by Kathy
Meg decided to make another foray into Riley's sanctum. He made no objection and asked no questions when she told him she needed to get into the safe—simply gave her the combination and went back to his current project. Glancing at the workbench, she saw he was repairing the clasp of a gold chain. "You shouldn't be doing hack work like that," she said. "We need to hire more people."
Riley made no comment. So what else was new, Meg thought.
For once the lure of the gemstones didn't hold her, and her search was so brief it actually prompted a question from Riley. "Are you looking for something in particular?"
Meg was about to answer when something stopped her, as emphatically as a hand clapped over her mouth. "The—uh—the bag of citrines and topazes," she said instead.
"It isn't there? Dan must have taken it. He likes ... he liked to handle the stones. Try his desk in the office."
"Thanks."
Why hadn't she admitted she was looking for old records? Because, she told herself, she wasn't stupid enough to be seduced into unnecessary confidences by a smile and a few civil words. The drawing of the necklace had been in his file. Coincidence, perhaps; but until she was certain it was safer to keep quiet.
The chimes summoned her back to the store. The face of the young woman who stood at the counter was vaguely familiar, but Meg was more concerned about the little boy who was struggling to free himself from her hold. He was a bright-eyed, handsome child of the type merchants dread most, and Meg knew he would shortly be liberated and wreaking havoc, for the mother was distracted by a second child, who was squirming and yelling in its stroller.
The woman gave Meg a tentative smile. She looked tired and disheveled, but her faded pink shorts and wrinkled blouse had once had a certain touch of style and she had taken the trouble to cover the hole in her sneaker with a Band-Aid. She was twenty pounds overweight, but she must have been pretty once. . . .
Good God. Mercifully, Meg caught herself before she said it aloud. The woman had been pretty once; she had been Homecoming Queen of Meg's high school class, second runner-up in the state beauty contest. Dottie—Darlene. . . .
"Debbie! How nice to see you."
The tentative smile strengthened. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"Of course I remember you. It's so nice. ..." I said that, Meg told herself. "Uh—what beautiful children."
Maternal pride beamed from Debbie's eyes. "Thank you. This is Tommie. Say hello to the lady, Tommie."
The three-year-old stopped struggling and gave Meg a cold, appraising stare. "I want a lollipop," he stated.
"Tommie, you mustn't ask! Dan always gave him one," Debbie explained apologetically. "He was so fond of children. He used to keep a box of lollipops under the counter."
"It's still there." Meg went in search of the treat. Tommie rejected the first one she offered, demanding a red one instead, and Meg handed it over.
"Let's go now," Tommie said.
"Mama wants to talk to the lady, honey."
"I wanna go. I don't wanna see the bad man."
"Oh, Tommie, he isn't bad. He's a nice man."
"I hate him. He said he was gonna smack me. I told my daddy and my daddy said he was a—"
"Tommie!"
"The bad man isn't here," Meg said, with a malicious smile. "Don't you want that lollipop, Tommie?"
Tommie plugged his mouth with the object in question, and Debbie looked at him fondly. "He's named after his daddy. You know I married Tom Gentry."
She spoke as if the name were one any idiot would know— Elvis Presley, Clark Gable, Tom Gentry. Oddly enough, Meg did know. Tom had been the quarterback of the football team, the class president, the handsomest boy in the class. A fitting mate for the class beauty. . . . She shivered involuntarily.
Debbie introduced the occupant of the stroller. Warned by the ominous scowl on Cheryl Jean's juvenile countenance, Meg hastily produced a second lollipop while Debbie told her about Julie, nine, and Liz, seven.
Tommie created a diversion by trying to climb onto one of the showcases. In less than thirty seconds he had managed to smear essence of cherry lollipop all over both hands and the lower part of his face. By the time he had been pried loose and reprimanded, a good deal of it had been transferred to Meg.
"I guess I better not stay," Debbie said. "He's kind of restless, he really should have a nap in the afternoon, but he gave it up a while ago, and he. . . . Now, Tommie, don't wipe your hands on the lady's pretty skirt. I'm sorry, Meg."
"No problem," Meg said.
"It would be nice if we could get together sometime," Debbie went on. "The old gang—you know?"
"That would be fun." Even Gran would forgive her that lie, Meg thought wryly. If Debbie was representative of what had become of that old gang of hers, an evening with them would be more depressing than amusing. A sense of self-preservation made her add, "I'm pretty busy right now—you understand how it is."
"Oh, sure." But Debbie lingered, and Meg began to realize that she had something other than reminiscences on her mind. Tommie was whining and demanding ice cream, the baby had begun to whimper. Why didn't Debbie come to the point?
"How's Tom?" Meg asked, groping.
"Fine. Just fine. He's selling used cars, you know. I ... I used to work too. At the new restaurant at the shopping center. My mom was real good about taking the kids, and . . . and the money sure helped—you know how it is, trying to raise kids on one salary these days. And Tom . . . the used-car business isn't too good right now."
So that was it, Meg thought. The past tense made it clear. Debbie had lost her job and was looking for another—a job she obviously needed. A job for which she had no qualifications and no aptitude; she had barely scraped through high school, and the existence of Julie, nine, strongly suggested that she had had no further education.
Meg didn't know what to say. Again Tommie saved her, snatching the lollipop from his little sister and sending the deprived infant into a screaming fit. Meg was so grateful she produced seconds for both children. "See you soon," she said, opening the door.
It was probably the wrong thing to say. Debbie's face brightened. "We're in the book. Call any time. Or I'll call you."
"Right."
As Meg got to work on the sticky showcase she wondered why no manufacturer had ever explored the adhesive qualities of lollipop syrup. Already it had dried to a consistency resembling that of cement. If Tommie had pulled a similar stunt before, she didn't blame Riley for offering to smack him. She was sorry, though, that Debbie had cut Tommie off before he could repeat his father's epithet.
It was silly of her to feel sorry for Debbie. The ex-beauty queen was probably blissfully happy. At least she thought she was, which was the same thing. She had what every woman was supposed to want—a husband who had been voted best looking, most likely to succeed and class hunk, and four beautiful children. So they were short on money. Most young couples were. What was money, Debbie would undoubtedly claim, compared to Love and Family Values and Maternal Bliss? You couldn't hire people just because they had holes in their sneakers. Debbie hadn't even been a close friend. The girls who had been closest to Meg were no longer in Seldon; they had married and moved away, or were pursuing successful careers in cities that offered more opportunity than the sleepy little town.
Saturday was early closing day. At four o'clock Meg buzzed her invisible partner and informed him she was leaving. "Have a nice weekend, you child-beater," she added.
"Thanks," said Riley. The distortion of the intercom robbed his voice of inflection. She could only hope he knew she was kidding him.
Meg had driven to work that morning because she planned a quick trip to the shopping center outside town. She still hadn't found a dress suitable for the sort of place to which Darren would probably take her. One did not wine and dine one's best client at Friendly's.
She was still wearing Riley's necklace. The very touch of it against her skin was seductive; it seemed to mold itself to the contours of her
neck and breast. It was also an arrogant creation that demanded exactly the right setting. After trying on half a dozen dresses, Meg finally found one it would accept—plain, natural raw silk with a full skirt and a neckline that repeated and framed the curve of the necklace. It was of a style and color she never wore, and although she felt a faint resentment at being dominated, she knew she looked terrific.
Like many simple, plain dresses, this one cost the earth. It was strange that as Meg handed over her credit card she should find herself remembering the Band-Aid on Debbie's sneaker. Annoyed at her sentimentality, she proceeded to buy half a dozen outfits suitable for work at the store, and several pairs of shoes. She needed them, and depriving herself wouldn't supply Debbie with what she needed—whatever that might be. It was probably something more difficult to provide than a new pair of shoes or even a job.
Though she drove a trifle faster than she should have on the way home, her grandmother was already in the parlor when she ran in. In her crisp lavender-and-old-lace gown Mary looked like a porcelain doll; instead of embracing that fragile perfection Meg blew her a kiss and backed toward the door. "Darling, I can't touch you until I've bathed and changed. I'm sorry I'm late, I went shopping and it took longer than I expected."
"It always does," her grandmother said wisely. "What did you get? You are going to show me, aren't you?"
"Of course. I'll just run upstairs—"
"There isn't time for you to change now, dear. Just wash your hands like a good girl. Germs, you know."
"Yes, ma'am."
Mary gave her a fond smile. "Goodness, you sound more and more like Daniel every day. He's always late coming home when he works at the shop, and sometimes his hands are absolutely filthy. All those chemicals and things, I suppose. . . . 'Wash your hands,' I tell him. 'You don't want to eat germs.' And he says, 'Yes, ma'am,' just the way you did. Jokingly."
"I'll be right back," Meg mumbled.
When she returned Cliff was there, looking as if he had just stepped out of the male equivalent of a bandbox—not a spot, not a crease, not a hair out of place except for the one carefully careless lock that drooped artistically across his tanned brow. He rose, threw his arm around her and drew her into a close embrace. His kiss would have landed on her mouth if she hadn't turned her head at the last second. The warm lips traced a tingling path across her cheek and brushed her earlobe before he loosened his grasp and guided her into a chair.
"It's nice to see you children so affectionate," Mary said fondly.
Meg swallowed the comment she had been about to make and Cliffs grin faded when he saw the spot on his hitherto spotless designer T-shirt. "What's that?"
"Cherry lollipop, I expect," Meg said, her good humor restored.
It was impossible to put Cliff down. He cocked his head and studied her thoughtfully. "I do like a woman who keeps surprising me. I would never have suspected you of a secret passion for lollipops, much less cherry lollipops. Don't you know the green ones are the best?"
Meg didn't know whether to laugh, explain or throw a cookie at him. The last idea was extremely tempting; Gran would scold, but she wouldn't be surprised at such behavior from "one of the children," and Henrietta would dispose of the broken bits.
Before she could succumb, her grandmother distracted her, reaching for the plastic shopping bag she had left on the floor. "Now, Meg. Show."
Her eyes sparkled with delight as Meg drew the dress out of the bag and held it up. "If you hate it, I'll take it back," she said, smiling.
"Let me see." Her grandmother sobered; clothes were the joy of her life, second only to jewels, and they were not to be taken lightly. "Very pretty, dear. But isn't it just a teeny bit low at the neck?"
"No," Cliff said promptly.
Meg scowled at him. "Well, perhaps I'm old-fashioned," Mary admitted. "You shouldn't have let them put the dress into a bag, though, it's all wrinkled. I'll have Frances press it for you. I think it's a trifle too informal for the rubies, don't you?"
"Just a trifle," Meg said, picturing the reaction if she walked into a local restaurant wearing the Maria Theresa rubies—including the tiara.
"Pearls, I think," her grandmother mused. "But we'll decide after tea; we mustn't bore Clifford."
"I'm not bored," Cliff assured her. "What could be more fascinating than the adornments used by beautiful women to make themselves even more desirable?" He took Mary's delicate, wrinkled hand and raised it to his lips.
She smiled at him, head tilted, eyelids lowered—flirting with him, Meg thought, in gestures as mannered as the steps of a formal dance. How had Cliff learned to play that old-fashioned game so expertly? Few men of his generation would know, or would bother. It must be love, Meg told herself—and hoped she was right.
"So what's the occasion?" Cliff asked, restoring Mary's hand to her knee with a last little pat. "Of course I know you ladies don't need an excuse to shop."
"Bad boy." Mary shook a playful finger at him. "Meg is going out this evening. With a gentleman."
"Oh, yeah? Who?"
"With Mr. Blake," Mary said. "Isn't that nice?"
"Darren?" Cliff frowned. "The neck is too low."
"Do you really think. . . ." Mary peered at him. She was a trifle nearsighted, but would have rather risked falling and breaking her neck than wear glasses. She broke into lovely laughter. "Oh, you're just being naughty. Meg, you had better run along if Mr. Blake is calling for you at seven. I'll come shortly and help you select your jewelry."
"I'm going to wear this, Gran. I bought the dress to go with it."
"Oh." Mary blinked at the necklace as if she were noticing it for the first time. Meg knew that was a pretense; her grandmother's eye for gems was twenty-twenty, and this piece would have been hard to miss. "It's just a touch—large—isn't it?"
" 'Garish' would be more like it," Cliff said.
Meg couldn't comment on his lack of taste without implicitly criticizing her grandmother's, so she bared her teeth at him, and left the room. Cliff followed, catching up with her at the foot of the stairs.
"Wait a minute."
"What do you want?"
"For one thing, another look at that object you're wearing."
"Why?" Meg's hand went to her throat in an involuntarily defensive movement.
"That's my question, why? Is it one of Riley's?"
"Yes."
"You like it?"
"Why else would I wear it?"
"I can think of other reasons."
"Go to hell, Cliff." Meg started up the stairs.
One of these days, she promised herself, she would buy the biggest, gummiest, greenest lollipop to be found and stick it right between those full, sensuous, smiling lips.
Darren arrived on the dot of seven, to find Meg waiting at the door in order to avoid Cliff, who was lurking in the parlor like a spider in its web. Deprived of the entertainment he had expected, he followed them to the door doing an exaggerated imitation of a nervous father. "Have a good time. Not too good a time, though, old boy, ha ha, if you know what I mean. . . ."
Smiling and oblivious, Darren pretended not to hear. It was an effective technique, born of past experience. As he handed Meg into his BMW, a voice bellowed, "Have her home by midnight. She turns into a. . . ."
The last word blew away on the wind as Darren pulled away. Meg laughed and shook her head. "I'm almost sorry I didn't hear. Do you defend murderers, Darren?"
Darren gave her a startled look. "Murderers! What made you. . . . Oh. Oh, I get it." He laughed heartily. "Old Cliffs not so bad, you know. Just ignore him."
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to live with him."
"Neither do you."
Cliff's teasing and Darren's placid response had taken Meg back to the old days, when the three of them had played the same roles of victim, villain and defender. She spoke without thinking. "Why, Darren, this is so sudden."
"It may seem so to you. Not to me. I've been in love with you for years."
&
nbsp; They had gone almost a mile before Meg recovered. "I don't know what to say, Darren."
"You don't have to say anything. I knew you were kidding. I was going to wait till we had spent some time together, gone on a few dates. ... I even had my speech all worked out. It was a very eloquent speech, if I do say so. And then I blurt it out like some dumb teenager while we're barreling along at sixty miles an hour! I know it's too soon for you to give me an answer, but you will think about it, won't you?"
Meg felt like Eliza crossing the ice with the bloodhounds baying at her heels. She didn't want to shatter the thin ice of Darren's sensitivity, but neither did she want the dogs on her trail. What she wanted—what she needed. . . . For a second she thought she knew, but the knowledge faded before she could catch hold of it, leaving her filled with frustration and resentment. She reminded herself that Darren had no idea his was the second proposal of marriage she had received in less than a week—and that it wasn't a hell of a lot more romantic than Cliff's offhand suggestion had been.
Nor could he possibly know that marriage, to any man, was the last thing she wanted.
She realized that he had been waiting too long for an answer, and selected her words with the delicacy of a goldsmith shaping a setting. "Darren, it would be unfair to both of us for me to raise false hopes. Right now . . . right now I need a friend and adviser, not a lover. Can't we just leave things as they are and wait to see what, if anything, develops?"
