Harmony (10 page)

It didn't help matters that he frankly appreciated her perfectly shaped breasts and trim waistline, outlined by
the tightly fitted bodice. With his examining gaze, he reversed the tables. She balked.

“Mr. Wolcott,” she murmured, her eyes darting to his face. “Mr. Wolcott. I . . . that is . . . you . . .”

With her trying to avoid staring at the more intimate parts of his body, he felt the heat pour out of the room in a rush. Irritated with himself for letting the situation play out of hand, he complained, “The cold air is coming in. Step inside so I can close the door.”

She peered at him as if instead he'd just said,
Take off those clothes so I can ravish you.
“No, I couldn't.”

“Then I'll come outside.”

“No! You can't. Somebody might see us talking up here.”

“Then come in.”

“But—”

With a swift motion, he caught her by the elbow and reeled her in like a catfish before she could protest. The door slammed on her gasp, leaving it outside on the landing. Barkly opened one eye, barked once, then ignored them.

“Mr. Wolcott, this is highly improper,” Edwina squeaked, keeping her back as close to the door as humanly possibly without going through the wood.

“I'd say your coming here is more so.” He padded to the table to retrieve his coffee cup for a sip. Feigning censure, he declared, “Miss Huntington, I'm shocked. A woman of your untarnished reputation coming to a man's apartment. I thought you had better sense.”

A spark of pique lit her eyes; her chin tilted in a way that could only be called saucy. Difficult as it might have been, he had gotten the other Edwina Huntington to show her face. This woman had spunk and verve. He found her a lot more amusing than the closed-up version. “Well, I wouldn't have had to come if the confounded police had been in their office.”

His brow arched with the appropriate concern. “What about the police?”

“Well, my goodness, gracious me—never in all my
born days . . .” A perfumed hankie was brought out from the cuff of her sleeve and lifted to her nose. After a few dabs, she stuck the handkerchief back; then she checked the row of buttons on her gloves.

The refinement had slipped neatly back into place. He grew disappointed.

“What about the police?” he repeated.

“I went to report a vandalized property—our building. It's been seized upon by ruffians.”

“What did they do?”

“Why, they've defaced your side with red paint.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Bastards.”

“Mr. Wolcott, please guard yourself against uttering such vulgarisms in my company.” Her obvious outrage let him know that his profanity had affronted her feminine ears.

“Unlike you, Miss Huntington, I habitually use
vulgarisms
when the moment is appropriate. And I'd say this is a pretty appropriate moment.” He set his coffee cup back on the table. “Some low-down bastards just left their red signature on my half of the building.”

“I understand your upset, Mr. Wolcott. Truly. Why, if it had been my side—which fortunately it wasn't—I'd be very distressed. That's why I went to the police to report the incident—in the hope the culprits were still close at hand and could be apprehended. Posthaste.” Edwina took a step from the door. “But the arms of the law have seen fit to take up other arms.”

“What are you getting at?”

“They've had the gall to close up and go quail hunting.”

Tom found it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face. “Quail hunting, you say?”

“Yes!”

“Bastards.”

“Yes!” Her soft lips twitched, then she bit the bottom one. “I mean . . .”

“You are forgiven, Miss Huntington. This is a desperate situation.” He put his hand out to her, laying it on the small of her back and steering her toward the door. “I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside while I get dressed. Then we'll go over to the building together and see what can be done.”

The door opened, and Edwina tripped over the threshold to stand on the landing. Facing her, he couldn't resist saying, “Red? They used red?”

“Vermillion,” she replied, seriousness etched into the furrows of her forehead.

He shook his head, as if thoroughly disgusted. “I'll be ready in a minute.”

Once the door had been clicked into place, Tom stifled the laughter roaring up his throat.

•  •  •

In the light of day, the building looked worse than Tom had imagined. She'd attempted to take one foot more for herself, so he had had to retaliate. But this war was messier than he would have liked. He might have gotten one over on her, however, that didn't fade the fact that he had to live with what he'd done. His store looked like it had been caught in an ambush between desperadoes, all brandishing Peacemakers.

“You're right,” Tom said to Edwina, still staring at the destruction. “The place looks like hell.” And he meant it.

“I'm so sorry.”

The concern in her voice came across as genuine. He wished she would have felt that badly about stealing the extra foot. Then he would have felt sorry about things, too. But she didn't. So he didn't. It appeared they would both continue to be frauds.

“You could buy some new paint,” she suggested. “A brown, perhaps, would cover the damage. I'll . . .” The starch in her shoulders lost a little of their rigid definition. “I'll even help you repaint.”

With a dubious lift to the corner of his mouth, he countered, “You'd help me repaint?”

“Yes.” The reply came laced with a little regret. “We may not have gotten off to the most pleasant of starts, but we are business neighbors.”

Lying
business neighbors. Tom didn't fall for this latest tactic. She wanted to help him repaint like she wanted to walk down Main Street naked. What was she up to now?

“I don't have any extra cash to buy more paint.” Not on him, anyway. The Harmony Security Bank had four hundred ninety-three-dollars and eighteen cents of his locked up in a modern vault. He could have made a withdrawal if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. “After paying Trussel for the wall, I'm tapped out on funds to go into the store.”

Crestfallen, Edwina's shoulders drooped a notch more. “Oh . . . well, perhaps if the hoodlums are caught, they'll be made to compensate for the damages by buying the paint themselves.”

“Could be.”

“If only we could speak to the police.”

“If only.”

“Of all the times to go quail hunting.”

“Of all.”

She looked at him with a hint of perturbation, but the narrowing of her eyes disappeared when Shay approached from Dogwood Place—just as Crescencia Stykem came down Birch Avenue. The two reached the front of the warehouse at the same time.

The redhead couldn't meet Tom or Shay in the eyes; rather, she kept her gaze on the building. “Whatever happened?”

“Thugs.” The simple word fell hard from Edwina's tongue.

Tom glanced at Shay and repeated, “Thugs.”

Shay, who hadn't really wanted any part of the painting, tucked his hands in his armpits and stood back on his heels. “I'd say this looks more like the work of snakes in the grass.” Then he gave Tom a disapproving glare.

When Tom refused to challenge his accusation, Shay turned to Miss Stykem and doffed his hat. “It's good to see you, Miss Stykem.”

“M-m-m . . . Mr. Du-Du-Dufresne.”

“I trust your health has returned.”

Freckled cheeks blossomed with smudges of pink. “I . . .” She averted her eyes from his. “I'm b-better.”

“You look fetching in that shade hat. What color do you call that?”

Trembling hands lifted to adjust her glasses, leaving the left side cocked a fraction higher than the right. “Th-the catalogue c-called it v-violent raspberry p-pink.”

“I can see why.” Shay gave her a wink. “One look at a woman in that color, and it has a man thinking about making violent passion—”

Tom elbowed Shay in the ribs. “What are you doing?”

Shay shot him a dark frown. “Talking to the lady.”

Lowering his voice, Tom said, “You don't say words like
passionate love
to a woman like her. She's liable to have a heart seizure.”

In a whisper back, Shay remarked, “I think you're mistaken. I'll bet she's heard it before. She's a beautiful woman. Why can't I let her know I find her attractive? Your trouble is you don't know how to woo a woman with words.”

“I never had any need to talk while I was wooing.”

“I really have to go, Miss Huntington.” Crescencia handed Edwina two large envelopes. “I'm here because Papa asked me to bring you these. One is for you, and the other is for Mr. Wolcott. They're your titles to the property.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tom added, taking his copy from Edwina. With a single fold, he tucked the envelope into his breast pocket.

Crescencia fumbled with her spectacles again, then began walking backward. “Good day, Miss Huntington. I hope to be seeing you soon.”

“Then I reckon you'll be seeing me again, too,” Shay called to her retreating form. “Because I'll be here.”

Practically tripping, Crescencia made an about-face and all but scurried away.

Edwina gave the building another once-over. “Since the police are unavailable, I'm going to see if I can get to the bottom of this. I'm paying a call on Mr. Kennison and asking him who's bought red paint lately.”

“Bright idea, Miss Huntington,” Tom agreed. “I'll stay here in case anything new develops.”

She started down the street, Tom going for the pack of Richmonds in his shirt pocket.

“Is that really a bright idea?” Shay asked. “Kennison knows who bought red paint.”

Tom scratched the tip of a match with his thumbnail to ignite a flame, then lit his cigarette. “I'll bet he's forgotten by now.”

•  •  •

The inside of Kennison's hardware store smelled strongly of new leather and the iron of tools and faintly of sawdust, which had been scattered across the floor. Edwina went straight to the counter. Mr. Kennison's back remained toward her for a moment as he stocked his shelves with new merchandise.

“Miss Huntington,” he said. “May I help you?”

“I certainly hope so.” She rested her pocketbook on the counter. “I'd like to know who's bought red paint from you recently. Vermillion, to be exact.”

Mr. Kennison's hand stilled on a box of drawer handles. “Well, now . . . let me think . . .” Eyes gazed upward; a thin mouth murmured silent words. He brought a palm down the white of his apron, as if to wipe off perspiration. Then he met her steady gaze. “No. I can't say I recall any vermillion being sold. Mrs. Kirby did order some for trim, but she had a change of color scheme, so I sent the cans back to Glidden.”

Edwina visibly sagged. “I suppose anyone could have made an order through the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Then we'd never know.”

“No, we wouldn't.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kennison.”

He escaped back to his work, and she wandered around the store for a while to think about what to do next. She could question Mr. Calhoon, the postmaster, and find out if any packages from Chicago had come in from Sears. But even if some had, he wouldn't have known what was inside them.

What to do . . . ?

Unbidden, the image of Tom Wolcott standing at his door wearing bedroom clothes surfaced in her mind. She'd been taken aback by the slovenly appearance of his moth-eaten flannel, yet drawn to the highly masculine fit of what he wore as the bottom of his pajamas—if one could call an old shirt and men's ribbed drawers pajamas. Her interest had only lingered a few seconds—just enough for her to conclude Mr. Wolcott was physically . . . proportioned . . . with the rest of his large body.

For all her days at the business college, socializing at clubs and parties, she'd never crossed paths with a man like Tom Wolcott. He had an innately captivating presence that was lacking in the urbanized boys who wore the latest wool suits and spouted current stock market figures. In Chicago, she'd been drawn to fellows like Ludlow Ogden Rutledge and his cigar-smoking peers.

But that seemed like eons ago. Now Edwina had pressing obligations. A new path ahead of her. She had to make the best of the situation in Harmony and try to prove to herself that she hadn't changed all that much. That deep down inside, she was still Edwina—the same girl who used to sit in church and, with her eyes on the ceiling's rain spot, faithfully send her prayers through it to Heaven.

A weariness settled in her heart. Sometimes she wished she could turn back the clock and revisit those days of innocence. But of course she couldn't. Time marched ahead, and so must she.

Edwina summoned up the expression that had overtaken
Mr. Wolcott's face this morning while viewing the warehouse. Disgust and disbelief. She hated to admit it, but she felt sorry for him. Vandals had done him wrong, and he didn't have the money to rectify the injustice. She herself was tight on cash, but since she'd been paid up on tuition fees, she did have funds she could spare for several cans of brown paint. Were it not for the fact she'd finagled that extra foot of floor space, she never would have considered spending the money on his side. But she had, so she would.

“Mr. Kennison.”

“Yes, Miss Huntington?”

“I'd like to purchase three gallons of a brown paint—whichever hue you think would best cover vermillion.”

“Miss Huntington?”

That he would question her purchase somewhat puzzled her. “It's for Mr. Wolcott's side of the building.”

“I see . . . then I'll put it on his bill.”

“You misunderstand, Mr. Kennison.” The pocketbook latch clicked open, and she searched for her coin purse. She didn't usually keep much on hand, but today Marvel-Anne had asked her to stop by the butcher's and buy a roast for supper, so she'd left the house with extra money. A prime cut of beef would have to be forsaken; they'd have to settle for chops tonight. “I'm buying the paint for him. I feel bad that his shop's been vandalized. A good neighbor should lend support, so I'd like to do this.” She thought, but didn't add,
It will make me feel better, since I shorted him out of an even half of the warehouse.