Five Brides (30 page)

She had gotten halfway through sorting the morning mail when he strolled in. He removed his hat and smiled at her, bringing a wave of relief.

“I daresay,” he began. He stopped as she looked into his eyes, knowing full well they begged him for anything that might quench her discomfort. Even if it was bad news.

He cleared his throat, shutting the door behind him and then walking to her desk. “I daresay that your work is beyond what I imagined it would be.” He smiled.

A rush of air blew from her lungs. “Really?” she asked, pressing her hand against her chest.

“Miss Christenson . . .” He paused, looking over to his office door, which she’d left open not five minutes earlier. “Can you come into my office, please? Let’s talk for a moment about . . . well, what I see as your future.”

Magda stood so quickly she almost stumbled, then—at Mr. Cole’s insistence—walked ahead of him into the room, already bright with sunlight and permeated by the rich aroma of brewed coffee.

“Please sit in one of the chairs,” he said, indicating one of the two across from his desk.

She pointed to the wet bar. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked. “It’s ready.”

He dropped his briefcase onto the desk. “I’d like that. Make one for yourself as well.”

She bit back a smile, forcing herself to take on a wholly professional stance, even as she placed his cup of coffee in front of him.

Magda took her seat, her cup rattling in its saucer. She took a deep breath followed by a slow sip of coffee, then sighed. “So, you liked it, Mr. Cole?”

He took a sip of his own coffee as he raised an index finger. “First,” he said after swallowing, “can we drop the ‘Mr. Cole’ business? I know it’s professional, and I appreciate it. I do, but—” he took a moment to pull the manila envelope holding her manuscript from his briefcase—“I think you and I are about to become more than just boss and secretary.” He blushed at his own words. “I don’t mean that disrespectfully.”

Magda smiled, hoping it looked natural. “Mr.—Barry. I have spent a lot of time on that manuscript, and . . .” She gulped back a giggle. “Hearing that you like it means so much to me. More than I can say.”

“What do you hope to do with this, Magda? And may I call you by your given name?”

Magda blinked back tears. Everything she had hoped for . . . everything she had dreamed of . . . right here, coming from the mouth of a man she admired and respected. “Yes, sir. Of course you may.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but as he did the phone on Magda’s desk rang. “Oh, dear,” she said. She stood, placing her cup of coffee on his desk. “I’ll be right back.” She dashed
into her office to answer the call. Thirty seconds later, she had placed the caller on hold and poked her head into Barry’s office. “It’s Mr. VanMichaels.”

Barry sighed in obvious disappointment. He stood, reaching for the phone, but without pressing the line button. “Magda?” he asked as she turned to leave.

“Yes, sir?”

“Ahhh—tell you what. This day isn’t going to get any better, I’m afraid.”

She’d looked at his calendar earlier. He spoke the truth; that much was for sure. “Yes, sir.”

“How about if you and I grab something to eat? Tonight after work? I’d suggest lunch but . . .” He pointed to the desk calendar. “I’m already booked.”

The joy she’d felt not sixty seconds earlier dissipated at the sound of his words. A married man, asking her to dinner? Were they all like this? Every man in publishing? Like Harlan had been?
I’ll help you, baby, but first let’s have dinner and . . .
And what? A casting aside of all virtue and goodness?

“Mr. VanMichaels is waiting, Mr. Cole,” she said as professionally as her quaking voice allowed.

Barry Cole appeared genuinely puzzled. “Miss Christenson?”

She closed the door on his question, turning instead to stare at the red blinking light of line one until it stopped.

He’d taken the call.

She opened the desk’s bottom drawer, retrieved her purse, and walked out the door, closing it gently behind her.

The instant Joan walked into the office on Monday morning, Pat Callahan astonished her by leaping onto his desk and shouting, “Top of the morning to you, Joan Hunt!” He flung out his arms and jumped back down, landing in front of his desk. “Is it a grand day or isn’t it?”

Falling back on her father’s Irish brogue, she said, “’Tis, Mr. Callahan. ’Tis.”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Pat encircled her with his powerful arms and swung her around. When he finally stopped, he looked into her upturned face. “I could kiss you, I could. In fact, I think I will.” He planted wet kisses on both cheeks and Joan swerved. “We Callahan men have that effect on women,” he teased.

She pointed to the sofa. “I think I’ll sit for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Pat Callahan was nothing if not vivacious. Full of life and vigor. But she’d never seen him quite so . . . animated. He led her to the cushioned security of the leather couch before darting over to the wet bar. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“But that’s
my
job,” she said, resting her fingertips against the hollow of her throat.

Pat laughed again, loud and raucous. “Consider it my thank-you.”

Joan placed her head in her hands. The sound of coffee sloshing into café-style mugs traveled across the room. She peered through splayed fingers as Pat walked over carrying two cups, curls of steam rising above them. She straightened and smiled, taking the proffered mug from him. “I take it you had a good weekend.”

Pat sat in the same chair he’d occupied during her interview. “Betty didn’t tell you?” For the briefest of moments, a look of concern skipped over his face, then retreated. “Of course she did. You gals have a way of sticking together. Telling each other everything.”

She shook her head. “Not this time.”

Her boss leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He stared at the ceiling. “My
gosh
, Joan, but she’s a keeper.” He intensified his gaze. “Don’t you think she’s a keeper?”

Joan nodded.

Pat bolted up. Then he laughed. “I sound like a high school boy, Joanie. Do you hear me? A high school boy.”

She had to laugh with him. “I suppose that’s what . . .
liking
someone a lot . . . does to you.”

“Liking? No, no, Joan. I’m in love. Didn’t she tell you?” He placed his mug on the coffee table as he stood, then stepped behind his chair. “Thank you, thank you,” he shouted, raising his hands to God before planting them on his hips. “God is good, lassie,” he said, drawing on his own Irish heritage. “God is good.”

“Yes, he is.”

Pat gripped the back of the chair with his long fingers and squeezed. “Ever been in love, Joan?”

She nearly choked on the swig of coffee she’d just taken. “Who,
me?” She shook her head. “No. And not planning on it. At least, no time soon.”

Pat leaned over. “You just haven’t met the right man yet.” He winked. “No broken hearts back in England?”

“Goodness, no,” she said. “Who had time for such frivolity? I’ve kept my focus on work since I was old enough to gather scraps for Mr. Higginbottom’s pigs.”

Pat’s laughter filled the room to all eight of its corners. “Mr.
Who
?”

“That was part of the long version of my story,” she reminded him. “You know, the one you said to skip the day you hired me?” She pointed to the door leading to her outer office. “Speaking of which, I’ve got work waiting for me. . . .”

Pat’s face sobered. He stepped to his desk and, leaning his backside against the front of it, crossed his arms. “Wait. You and Betty both. Such unique women, Joan. Modern. You enjoy working, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to tell you I
don’t
want the husband and the children and the suburban house. But . . .” She sighed, feeling the weight of the times on her shoulders.

“But?”

“You’re right when you say that I
like
working.” She laughed lightly. “Would you want Betty to work? If it went that far, I mean?”

He shook his head. “I can’t say I would. I’d like to think I can provide for my wife and the kids, once there are kids.”

Knowing Betty as well—or as little—as she did, Joan wondered how she’d feel about such a statement. She’d worked hard to reach her position at Hertz. Would she be willing to give it up for love and marriage, even to the charismatic Pat Callahan? “Well,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “I guess we’ll have to wait
and see what life brings.” She shifted again to her father’s brogue. “Won’t we, laddie?”

Pat Callahan roared with laughter again. “We will, lassie. We will.”

Inga had the whole long day ahead of her to sleep. Eat. Listen to music or read a book. A whole long day. Alone.

As soon as quiet had settled in the apartment, she slipped out of bed, slid her feet into her moccasin-style house slippers, and padded into the kitchen wearing only her baby-blue cotton pajamas. The house held a chill, she decided. An unusual chill she didn’t feel when the others were there. Or perhaps Betty had turned the heat down. The first part of November meant that the outside temperatures had dropped drastically from even a couple of weeks before. She crossed her arms tightly as she stepped into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. Once she’d gotten it started, she’d return to the bedroom for her robe.

She had no intention of dressing that day. The whole day she’d spend in her nightclothes. She’d nap and listen to the radio and flip through magazines, but she wouldn’t dress.

Inga ran water into the percolator, then scooped coffee into the basket before pushing the top down and plugging it in. It sighed instantly. Within seconds, the gurgling began. Like clockwork.

She trekked back into the bedroom, pulled her robe from the end of the bed, and shoved her arms into it. She caught sight of herself in the dresser’s mirror and frowned, stepping closer to the reflection.

Did she look different? She raked her hair with her nails—painted strawberry red, the way her supervisor demanded. Look the part, act the part,
be
the part . . .

Her fist came down on the dresser, rattling the crystals in the
small lamps. The trinket boxes shifted. “Oh,” she moaned. “What have I done? What have I done?”

It had been so easy. Too easy. And she’d been such a fool, thinking that Frank would feel for her the way she felt for him. That the “morning after” would hold tender kisses and promises of forever after. Instead, he’d acted like what they’d done the night before was the most casual thing in the world. Another night, another conquest. And instead of talking about their tomorrows—their
years
of happily ever after—he’d scoffed when she mentioned their future.

“What are you talking about?” he’d asked her. “You think
that
was the seal to the deal? Blimey, no. Not out here, sweetheart. If that’s what you thought . . .” And then he’d brightened. “But hey,” he said, throwing his arms wide. “What a ride, huh? We had some fun, didn’t we? Well, didn’t we?”

Inga tied the sash of her robe tight around her waist—tighter than necessary—then returned to the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. Almost warming it. She removed a cup and saucer from the sink’s drainer and poured a cup, nearly to overflowing, then walked into the living room.

Two weeks, she figured. Three at the most. Two weeks and she’d know if her foolishness of one night would cost her a lifetime of regret. She took a long sip of the coffee, nearly spilling it as the door behind her opened.

Inga turned to see her sister marching into the room. “What are you doing home?” she asked.

“I quit my job,” Magda said, her voice filled with defiance. “And I’m never going back.”