by Kathy
Candy started, dropped the cloth with which she had been wiping the countertop, and banged her head on the edge of the glass when she stooped to retrieve it. Meg approached her with exclamations of concern, which only seemed to increase the other woman's discomfort. Tears flooded her eyes.
Proffering tissues and sympathy, Meg wondered why on earth Dan had hired this limp dishrag of a woman. Candy had been the class scapegoat when they were in grammar school; clumsy, homely and painfully shy, she had been the butt of cruel jokes and rude humor, to which she had consistently responded by bursting into tears. Even at that age Meg had known there was nothing so tempting to bullies as a weeping victim; exasperation with the bullies rather than affection for their prey had sometimes moved her to Candy's defense. Candy hadn't returned the favor. When the class comedians turned on Meg, Candy was usually in the front row of the giggling audience.
"I didn't realize you had come to work for Dan," Meg said.
Candy's tears overflowed. "I'm going to miss him so much," she mumbled, smearing mascara across her cheeks with the sodden tissue.
"We all will." Meg's voice was cool. Candy's watery grief left her completely unmoved. Candy had always cried at the drop of a hat, or an unkind word. Now Candy would probably tell her friends—if she had any—that Meg Venturi was hard and unsympathetic. She was equally unmoved by that concern, but she was determined to be courteous. "Thanks for keeping the store open. It can't have been easy these last few days."
"I—oh. Oh, no." The tears stopped as if a spigot had been shut off. "He's the one you should thank. He's been wonderful. Feeling the way he did about Mr. Mignot—he's not the sort of person who shows his feelings, actually, but any sensitive person could see how bad he felt."
She was as rambling and silly as ever, but she had made one thing eminently, embarrassingly clear. He's got one defender anyway, Meg thought. Aloud she said, "You're speaking of Mr. Riley?"
"Yes. Riley."
"Is he here?"
"Of course. He's been here every day. The only time we closed up was for the funeral. In respect. It would have looked funny if we—"
"I wasn't criticizing, Candy. I was simply asking for information."
Her patience was wearing thin, and her voice showed it. Candy flushed unbecomingly. "He's in the back. In the shop. As usual. I can handle things out here, he trusts me." "With good reason, I'm sure," Cliff said, giving Candy one of his warmest and most dazzling smiles. Her response—a faint, uncertain smile and an awkward wriggling movement—reminded Meg of a puppy hoping for a pat on the head. A female puppy, just going into heat and not quite sure what to do about it. ... You're a bitch yourself, she told herself. She's pathetic. Give her a break.
"I'll go to him," she said, starting toward one of the doors at the back of the store.
"You can't go in there!" In sixth grade Candy had been the last one chosen when the class divided into teams for any sport, but she reached the door before Meg, the former track star. Barring it with her body, arms outstretched, she looked like a martyr prepared to die for her faith.
"Now just a minute," Cliff began.
"It's all right, Cliff," Meg said, suppressing her own annoyance. "I understand. I remember bursting in on Dan one time when he was soldering a chain. It startled him so, he singed all the hair off his left hand."
"So what do we do, wait with our hats in our hands till his Eminence decides to emerge?" Cliff demanded. "Knock on the door, Candy; or if you're too intimidated to do it, get out of the way and let me."
Candy didn't move. "He knows you're here," she said smugly. "The intercom is on. It's been on the whole time."
Now Meg didn't know whether to be furious at Candy, who clearly loved to see her being snubbed, or at Riley, who was doing the snubbing. He was probably sitting back there like a king in his audience chamber, smirking as he listened to Candy trying to patronize her.
"I expect he'll be out immediately then," she said. "Candy, your makeup is smeared all over your face. Go fix it before a customer comes in."
Her voice was quiet, but her tone was that of employer to employee. Candy's smug smile disappeared. She made a dash for the counter, glanced into one of the mirrors, squealed and headed for the restroom.
"Doesn't she remind you of the White Rabbit?" Cliff asked. " 'Oh, dear, oh, my ears and whiskers.' "
"Sssh. She'll hear you."
"Not likely. She's the type that turns on the faucets as soon as she goes in the john, for fear somebody will hear the toilet flush."
Cruel as it was, the appraisal was so accurate—as evidenced by the unmistakable rush of running water from behind the closed door—Meg couldn't help smiling. She seated herself on one of the plush-covered customers' chairs.
She had avoided the store over the last few years, but she had spent so much time there as a child and adolescent that every aspect of it was as familiar as her own apartment. The two doors at the back led to the office and the shop respectively. The daintily appointed powder room occupied a cubicle that was a later addition, along with the curtained alcove containing supplies for making tea and coffee. The teacups were porcelain; Dan wouldn't permit the abomination of disposable plastic for his customers. The idea was to persuade them to linger, relaxed and comfortable, while Dan wooed them with conversation, flattery, coffee and, if they liked, cigarettes. Dan had nothing but scorn for modern health fads. He had scattered ashtrays along the counter with a lavish hand, and for his favorite customers he supplied the frosted, raisin-studded rolls for which Ed's bakery was famous—warm from the oven, heavy with calories and cholesterol. Dan used to say he sold one piece of jewelry for every frosted bun. . . .
"He's taking his sweet time," Cliff complained.
"What?" Memories had made her lose track of the passage of time. "Oh—yes, he is, isn't he? You might check that intercom, Cliff. That's the switch, I think—there by the door."
When Cliff flicked the switch, faint sounds were heard— rustles and rhythmic tapping. "Why, that little bitch," he said softly. "She had it turned off. Women are the most—"
"Red light—sexist comment approaching," Meg said. "I expect she just forgot. Yoo-hoo, Mr. Riley. You've got company."
The tapping had already stopped. It was followed by other, less distinguishable sounds. Then the door opened.
He wore a heavy canvas apron over slacks and shirt; the metalworkers' protective eyeshade had been pushed up, ruffling his hair. The fabric of his shirt was worn by innumerable washings; it showed Meg that the muscles of his chest and shoulders were overdeveloped, out of proportion with the rest of his body. They would have been more appropriate to a blacksmith than a man who handled the delicate tools of the jeweler's craft. So would his hands have been. She could understand, though, why they were roughened by innumerable scrapes and scars. Dan's hands had once been that way too. No matter how carefully one handled the acids and sharp tools and hot metal, minor accidents were inevitable.
He said, "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting."
He didn't sound sorry; his voice might have come from the mechanical tape of a robot, it was completely without expression.
"That's all right. I should have called first."
"Why? You own the place."
Meg smiled. "Half of it."
"Yeah." With the slow, arrogant stride she had seen before, he crossed to the counter; but instead of taking the chair next to hers he went behind it—shopkeeper to customer. Reaching into his pocket he took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
"Smoking is bad for your health," Meg said.
"So I've been told." At least he didn't blow smoke in her face. He stretched out a long arm and pulled one of the ashtrays toward him.
Cliff had controlled himself longer than Meg had expected he would. Now he burst out, "Riley, you have the manners of a Neanderthal. You'd better forget that high and mighty attitude, because you're in deep trouble. We came here to—"
"Talk," Meg said. "Cliff, kindly allow me to manage my own af
fairs."
Early in her business career she had learned to use her voice to intimidate people who underestimated her youthful face and small stature. The icy tone worked just as well on Cliff. It amused Riley. At least she assumed the odd curl of his lip was produced by amusement.
"Talk, huh?" He took a last drag on his cigarette and put it out. "Where's Candy?"
Candy was eavesdropping. Meg had seen the narrow slit along the edge of the washroom door. Now it opened and Candy emerged, painted like Belle Watling and simpering like Scarlett O'Hara.
"I'm sorry, Riley, I was just . . . Did you want me?"
Meg almost felt sorry for her. The question wouldn't have been so bad but for the longing look that accompanied it.
"I just wondered where you were," her employer replied coolly. "Why don't you take your lunch break now?"
"But it's only ten-thirty!"
"Coffee break, then."
"But I was. . . ." Her voice trailed away. Riley fixed her with a dark, unblinking gaze, and waited. "Yes, all right. I'll just run across to the cafe. I won't be long."
"Take your time."
"Can I bring you anything? Coffee, a Danish—"
"No, thanks."
She dawdled as long as she could, pretending she couldn't find her purse, putting on a jacket she didn't need now that the early-morning chill was gone. Riley followed her to the door; when it finally closed after her he snapped the latch, and turned the sign from "Open" to "Closed."
"Now we won't be interrupted," he said, taking out another cigarette. "I don't know why it is, but I get this funny feeling you have something serious on your mind."
Cliff was mistaken. Riley did have a sense of humor—of sorts. She was tempted to reply in kind; she could play that game too, and it might be interesting to see which of them was better at it. But her own talent for sarcasm had been developed out of desperation, as a means of overcoming insecurity. She doubted insecurity had ever been one of Riley's problems. Having a face like his certainly helped. Unlike her own, which mirrored every emotion with annoying clarity, Riley's might have been cast of bronze. His heavy eyebrows shadowed deep-set eyes, making it difficult to read their expression, and his mouth had learned to give nothing away. Only the big clumsy-looking hands, constantly in motion with cigarette, matches and ashtray, suggested that he wasn't as confident as he appeared.
Hearing a harsh intake of breath from Cliff, who stood at her shoulder like a hired bodyguard, she opted for charm instead of a head-on attack. "Why, no, Mr. Riley, I haven't come to talk business. It's early days for that. I just thought we ought to get to know one another better."
"Oh, yeah?" Smoke trickled from his nostrils. One of those ancient idols, Meg thought wildly—Baal, with a fire in his belly, awaiting the sacrifice of the firstborn. "Well, okay. You can call me Riley."
"I just did."
"Not 'Mister.' Just Riley."
"Oh." So far he was ahead. Meg tilted her head and gave him a dimpled smile. "My friends call me Meg."
"Yeah." The way he watched her, eyes fixed and unblinking, reminded her of another of Dan's favorite adages. "Beware of the man who looks you straight in the eye; he's probably getting ready to stab you in the back."
After a moment, Riley went on, "I thought maybe you came to make me an offer."
The dimples didn't seem to be working. "Is that what you want?" Meg asked.
"Well, I don't suppose you're exactly thrilled at having me for a partner." Riley lit another cigarette. "It wouldn't have been my idea of an ideal arrangement either. But no—I don't want to sell my share. I'd prefer to buy yours."
Cliff gave a grunt of surprise and disbelief. Meg jabbed her elbow into his ribs.
"Do you have the cash?" she asked.
"No. But I'll raise it. Somehow."
His voice was flat and defiant, but the last word was in itself an admission of vulnerability.
Cliff had got his breath back. "How?" he demanded.
"Never mind," Meg said, cursing male egos in general and Cliffs in particular. "There's no need to make a hasty decision. The will won't be probated for some time." Dismissing the subject, she glanced at the contents of the display case. "You seem to be well stocked."
"Not bad," Riley said cautiously.
"That's nice. How did you price it?"
Riley glanced at the piece she had indicated, an inch-wide band bracelet delicately chased and set with topazes. "One seventy-five. It's gold-filled," he added, as her lips parted in incipient protest. "And the catch has been repaired—badly."
Cliff shifted position. "What we really came for," he began.
"Introductions," Meg said. "Get acquainted, a touch of nostalgia. All those good things." She stood up; Riley stalked her, step by stiff step, as she moved to the next counter. "Yes, very nice. May I see that tray of rings?"
With an odd, sidelong glance, he took out the tray and switched on a lamp. One of the stones glowed crimson and she smiled reminiscently. "That's a nice ruby."
"It would be if it were a ruby," Riley said.
"Spinel?"
"Right."
"It's still beautiful." She slipped the ring on her finger, turned it to admire the setting, returned it to its place. "Too big for me. What's this one—a regard ring? No, the stones are wrong. Moonstone, amethyst, ruby, another ruby ... or is it a garnet?" She glanced at Riley in smiling appeal, but got only a blank look in response. Well, it had been a pretty crude attempt. The day Dan's granddaughter didn't know a ruby from a garnet . . . Flushing slightly, she went on. "Garnet, of course. Amethyst, ruby, emerald, topaz. Margaret!"
Her delighted little laugh invited him to share in her triumph, but it was not entirely calculated; the regard rings and their variants had always charmed her. Riley's expression changed from blank to blanker.
Cliff took the ring from her and examined it curiously. "What's all that about?"
"The initial letters of the stones spell a name or a word," Meg explained. "The most common word is 'regard'; that's why they're called regard rings. I have several in my ring collection."
"That's right, you do collect rings. Rings with messages."
Meg could have kicked him; in fact, she would have kicked him if he had been close enough. He was about as subtle as a two-by-four across the head. If Riley was innocent there was no harm done, but if he had sent the ring, he was now forewarned of their suspicions.
Blithely unaware of her disgust, Cliff went on, "You ought to have this one then, since it spells your name."
"My name isn't Margaret."
"But I thought—"
"Meg is a logical nickname for the one by which I was christened. Dan insisted on it, since he had no sons to carry on the family name."
"Mignot?" Cliff grinned. "I never knew that. Mignot Venturi. . . . Actually, it doesn't sound as bad as you might expect."
"It's not that different from Mignon, which is a perfectly legitimate female name." She spoke to Cliff, but watched Riley out of the corner of her eye. His face had not changed. Either he had known her real name, or he didn't give a damn. Probably the latter. "Dan called me by it sometimes, when he was feeling affectionate. Sort of a pet name. I hated it, though. Everybody else in my class was named Jackie or Julie or Jennie or Trish." She slid the ring on her finger and shook her head. "It's too small. I think I must have it, though. I don't own one that spells Margaret. Will you please put it on my account, Mr. Riley?"
"Just Riley. It's yours. Half the stock is yours."
"But which half? No, we'll do this by the book, for the sake of Infernal Revenue if for no other reason. You'd better enter the transaction in the ledger."
"The old ledgers are long gone," Riley said. "We're computerized."
"Oh, really?"
The front door rattled. Apparently Candy had not seen the "Closed" sign. She pressed her face against the glass, squinting, as she continued to push against the door. The old beveled glass distorted her features into a comic mask.
Wit
hout comment or change of expression Riley went to the door and unlocked it.
Candy plunged in. "I'm back," she announced.
"So you are." Riley looked at Meg. "If you have time I'll show you the new setup."
Candy held out a small paper bag, already liquid-stained. "I brought you—"
"No, thanks. This way, Ms. Venturi."
His tone was no more brusque than it had been when he spoke to Meg, but Candy's lips quivered and her eyes brimmed with tears. However, Meg's sympathies were with the pursued. How was a man supposed to deal with that relentless, demanding adoration? He couldn't even demonstrate basic courtesy without fearing it would be interpreted as encouragement. As she turned to follow Riley, Meg realized that Candy had found someone to blame for her idol's rejection; the tears in her eyes magnified her glare at Meg.
The office was even more cluttered than Meg remembered. Dan's mammoth old rolltop desk had been pushed into a corner in order to leave space for the computer and its various accessories. Filing cabinets and shelves heaped with untidy stacks of magazines and miscellany left little empty space.
"Are you the computer expert?" Meg squeezed herself into the chair in front of the console and fingered the keys.
"I'm no expert. I took just enough courses to learn what I needed to know. I hate the damned thing, to be honest. Dan was like a kid with a new toy; he loved playing with it."
It was the longest speech he had made, and the most revealing—and unless her imagination was working overtime his voice had softened when he spoke of Dan's delight in his new toy. "Show me how it works," Meg said.
Riley shoved his hands into his pockets. "Current inventory is cross-indexed according to date of purchase, price, type and source. When an item is sold—"
"Show me," Meg said softly.
Like many of her generation she was computer-literate. She was familiar, not only with the general principles, but with this particular make of computer. Riley must have suspected as much, but there was no way he could refuse her request without flagrant rudeness, and no way he could avoid touching the fingers she left resting lightly on the keys. He had to bend over her to reach them. He bent stiffly, from the waist, like a mechanical man, but the big rough hands were surprisingly deft. His fingers barely brushed hers. The screen flickered as file replaced file.
