Bitter Sweet (32 page)
Momentarily he returned, touched her elbow. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
If she had expected any false displays of indifference from him she had done him an injustice, for he was alarmingly straightforward in playing her personal host. Before the meal he kept her circulating, meeting members, then he seated her beside himself at a round table for six. He asked the waitress to ‘bring a pot of tea without inquiring if she preferred it to coffee.
He inquired whether her wallpaper had come yet. He said, ‘I have something for you,’ and belled out the front of his sports jacket, reaching for the inside pocket.
‘Here.’ He handed her a newspaper clipping. ‘I thought you might be interested in this. There should be a lot of antiques.’
It was an ad for an estate sale. Reading it, her eyes grew bright and avid.
‘Eric, this sounds wonderful! Where did you find this?’
She flipped it over and back.
‘In the Advocate.’ ‘How did I miss it?’
‘I don’t know, but it says there’s’ a brass bed. Isn’t that what you want for the Belvedere Room?’
‘And a Belter settee upholstered with French tapestry!’ she exclaimed, reading on. ‘... and antique china, and bevelled mirrors, and a pair of matched rosewood chairs . . I’m going for sure!’ THURSDAY NINE TO FIVE, 714JAMES STREET,
‘You’re welcome. Do you need a truck?’
‘I might.’
‘The old whore is temperamental, but she’s yours if you want her.’
‘Thank you, I just might.’
‘Excuse me,’ a male voice interrupted.
Eric looked up. ‘Oh... Mark, hello.’ He pushed back his chair.
‘I take it this is the new owner of Harding House,’ the man said, ‘and since I’ll be introducing her today, I thought I should meet her first.’ He was already extending his hand to Maggie.
She looked up into a long, slim fortyish face framed by brown, wavy hair. The face might have been attractive but Maggie was distracted by the fact that he immediately brought it too close to hers, and wore a cologne so overpoweringly sweet it caused a tickle in her throat.
‘Maggie Stearn, this is Mark Brodie, president of the chamber. Mark... Maggie.’
‘Welcome back to Fish Creek,’ Mark said, shaking her hand. ‘I understand you graduated from Gibraltar High.’
‘Yes, I did.’
He held her hand too long, squeezed it too hard, and she guessed within ten seconds of their introduction that he was unattached and scouting the new female in town. He effectively monopolized her for the next five minutes, giving vibes of interest as unmistakable as his geraniumy smelling
Cologne
. During those five minutes he managed to confirm the fact that he was a divorce by choice, that he owned a local dinner club called the Edgewater Inn, and that he was more than a little interested in seeing both her and her house sometime in the near future.
When he left to assume his duties as the head of the group, Maggie turned back to the table and took a drink of water to clear the taste of his cologne out of her throat. The others at her table were listening to a woman named Norma tell an anecdote about her nine-year-old son. While they were preoccupied with the story, Eric leaned back in his chair and glanced at Maggie.
‘Brodie’s a real go-getter,’ he remarked.
‘Hm.’
‘And unattached.’
‘Hm. ‘
‘Runs a successful business, too.’
‘Yes, he made sure I knew.’
Their eyes met and Eric’s remained absolutely expressionless.
He sat back with one finger hooked in the handle of his coffee cup while Maggie wondered what to make of his remarks. The waitress arrived and stepped between them to set their plates on the table.
After breakfast Mark Brodie called for quiet and took care of a couple of business items before introducing Maggie.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new member with us today. She was born and raised right here in Fish Creek, graduated from Gibraltar High School and is back with us opening our newest bed and breakfast.’ Mark leaned closer to the microphone. ‘She’s mighty pretty, too, I might add.
Everybody, say hello to the new owner of Harding House, Maggie Stearn.’
She rose, feeling her face colour. How dare Brodie put his mark on her before the entire town! The entire county for that matter! Her introduction signalled the end of the breakfast and she was immediately surrounded by members who reinforced Mark’s official welcome, wished her well, and invited her to call on them for any help or advice she might need. In the congenial exchange, Maggie became separated from Eric, and looked up some minutes later to see him with a group of others, donning his coat and gloves near the exit. Someone was talking to her, and someone was speaking to him as he pushed open the plate-glass door and headed outside. Just before the door closed he glanced back at Maggie, but his only farewell was a slight delay in allowing the door to close behind him.
Mark Brodie wasted no time confirming Maggie’s first impression of him. He called that evening.
‘Mrs Stearn? Mark Brodie.’ ‘Oh, hello.’
‘Did you enjoy the breakfast?’
‘Yes, everyone was very cordial.’
‘I wanted to talk to you before you left, but you were surrounded by people. I was wondering if you’d be interested in going on a sleigh ride on Sunday evening. It’s for the young people’s group from
Was he asking her for a date or not? How cagey of him to put it in such a way that she couldn’t be sure. She decided to hedge.
‘A sleigh ride- you mean there’s enough snow for a sleigh ride ?’
‘Barely. If not, Art Swenson will take the runners off his rig and put the rubber tyres on. It starts at seven and we’ll be out about two hours. What do you say?’
Maggie weighed the possibilities and decided Mark Brodie was not her style, whether he intended the invitation as a date or not.
‘I’m really sorry, but I have plans for Sunday night.’
‘Oh, well, maybe some other time then,’ he replied brightly, sounding not the least bit nonplussed.
‘Well... if there’s anything I can do to help you settle in here, just let me know.’
‘Thank you, Mr Brodie.’
She hung up and stood beside the phone recalling his overbearing smell and his overbearing mien, and thought, No thank you, Mr Brodie.
He called again the next morning, his voice overtly cheerful and loud in her ear.
‘Mrs Stem, it’s Mark Brodie. How are you today?’ He sounded like an over-zealous used-car salesman on a TV commercial.
‘Fine,’ she replied automatically.
‘Are you busy Monday night?’
Caught off-guard, she answered truthfully, ‘No.’
‘There’s a theatre in
She frantically groped for a reply. ‘I thought you owned a supper club. How can you get all these nights off?’
‘It’s closed Sundays and Mondays.’
‘Oh.’
Undaunted by her sidestepping, Brodie repeated, ‘So, how about the movie?’
‘Ah . . . Monday?’ No excuse popped into her mind. None!
‘I could pick you up at six-thirty.’
‘Well...’ She felt embarrassed at her lack of excuses, but her mind remained blank.
‘Six-thirty. Say yes.’
She released a nervous laugh.
‘If you don’t, I’ll only call again.’
“Mr Brodie, I don’t date.’
‘All right. I’ll show up at your door with supper in a brown paper bag some night. That won’t be a date.’
‘Mr Brod -‘ ‘Mark.’
‘Mark. I said I don’t date.’
‘So, pay your own admission to the movie.’
‘You’re very persistent, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I am. Now how about Monday,’
‘Thank you, but no,’ she replied firmly.
‘All right. But don’t be surprised when you hear from me again.’
The man had hubris enough to fill a hayloft, she thought, as she hung up.
The phone rang again on Wednesday afternoon and she answered it with an excuse all prepared. But instead of Mark Brodie, it was Eric who opened the conversation without identifying himself, ‘Hi, how are you?’
She smiled broadly. ‘Oh, Eric, it’s you.’
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Mark Brodie. He’s called twice already.’
‘I told you he was a go-getter.’
‘He’s becoming a pest.’
‘You have to expect that in a town of this size that hasn’t got many single women, much less pretty, rich ones.”
‘Mr Severson, you’re embarrassing me.’
He laughed and she felt totally at ease with him. ‘Can you hold on a minute while I wash my hands?’
‘Sure. ‘
She returned in moments, saying, ‘There, that’s better. I was a little pasty.’
‘You’re wallpapering?’
‘Yes. ‘
‘How does it look?’
‘Absolutely great. Wait till you see the Belvedere Room, it...’ She interrupted the thought, realizing the implications of such familiarities.
‘It - ?’ he encouraged.
It’s a dusty shade of pink and you’ll never see it. We must both make sure of that. ‘It’s nearly finished, and the paper is going up like a dream.’
‘Wonderful. So what did you decide about the truck?’
The truck. The truck. She hadn’t given it another thought, but she had no other means of transporting furniture.
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll take it.’
‘Could you use a little company?’
She’d expected to simply borrow the truck and drive it herself. She stood in the kitchen feeling undermined, wondering how to answer, stating at the handle on the refrigerator door and picturing his face. When she failed to reply, he added, ‘I thought, if you bought anything big you could probably use some help unloading it.’
How awkward. To object on the grounds of impropriety put motives in his mind of which he was perhaps not guilty, yet to accept might give him reason for believing something of that sort had possibilities. She decided to do the honourable thing, no matter how indelicate it sounded.
‘Eric, do you think that’s wise?’
‘My day is free, and if it’s all right with you I’ll stop by Bead & Ricker and pick up something I ordered for
Nancy
for Christmas. They called to say it’s in.’
The mere mention of
Nancy
acquitted them both. ‘Oh . . well, fine then.’
“What time should I be there?’
‘Early, so I don’t miss any of the good stuff.’
‘Are you a breakfast cater?’
‘Yes, but-’
I’ll pick you up at seven and we’ll get on the way. And, Maggie?’
‘Yes?’
“You’d better wear boots. The heater in the old whore could be a little more efficient.’
‘I will.”
‘See you in the morning.’
She hung up and propped her forehead in her hands, her elbows on her knees and sat there hunched over, staring at the kitchen floor. For a full two minutes, just staring, waiting for common sense to take over, thinking stupid things about widowed women making fools of themselves.
She leapt to her feet, cursed under her breath and picked up the phone to call him back and cancel.
She slammed it back down and sat on her stool again. You know what you’re getting into here.
I’m getting into nothing. This is the last time I’ll see him.
Honest.
She awakened the following morning with the thought singing through her mind: I’ll see him today, I’ll see him! She rolled to one side, snuggling her jaw deep in the feather pillow, wondering exactly how much contact with a married man constituted a friendly liaison. She lay thinking of him his hair, eyes, mouth - and rolled to her back with her eyes closed and her arms curled tightly over her stomach.
She dressed in the most unattractive clothes she could find - blue jeans and a grotesque gold sweatshirt that made her a walking ad for Ziebart—then ruined it all by fussing with her makeup and doing the gd routine with her hair.
His truck pulled up precisely at seven and she met him halfway down the sidewalk, bundled in boots and her pink jacket, carrying four folded blankets over her arms.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Good morning. I brought some blankets to pad the furniture with, in case I buy any.’
‘Here, I’ll take them.”
He took the blankets as they walked side by side to the truck.
‘All set to find some buys?’
