Enchanted (7 page)

Mac watched her pull up a chair and sit at the desk beside him. She wore the same clothes every day, but looked as crisp and fresh as she had the first moment she’d walked through his door. A red dress, a white apron, black laced-up leather shoes, and white stockings. He had given up wondering about her. Now he just accepted her as the sweetest, most endearing lady he’d ever encountered.

“Not nearly as many letters as I was expecting,” she said, grabbing the scissors to slice off the tops of the envelopes.

“How many did you expect? That ad was awful. I must have been crazy to let you talk me into this.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure the right woman is in this pile.” One by one she pulled out the letters and read them out loud to Mac, who made copious notes of things that struck his fancy.

“Read that part again,” he said, intrigued by something written in the fourth letter.

“Let me see. Oh, yes. Here it is. ‘If you’re looking for the perfect present, look no further. I’m five foot two, eyes of blue, and oh, what those five feet can do!’” Merry muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and Mac laughed at her obvious disgust with the letter.

In spite of Merry, he thought the words were a breath of fresh air in a pile of stale letters. “That one’s a definite.”

“Whatever you say.”

Why had she given in so easily? Mac wondered. She picked up the next envelope, a big, Christmas red one, and pulled out an old-fashioned card with an old-fashioned Santa on the fronts He watched Merry’s eyes light up at the vision before her. If he wasn’t mistaken, her eyes misted just the slightest bit.

“Now, this is more like it,” she said. Beautifully scripted words, written in gold ink, formed the shape of a Christmas tree on expensive, watermarked green stationery. The woman obviously had put a lot of time and thought into her reply.

“No matter what this one says, I think she’s a definite,” she said, wiping a tear away from her cheek.

“You’re too sentimental.”

“Not in the least. I just know this one’s perfect.”

“What about the others?”

“Oh, I have no problem with you checking out several, but I’ll place my money on this lovely lady right here.”

Mac took the card and paper out of Merry’s hands and stared at the writing. It took him a minute before he digested what it said. “So, you think this one’s perfect?”

“Of course.”

“Did you read it?”

“No. That’s not necessary.”

Mac pushed away from the desk, headed for the kitchen, and a snack of the ever-present Christmas cookies or some other confection Merry kept stocked for his recently ravenous appetite.

When he reached the kitchen table, with Merry following close behind, he popped a piece of fudge in his mouth, took a few bites, then swallowed the dark, creamy chocolate. He washed the sweetness down with a swig of milk, then waved the green paper in front of Merry’s face. “Let me read this to you.

“
‘My tree has splendid ornaments, with rather fine limbs, and my trunk consists of thirty-two rings. Enduring, quality gifts come from the heart—gifts under my branches not necessary, but a mature, finely aged tree may grow by my side.’
”

“See. I told you she’s perfect.”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind. She doesn’t make sense.”

Merry grabbed the piece of paper out of his hand. “Here, let me decipher this for you.”

Mac pulled the paper back. “That’s not necessary. You’ll embarrass both of us.”

“I say she’s a definite.”

He took another drink of milk, grabbed a napkin, piled on several pieces of fudge, then stomped to his study, alone, to contemplate the reply he held in his hands.

He studied the note, interpreting each line:

Splendid ornaments?
Umm. Great breasts.

Rather fine limbs?
Legs. Great legs.

32 rings?
Thirty-two. She’ll probably think I’m too old.

Well, Mac thought, she does have a few possibilities.

He tossed the green paper on top of the other “keeper,” then went on to read the rest of the letters. Two out of eight wasn’t bad. His gut feeling told him to throw out the green paper on top of the pile, but Merry would never forgive him. Deep down inside, he was curious.

oOo

The letter came less than a week after Kathleen sent her reply. It was short, to the point. If interested, she needed to meet him in the lounge at the Plaza, eight P.M. Monday night. He’d be wearing a sprig of holly in his lapel.
Holly?
How strange. Well, there’d be no mistaking him for anyone else. She, in turn, should wear white gloves. She liked the idea of the Plaza, although she didn’t frequent such rich surroundings. There would be a crowd, it would be easy to find, and even easier to escape should there be a need to run.

What, shë wondered, had she gotten herself into that she had to think about an escape route? Worse yet, what on earth would she wear? Business attire? White gloves would look atrocious with navy blue pinstripes. She didn’t own a cocktail dress. Besides what she wore to work, her wardrobe consisted of jeans and T-shirts, a few sweaters, but definitely nothing she could wear to the Plaza.

She looked at her watch. Eight o’clock. Too late to go shopping tonight. That left Sunday. She hated shopping because she hated the clothes. Things had a tendency to be too fancy for her tastes. She preferred the clothes she used to buy in the
western wear
shops at home in Montana. Unassuming
jeans and plaid shirts that never called
attention to the body she wanted to hide.

When high noon on Sunday rolled around, s
he struck out on her shopping expedition. Macy’s had nothing. Bloomingdale’s. Saks. Nothing she looked at really stuck out. Too many sequins. Too little fabric. As late Sunday afternoon approached, her arms laden with bags of toys and clothing for Julie, but nothing for herself, she began to feel desperate. Her feet ached so badly she didn’t think she could walk another step. And then she saw it—Holly’s. How appropriate, she thought. But it did seem strange that she’d walked by these storefronts hundreds of times before and hadn’t noticed this shop. Surely she would have remembered it—a store all decked out for Christmas— at the end of June?

Holly’s sparkled with glittering snowflakes painted on the windows bordered with garlands of holly. A pine-cone wreath hung on the door, a polished brass bell hung in its center. A Christmas tree glistened with ornaments illuminated by thousands of colored lights. But Kathleen’s eyes zoomed to the white velvet strapless and form-fitting dress in the window. To her amazement, the mannequin looked strangely like her, and on her hands she wore long white gloves. She had seen herself in a dress like this in those recurring dreams when she danced with Mac.

Once inside she smelled the pine, the peppermint, the cinnamon, and hot apple cider. Mesmerized by the sights and scents, Kathleen found herself surrounded by attendants— four tiny men, barely reaching her elbows.

They took her bags, offered her cider, removed her shoes, and slipped soft, white satin heels onto her feet. They felt like comfortable bedroom slippers—she could even wiggle her toes. Measuring tapes slipped around her waist, her thighs, her bust. They measured her height and removed the rubber band pulling her hair into a ponytail. Behind a midnight blue screen, painted with hundreds of delicate white snowflakes, she removed her jeans and T-shirt and slipped into the gown. It felt heavenly against her skin. She stepped out of the dressing area to see four brightly lit smiles. She turned to the mirror. Could that beautiful woman staring back at her really be Kathleen Flannigan?

Caught up in the excitement, the thrill of finding such a wonderful dress, she couldn’t even remember if money exchanged hands. But with packages tucked under her arm, she walked out the door at five o’clock. The lights went off, and Holly’s lost its magical glow. Had it really existed? If it hadn’t, how could she be standing here holding the green-and-red foil box—the one containing the white dress, the white gloves?

It wasn’t worth speculating about what could and couldn’t be. She’d found what she had wanted—just in the nick of time.

oOo

Kathleen hadn’t slept. Instead, she’d lain awake thinking about the man she would meet on Monday. In spite of her sleepless night, she entered her office in a good mood, a smile on her face, and ready to face the world. Mondays always meant rushes; staff meeting at nine, piles of reading, articles to edit, layouts to approve, calls to return. Lunch with a writer at one, meetings with the advertising and art execs, and then a dreaded appointment with Mac at five. She didn’t have time to meet with him, but she couldn’t find an excuse not to. Why on earth did he want to see her?

At precisely one minute until the hour, she entered Mac’s office. He looked ready. She wasn’t.

He walked around the desk, looking wonderful, like a model in
GQ,
clad in a charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, dark red tie. His jacket was unbuttoned and his left hand was tucked into his pants pocket. She’d
rarely
noticed his shoes, but today he wore cowboy boots. They weren’t scuffed and marred like her friends’ at home, but dark gray leather, spit-polished and shined. Her eyes roamed from the top of his head to the tips of his boots, then meandered up again to his eyes. She was speechless.

He stuck out his right hand to shake hers. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A beer?”

“No. Nothing, thank you.”

He pulled the chair out, holding it while she sat. He took his place in the massive chair on the other side of the desk, folded his hands in front of him, and leaned forward.

“I was wondering how you’re doing on
your
magazine. My spies haven’t been able to tell me a thing.”

“I don’t see any need for spies. I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know.”

“Okay.” He smiled. “Did the woman executive change from beautiful to frumpy?”

It took a moment for her to realize he meant the woman in the advertisement “Not frumpy. Just more businesslike.”

“And what is your definition of
businesslike?”

She stared at her watch. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Brien. I have a date tonight and unless you have some important business to discuss, I really must hurry.”

“It’s important to me. But it’s not the magazine I want to discuss,” he said, picking up a pencil and drumming it on the desk.

“No?” She frowned.

“No. It was a comment you made at our last meeting.”

Kathleen looked at him, puzzled. What comment had she made?

“I see you don’t remember,” he said.

“Can you refresh my memory?”

“Gladly. It was about us being friends once upon a time, and what happened.”

“We
were
friends,” Kathleen said. She looked across the desk into his eyes, but she saw only a trace of their former warmth. She turned her focus to the window, but saw nothing, only a blur, and the memory of she and Mac the way they had been so many years ago, locking horns during one of their sparring matches. Back then, not unlike today, they both believed they were right, no matter what the topic, and neither wanted to give in. But in those sparring matches they laughed over their disagreements. The laughter stopped when he went to Europe, and when he came back, everything had changed. He no longer wanted to talk,
in fact,
he refused to talk, and eventually she gave up trying. She had retreated into her work and her daughter, and he disappeared from her life, except on those rare occasions when they met at work. Maybe now he was ready to talk, and she was ready to listen.

Once again she looked at the man she had never stopped admiring, in spite of everything. Did she see a trace of regret in his face for all those lost years? “I’ve waited a long time to find out what went wrong. Do you want to talk about it now?”

“There’s not much to talk about, Kath. You changed. I changed. We can’t go back, so why don’t we forget what happened back then, and just go on from today?”

“If that’s what you want.” Those weren’t the words she wanted to hear, but she’d ignore the past for now. However, she had every intention of bringing the subject up again. “Did you ask me here just to say that, or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

“How about the friendship you had with my dad?” The words rushed from his mouth. “I understand you kept him company while I was in Europe.”

“We saw each other occasionally.” What on earth could she possibly tell Mac about his father that he didn’t already know? Could she tell him that Patrick O’Brien had worshipped his son and was devastated when he left the country with Ashley Tate? “Did you want to know something specific?”

Mac shook his head. “I missed out on the last year of his life. You didn’t.” He left his desk and went to the bookcases. There was a sculpted bronze Remington horse and rider on one of the shelves, one of his father’s favorite possessions. He touched it as though contact would bring his father closer. “I guess I just wanted to know what he did, if he was happy.”

“He missed you terribly.”