Mail-Order Millionaire (13 page)

Ariel blinked. “Where did you sleep?”

“In my bed.”

“But what happened, before you went to sleep?”

“You mean after he carried me up to bed?”

Ariel gasped. “He carried you up the stairs? That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. What happened next?”

“He put me down on my bed, and...” She lifted her gaze over Ariel’s head. “Oh, hello, Mr. Northwood.”

Ariel choked with suppressed laughter. “Don’t try that one on me, it won’t work. There’s no one here but us and I’m not leaving until I’ve heard the whole story from...”

“Excuse me, ladies. May I have a word with you, Miranda?” The raspy voice of the owner of Green Mountain Merchants caused Ariel to rise out of her chair like a marionette on strings. Turning a bright fuchsia, the exact color of her sweater, she swept her half-eaten sandwich off the console and made as graceful an exit as possible.

Miranda watched her go, the urge to laugh conflicting with the urge to cry. She hadn’t seen Mr. Northwood for days. Why now, when she was feeling so awful, and so behind in her work?

“I understand you’ve had an accident.” His narrow, flint-gray eyes skimmed her bandaged foot stretched out on the chair in front of her.

“It’s nothing, really. Just a little sprain,” she said, forcing a cheerful smile.

“If it prevents you from working...”

“It doesn’t,” she assured him.

“Feel free to use your sick days, three of which have accrued so far, I believe.”

“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary.”

“Then you feel ready to buckle down, to solve the various problems that are part and parcel of our business, so to speak?”

“Oh, I do, I definitely do.” What was the man getting at? Or was he just making the rounds, seeing who was eating lunch at their desks and who wasn’t?

“Good.” He pressed his gnarled fingers together and cracked his knuckles. Miranda winced. “Then perhaps you can explain this discrepancy to me.” He spread several blue order forms in front of her on her desk, all of which were orders for fleece-lined all-weather boots to be sent to one Maxwell Carter in care of the Mount Henry Weather Station, Mount Henry, New Hampshire. “Three sets of boots sent to the same party, but only one bill sent, and only one bill paid.” He waved the invoice in front of her.

The words on the paper swam in front of her eyes, but she didn’t have to see them to know what they said. Explain it? “Yes, of course. If you’ll give me a few minutes to track it down. It’s just a little mix-up, a slight misunderstanding.” She shuffled the papers in front of her, waiting for him to leave so she could put her head on her desk and burst into tears. Because the truth was there was no mix-up or misunderstanding. There were two pairs of boots missing, gone, disappeared from the face of the earth and nobody was going to pay for them.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said, “waiting for your explanation. As soon as you solve this ‘little mix-up’ let me know.” After receiving another reassuring smile from Miranda, Mr. Northwood padded away as silently as he’d arrived. Instead of bursting into tears, Miranda opened her bottom file drawer and pulled out file after file folder, looking into them for some clue and putting them back again.

The rest of her department came back from lunch. Mavis set a package from the pharmacy in front of her. “It was at the front desk,” she said. Miranda nodded but she scarcely looked up. She called the shipping department. They insisted they’d sent the first pair by overnight mail, and she knew she’d sent the others herself. Five o’clock came and the other women got ready to leave but Miranda wasn’t any closer to an answer than she’d been at noon.

Mavis tossed her scarf over her shoulder. “Miranda, give up. I tell you, I spent hours trying to track down those boots when your friend first complained about them a million years ago. They’re gone, believe me. Old man Northwood’s just going to have to stuff it.”

“I know, I know. I just have one more place to look....”

“Need a ride home?”

“No, thanks. I’ll catch a ride with Howard. He goes my way.”

Mavis arched one eyebrow. “Howard or that marvelous hunk who brought you in this morning?”

Miranda shook her head. “He’s gone back to New Hampshire.”

“Too bad.”

The office was eerily quiet after Mavis left, but her words reverberated through the empty room. “Too bad, too bad, too bad.” Was that the real reason she was postponing going home, that there was no one to go home to? How ridiculous. It occurred to her that maybe Mr. Northwood had gone, too. She limped to the employee entrance and peered through the dusk into the parking lot. Mr. Northwood’s car was still there and one other, Max’s sedan. Her heart jolted. She leaned against the door, not knowing whether to run and hide or open the door and call his name.

So she did neither. Out of the winter twilight he came up the steps without her calling him and looked at her through the double pane of glass that separated them. His hair was dusted with snow, his breath came in puffs of vapor and his eyes bored into hers, those piercing blue eyes that turned her knees to jelly. She turned the doorknob and he stepped in.

“I thought you went home,” she said.

“I did. I picked up some things and I came back. I can give you a ride home.”

She staggered backward. He’d gone to New Hampshire and come back to give her a ride home? It didn’t make sense. Maybe it didn’t have to. He was here and she was glad to see him. Glad to hear his voice, glad to feel the warmth that his presence generated.

“That’s nice,” she said, “but I can’t go yet. Not until I figure out what happened to your lost boots.”

“My lost boots? Don’t worry about it, it’s my problem.”

“No, it’s Mr. Northwood’s problem, because there are two pairs of missing boots and they haven’t been paid for.”

“I’ll pay for them.”

“That’s not fair. You didn’t get them.”

“They’ll turn up,” he assured her. “I have faith in the U.S. Post Office. I read the other day a man in Texas just got a letter from his nephew who fought in World War II. It was dated 1943.”

“But if they turn up you’ll have three pairs of the same boots.”

“That’s fine with me. I can always use them.”

“Oh, Max.” How could anybody be so good-looking and so nice? She felt her knees buckle.

He grabbed her under the arms and held her upright. “What are you doing on your feet? Did you take your medicine?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been too busy.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll go tell Mr. Northwood.”

He waited for her in the employee lunchroom, wondering how he was going to tell her he was planning to stay all week. He had his bag in his trunk and nothing to do this week. Normally he’d repair broken equipment in his apartment in town and wait for Monday. He knew he should have another life, but he didn’t want one. It made sense to him to spend the week helping her process sap. She couldn’t do it; he could. He liked the farm, the trees and the snow and the quiet nights in that four-poster bed where he lay trying not to think about her.

The whole house with its peeling paint, sagging furniture and old-fashioned cook stove wove a spell around him like a cocoon. Maybe she didn’t feel it, the house was her home and she was used to it. But he’d never had a home of his own. He didn’t need one. A home was too much work, too distracting and too demanding. Like a woman, come to think of it. The advantages of having either one hadn’t entered his mind for a long time.

She came back with her navy blue anorak over her shoulders, accentuating her soft honey-blond hair. There was a look on her face he couldn’t decipher. It was partly relief mixed with anticipation and a touch of anxiety. What could he say to dispel the anxiety and encourage the anticipation of spending the week with him? He’d promise her anything she wanted.

No more kisses or trips across the hall to her bedroom. He’d already promised himself that much. He didn’t trust himself any more unless he restricted himself to all work and no play. She’d be relieved to hear that. Or would she be more relieved to see him drive away into the sunset once and for all?

Even if she didn’t want him around, she might put up with him just to get the sap processed. He thought he could count on that. And that was all he wanted. When he pulled up in front of the farmhouse, she turned to face him. It made his heart turn over to see the fatigue lurking at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to soothe the hurt away, but he kept his hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

“Sure you don’t want to take some of those sick days?” he asked.

She stiffened. “You and Mr. Northwood. No, I don’t. I’m not sick.” She put her hand on his arm. “Max, don’t tell me you drove all the way back here just to give me a ride home.”

He smiled into her dark, troubled eyes. “No, I didn’t. I was hoping you’d invite me to dinner. I want to talk to you.”

Tiny worry lines formed between her eyebrows, then she gave him a tentative smile. “Come on in, but I’m afraid the cupboard’s bare.”

He opened the front door for her. “I was thinking about making an omelet. I picked up some mushrooms along the way.”

“I’ll help,” she said, throwing her jacket on the couch.

“You break the eggs while I empty the buckets and feed the horses,” he said. And he left before she could protest.

The buckets were overflowing by the time he got to them. He left the sap in the shack, where he planned to take charge of the boiling tomorrow when she went off to work at Green Mountain. If she went off to work. If she let him stay.

When he got back to the kitchen, he took over, impressing her by flipping the omelet high in the air before it settled back in the pan. He was no good at small talk so they ate in silence while he waited for the right moment to break the news to her.

“How’s your foot?” he asked as she ate the last mushroom on her plate.

“Fine,” she answered automatically. “What did you want to talk about?”

“What are you going to do about the syrup?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you can’t do it all, work in town and work here. You never could.”

Her eyes blazed. “I could, too.”

He ignored her outburst. “With your foot you shouldn’t do anything but stay home and let it heal.”

“You’re not the doctor.”

“I’ve seen lots of accidents, from skiing and mountain climbing. I know what torn ligaments are. I’ve even torn a few myself.”

“And what did you do, sit quietly and let them heal?”

He leaned forward across the table. “I did when I broke my leg. I didn’t enjoy it, but I did it.”

“I’m going to work, Max. I have to. I can’t afford to take sick leave. As for the syrup...” She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll do it. I saw what you did in the shack. I can haul it and boil it down.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Now came the hard part. How to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself. “I enjoy the work. And if you’re worried about what happened last night happening again, well it won’t. I guarantee it.”

A slow flush crept up her neck. “I wasn’t... I didn’t... I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Say yes.”

“If I do, how can I repay you? I mean seriously.”