he realized the truth. “Yes, you do. And that’s what scares you.”
Her head moved back and forth in denial, and then she was striding out of his office.
He ran his hands through his hair. He was falling for a woman with secrets.
Funny, that’s what scared him too.
Chapter 4
After the worst Christmas and New Year’s she and Maybelline had ever had, Harriet threw herself even more into organizing Arthur’s files. She was down to fifty boxes, having filed over eighty so far. By God, the man kept everything it seemed, from old magazines to professional journals.
Arthur had scrawled various names and topics on the outside of the boxes, but since he’d stacked the boxes at least three rows deep against the wall, she had to go through them one at a time. She was down to the second row now, and she still hadn’t seen her family’s name on any of them.
After going through nearly five years of files from both The Times and the work he’d done while pursuing his degree, the smell of dust was like an unpleasant perfume in church. Everything from old newspaper clippings to his shorthand interview notes were in these boxes. Then there were the files on people, everything from current members of Congress to the chief executive officers of major corporations—down to what kind of whiskey they preferred.
Every time she cleared another row, her gaze would crest across the outside of the boxes. Hope and dread would burrow in her stomach at the same time. When she saw nothing, desolation would kick in. Today as she cleared the last row and scanned the remaining twenty boxes, her misery was complete. None of them had the name Wentworth on them.
They weren’t here.
Having worked so hard these past weeks, hurting her back from all the bending and straightening, suffering through one paper cut after another, she hung her head, sat on a box, and asked herself the one question she’d feared since she’d cleared half the boxes with no luck.
Would Arthur have left his files on her father at the New York Times? It had been a huge case, with threads that would have had to be run through the paper’s legal department. What if they weren’t here?
“Harriet?” Arthur asked suddenly.
She jumped, and the box dipped from the shift in her weight. “Yes, Arthur?” she replied, not turning around, needing a minute to reign in her expression.
“Everything okay out there?”
Gesturing toward the boxes, she finally stood. “Of course. Just taking a break from my friends.”
He studied her with those keen blue eyes. “Let’s get some air,” he said. “We’ve both been working hard, and it’s getting a little stifling in here.”
“I’m fine,” she said and turned back to the box she’d sat on. “I need to get back to it.”
When she felt his hand on her back, she spun in shock. Practically the only time he touched her was to help her with her coat. Except for that insane moment when he’d brought her close, telling her he could help her. When she’d actually thought for a moment that he could, that she could trust him. Clearly insanity ran in her family.
“Harriet, you’re exhausted, and who can blame you? In hindsight, I should have hired someone to help you with the filing.”
“No, it’s fine,” she replied. The last thing she needed or wanted was someone’s help. Then she took a breath, realizing he’d just given her the opening she’d been looking for. “Please tell me you don’t have any more boxes hidden somewhere else, just waiting to give me more paper cuts.”
When he reached for her right hand, she inhaled sharply. His palm was warm, and his fingers were gentle as they traced her fingertips. “I’m sorry about these. I hadn’t thought.”
“I tried to use gloves, but honestly, I couldn’t thumb one piece of paper away from the next.” She kept her eyes down, looking at their joined hands, avoiding his gaze.
Suddenly the building seemed as deathly quiet as the middle of a forest.
“How about you give the filing a rest for a few weeks? I can have you call and check some references for the advertising candidates I’ve shortlisted.”
Abandon her quest? “No, I’ll plough through. And you didn’t answer me. Are there more files somewhere?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, so she peeked at his face. His brow was knit, and his gaze was far too intense.
“Nah. These are the important ones.” His thumb stroked her fingertips once more before he released her hand. “Let’s go take a walk in the town square or go over to Kemstead’s Bakery and have some peanut butter pie and coffee.”
He never took a break.
“I don’t care for peanut butter, and I want to finish here, Arthur. I don’t have time for a walk. Plus, it’s freezing outside.”
“High of forty–five today,” he commented, finally stepping back.
“A regular heat wave,” she mused.
He planted his hands on his hips, his white shirt stretching over his strong shoulders. “Okay, Harriet. If you won’t take a break with me, then please take one for yourself. How about you head to Miss Ivy’s Beauty Parlor and let her do her magic on your hands? It’s my treat. I hear they put women’s hands in paraffin or something. Maybe it will help with the paper cuts.”
Steeling herself against his continued kindness had been hard, like turning down his sweet invitation to join his family for New Year’s Day supper. She and Maybelline had been unable to prepare their traditional oyster soup since Dare didn’t carry oysters, not even a canned variety. The fact that they couldn’t even keep that simple tradition had crushed them both. While Maybelline had curled up with a book, Harriet had resorted to cleaning to keep her mind off their shared misery.
“That’s not necessary,” she replied, stepping back from him and turning to resume her filing.
His murmur of exasperation was audible. “Harriet, I don’t know why you won’t let me be nice to you, but I have to tell you, it’s really starting to get on my nerves. What have I done to tick you off? And before you deny it, you walked into this office disliking me. Why work for me if you hate me so much?”
Something cold slithered down her spine. She needed to be careful with her words. “Arthur, you misunderstand. I just want to keep things strictly professional.” A little prevarication wouldn’t hurt. “We’re both young and unmarried, mostly working here alone. I don’t want there to be talk.”
Pursing his lips, he gazed at her with those sky–blue eyes. “And yet, there is talk anyway. It’s hard not to have it in a small town. I don’t care what people say when I know the truth. Plus, you’re not from here, so why should you care?”
Her hands wanted to fist at her sides, if for no reason other than to stop the tingles still running through the fingertips he’d stroked with his thumb. But she controlled the impulse, just as she always did with him.
“I live here now. Please, let’s just get back to work. I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”
“Fine. I’ll respect your wishes, but
Harriet, I hired a secretary, not a slave, and you’re working too hard. More than any secretary I’ve ever seen. Go home for the rest of the day.”
She glanced at her watch. “But it’s only four twenty.” Was he firing her?
“Go home,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “I’m tired of watching you rub your back from bending over all of these boxes and then pasting on a smile and saying that you’re fine.”
“But I am fine,” she replied, her heart beating faster. “Okay, I’ll go home, but this is a silly argument. I work for you. This is what you hired me to do.”
“Yes, but I didn’t want you breaking your back like some field hand. Even they take a break for lunch.”
And she didn’t.
“Harriet, you’re the best secretary I could have ever imagined having when I returned to Dare, but sometimes your single–mindedness is too much.”
“You’re one to talk,” she said, her temper getting the better of her. “You’re here at dawn and leave well after dusk.”
“This paper is my life’s blood, and I don’t care what you or anyone else has to say about how hard I’m working. I’m building something here, while trying to keep my name alive as a journalist. I don’t have time for a long lunch and a nap at home and then a two–hour coffee break at four. That might be Dare’s speed, but I’m on a different clock now.”
And isolated because of it. Even she had seen that. People had stopped dropping by to try and say hello to him over the last few weeks, even his parents, whom she’d met briefly. He might be from here, but in some ways, he was more alone than she was. At least she had Maybelline.
But she refused to feel sorry for him.
Plus she had bigger worries. What was she going to do now that the boxes weren’t here?
“Arthur, I know we’re not chummy, but like I told you, I think that’s for the best. I’m going to go on home now like you suggested, but I’ll be back in the morning to start again.”
