“Thanks. It would help if you’d marry me…” He stood too close, pressing his body against hers, lowering his head, ready to claim a kiss.
“No, Joe.” She stepped away from him. Alarm built pressure in her chest. He meant it this time. She was sure. All she felt was a sense of being trapped in this room with him. “You are just tired and alone, and lonely. Me marrying you won’t help this financial crisis.” She retreated toward the door, nearly tripping over a stack of books on the floor.
“But you’d help the lonely part. I’d cope better. The girls love you. The courts…” He followed her.
Her breathing became panicky. The room was too small. He left no space between them. “Joe, you and Monica are going to have to work out custody on your own. Outside of court. Talk to the social workers at child welfare. Monica deserted them when they were tiny and needed a mom most. She might be better able to cope now, but you are the only real parent they know. Talk to Monica and work out a fair visitation. When you’ve done that, you can talk to me again about marriage. Not before.”
Dusty held her head high and turned to go, masking the quivering fear in her belly. She had to face the real possibility that he might be serious and she had to examine her own feelings, her own need to hide from the emotional and physical intimacies of marriage.
For once she resisted the urge to run down to the basement and hide. Instead she took up residence behind her computer screen and started searching the Internet. She had to find an alternate venue for the Masque Ball. Now. The likelihood of stopping or delaying the logging of The Ten Acre Wood looked highly unlikely.
Half an hour later she slapped the desk beside the keyboard. “Dammit, we moved the Ball from all of these rental locations because they are too small and expensive!”
“Ms. Carrick?” Meggie asked from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, Meggie. I’m just upset.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before. Not even the time the four year old went potty on the upstairs carpet.”
“Oh.”
“I had an idea when I started filling out an application for the community college,” Meggie said hesitantly, almost as if embarrassed to let Dusty know she applied or that she might have an idea beyond makeup and fashion. “Maybe if we offered them a percentage of the take, they’d let us hold the Ball on campus. They’ve got a really nice arboretum and rose garden for the botany and forestry students to practice on. And I think there’s a cement circle there for the dancers.”
Dusty felt like smacking her head against the desk. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re stressed.” Meggie shrugged. “There’s another tour group gathering. I’ll take it while you make some phone calls.” She dashed off to the front of the museum.
Just as Dusty reached for the phone, it rang. She stared at it a moment as if an alien being interrupted her train of thought. Should she answer it or get Joe to call the college on the other line?
The insistent jangle stopped abruptly.
“Ms. Carrick, Mr. Wheatland wants to talk to you,” M’velle called from somewhere in the maze of rooms.
Dusty bit her lip in hesitation. So much easier to let social contacts slide around her than deal with life. Then she reached for the receiver, determined to break a lifetime of habits that led to greater and greater isolation.
“Good afternoon, Hay.” She smiled while she spoke, a trick a college professor encouraged her to try. It worked. She really was pleased to hear from him.
“I hate to do this, but I’m afraid I’ll be a little late picking you up this evening. I’m stuck at the office until seven. I’ll understand if you want to cancel our date.” He sounded anxious and sad.
Relief warred with disappointment. She really had enjoyed her date with Hay. They had a lot of common interests. Especially the history of the town.
“Seven is fine. Why not pick me up at home instead of the museum.”
“You trust me enough to give me your address?” His voice brightened with surprise and delight.
“Of course.” She rattled off the address and phone number. “What did you have in mind?”
“Hot dogs from a street vendor and a walk along the river promenade. I want to see some of the pioneer landmarks we talked about last time. Wear comfortable shoes.”
Hot Dogs? Nonorganic, processed meat from dubious sources? She remembered the smell of the grilling staple of the American diet and her mouth watered. She didn’t have to make a regular habit of eating them, but she should try them at least once. In the name of research, of course.
“If we start at seven, we only have about an hour of daylight.”
“Oh. Well, then, we’ll just have to finish off the tour another night. I really want to see you again. As often as you’ll put up with me.”
“I’d like that.”
“Idiot,” Chase admonished himself. “I could have walked Dusty back to the museum, maybe held her hand the whole way. Maybe asked her out.” A couple of weeks ago that might have felt like a strange thing to want to do: date his best friend’s sister. Not today.
What had changed?
When had he begun to love her as more than his best friend’s sister?
He knew the instant. After nearly a year of treatment and isolation, the doctors declared Dusty cured. But her parents, and Dick, had the ingrained habit of obsessive hygiene and natural diet. Chase was allowed into the house, but only after removing shoes and washing his hands thoroughly. His sisters had given up trying to meet Mrs. Carrick’s exacting specifications. Chase still tried. He and Dick were in the living room… excuse me, parlor… horsing around, practicing wrestling moves.
Dusty sat in the bowed window seat beneath the turret. She stared emptily out the rain-streaked panes of glass holding a pink jewelry box with a ballerina that twirled to a tinny and repetitive bit of music. She wound it up again and again until the noise grated on Chase’s nerves and made him angry.
He grabbed the box from her. She lunged to regain it, lost her balance, and fell.
Chase dropped the box to catch her. His stockinged feet slid on the hardwood floor, and he missed. A bruise appeared on her knees almost immediately. Guilt flashed through him. Tenderly he picked her up and carried her to the kitchen so that Dick could apply ice and treat her like a precious jewel.
That’s what she was, a precious jewel who needed protection.
But, dammit, she also needed to learn to stand up for herself. If she’d yelled at him or cried that he’d destroyed her treasured music box, he’d have gotten over it. But no, she forgave him and tucked the box away beneath the window seat, never to be taken out again.
Chase paced the police department offices, avoiding the ubiquitous paperwork and the ache in his chest for depriving Dusty of something special.
Through the high window of his own cubicle, he caught a glimpse of Haywood Wheatland. The blond stranger walked rapidly away from the City Hall portion of the antique courthouse building along Main Street toward First Avenue, all the while talking into a cell phone. Phelma Jo, his boss, had her offices on the river side of First near the Amtrak station. A big glass-andsteel, ostentatiously modern building shaped like the prow of a ship thrusting its nose, or snubbing it, into downtown. The first four floors of the monstrosity held offices for a dozen or more high-end businesses. Phelma Jo had the entire fifth floor. Then four floors of pricey condos with Phelma Jo’s penthouse on the tenth.
Her errand boy undoubtedly ran back and forth between the office and the courthouse a dozen times a day, keenly observing everything for Phelma Jo. Gathering gossip like Mabel’s Pixies?