Roberta Leigh - Love in Store

by Roberta Leigh

"This isn't very democratic," she commented, half to herself, half to anyone who was listening.

  "You think each of us should be sitting at one or other of the tables?" It was Zachary who took up her remark.

  "Don't you?"

  "No. We tried it one year and it was like a blight on the whole party." He glanced over his shoulder at the noisy crowd. "The staff like to know we're giving a party for them—it makes them feel on equal terms with us—but the moment we get too close, the quality disappears and we are 'Mr. Zachary' and 'Mr. Larry' again. It's much better if we keep our distance."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way."

  His tone lowered. "As I said once before, you rarely do think before you speak."

  She colored. "And you always do?"

  "It's safer."

  "Do you always play for safety?"

  "It's a foolish man who gambles when there's no need."

  "Have you never taken a chance?"

  "Are you asking me or tempting me?"

  His stare was so intent that she quickly lowered her eyes to her plate, spooning up her ice cream with a relish she did not feel.

  "Would you care for some more?" he asked agreeably.

  "No thanks. I've had quite enough."

  His smile was sudden and surprising, showing strong white teeth. He was handsome, she thought involuntarily. How odd that she had not noticed it before. But then she had never seen him smile before. Until now he had always scowled at her.

  "My offer of more ice cream was a genuine one," he said. "You looked as if you were enjoying it."

  "You didn't enjoy yours." She pointed to his plate, where the ice cream had already melted.

  "I haven't got a sweet tooth."

  Her mouth opened and closed and his eyes gleamed. "I'm glad you thought better of that, Samantha."

  "How did you know what I was going to say?"

  "On your past record I'm sure it wasn't going to be something complimentary!"

  She half looked away from him. He would be surprised if he knew she hadn't intended to be rude. "It's too nice a day to quarrel, don't you think?"

  "If you say so."

  "Then let's bury the hatchet."

  "Not in my head, I hope!"

  "Don't tempt me or I might forget my good intentions!"

  "I'm not frightened of you, Samantha. Place the hatchet where you will."

  He bent his head forward and she stared at his black hair, shiny and well kept. His neck was well muscled and there was a whiter line of skin where his collar pulled away from it. She half raised her hand to touch it and then drew it back, glad he had not seen the gesture.

  "Have you dropped something, Zachary?"

  "Samantha dropped her knife," Zachary said, straightening and regarding her without the vestige of a smile before turning to Marie, who was on his other side.

  After lunch, everyone was free to do as they liked. Some played tennis on the hard court that lay on the east side of the house, others continued to swim, while many preferred to stroll on the lawns, enjoying the sunshine. Tea and cakes were served at four and then a quartet of young musicians began to play in one corner, where a floor had been set up. Immediately a crowd gathered and started to dance and Larry regretfully left Samantha in order to do his duty on the floor. Samantha, seeing Fred from Packaging bearing down on her, skillfully darted behind some bushes. She would not be able to remain hidden here for long and, still using the shrubs as a barrier, retreated along them until she reached the house.

  At once she felt the past closing in on her. The hall was furnished in exactly the way she had remembered it, and there was still the same atmosphere of quiet luxury which she had always associated with this house. The furniture was in the best English tradition and there were fine Constable paintings and Turner watercolors on the walls. She would have liked to wander around the downstairs rooms and revive old memories but, telling herself that it was now Zachary's house and she had no right to do it, she went across the hall to the glass door at the other end, expecting it to lead her into another part of the garden.

  Instead she found herself in a square patio she had never seen before. It was Portuguese in atmosphere, with a gaily tiled floor and a white, wrought iron table and chairs set in one corner. A growth of vines sprouted up one wall and along some overhead poles, while against the south wall a peach tree flourished. Farther along this wall, half hidden by a mass of leaves, she saw a narrow wooden door and, thinking it would bring her into the garden, she opened it.

  Her surprise this time was much stronger, for she found herself in a workroom. Curiosity kept her there and she moved in for a better look at it. Everything was clean and tidy, even the sawdust on the floor was in a neat pile. Tools were clipped on a large square of pegboard and expensive electricial equipment—far more elaborate than the usual handyman's do-it-yourself gear— was ranged on a workmanlike bench. She bent to examine one elaborate metal machine but could not make out its function. As she straightened she saw that a table was in the process of being made. The base was on the floor but the top was almost in front of her. It was circular and some two feet in diameter and was a superb example of elaborate marquetry. Beside it lay a pencil sketch showing what the table would be like when it was finished. She bent again to touch its surface, her fingers carefully exploring the wood. What an intricate pattern of different veneers there was. This was truly a labor of love.

  There was a sound behind her and she turned guiltily, tensing as she saw Zachary.

  "I came in here by accident." Her voice sounded nervous and she took a deep breath. "I was looking for a quieter part of the garden."

  "I thought you would be enjoying yourself dancing."

  "Not with flat-footed Fred." He looked blank and she explained: "An old friend of mine from Packaging. He hasn't seen me since I moved from the department and I didn't like the gleam in his eye."

  "I take it you aren't hankering to return to Packaging?" Zachary said gravely.

  "I think you can safely say that!" Not wishing to talk about Farrell's, she waved her arms around her. "This is a marvelous workshop. Does it belong to one of your men?"

  "It's mine."

  She was staggered. "You don't mean you made this?" She pointed to the table and he nodded and came over to stand beside it. He put his hand on the top and she saw how well-shaped the fingers were, the nails immaculate and cut short. The extension of his arm pulled back the cuff of his shirt to disclose a fine sprinkling of hairs on his wrist. Quickly she looked at the table.

  "I can't believe you do all this work."

  "I promise you I do. It's my hobby."

  "It's a very unusual one."

  "I find it relaxing." He rubbed the surface of the table. "Cutting all the different woods, putting in the minute pieces and making sure they don't break, stops me from thinking of anything else."

  "It still sounds like hard work to me."

  "It's a different kind of work. Wood doesn't answer back and if it's wrong, I can always redo it."

  "Have you made any other things?"

  "A nest of tables and a spinet."

  "I'd love to see them."

  "I'll show you."

  She was touched by his eagerness. He was like a little boy showing off his toys. She followed him back into the house and across the hall to a room that was obviously a small sitting room where he spent a great deal of time, for there were magazines and papers left haphazardly on the table in front of the chesterfield. The spinet stood in the corner and she gave an exclamation of pleasure as she saw it.

  "It's beautiful." She bent to examine it carefully. "It's a genuine antique."

  "The top isn't. It took me six months to make it."

  "I can believe it. You have used the most unusual woods."

  "Ten different kinds. In the table I've nearly finished, there are fifteen varieties."

  "How long have you been working on that?"

  "Six months. But it's almost done."

  "Just a bit
more nailing and screwing!"

  He shuddered. "I can see you don't know how antiques are made."

  She giggled. "You can't make an antique. It either is, or it isn't."

  "I'm making it the way antiques were made." His smile was slight but genuine. "You won't find a nail or a screw in anything I have done. It's all tongue-and-grooved."

  "Oh dear," she said plaintively. "I always seem to say the wrong thing to you."

  "But rather charmingly this time."

  Her head turned quickly toward him and her blond hair swung forward. "That's the first compliment you have paid me, Zachary."

  "I've thought of several before now."

  "I would never have guessed." She smiled. "The last few times we've met, you have looked as though you wanted to bite me!"

  His eyes glittered. "That could be a compliment too."

  Her lids lowered and she felt him move toward her.

  "So that's where the two of you are hiding?"

  Marie's voice shattered the delicate atmosphere and Samantha backed toward the fireplace as the girl, followed closely by Larry, came in.

  "The buses are leaving, Zachary," he said. "Time for us to go and wave good-by."

  "I must be off, too," Samantha murmured. "Madame Vonet will be waiting for me."

  "Don't be silly," Larry put up a hand to stop her. "I'll drive you back later. I've made arrangements for us to have dinner here."

  Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced at Zachary.

  "By all means stay, Samantha," he said quietly.

  "That will be lovely." She felt irrationally pleased at the prospect.

  "What time are we going to town, darling?" Marie asked, sinking into an armchair.

  "As soon as the buses have gone," Zachary replied. "We don't have to be in town before eight."

  "I shall have to go home and change first."

  "That shouldn't take you more than an hour," he teased.

  "You know you'll never give me as long as that. You'll be pounding on the bathroom door after ten minutes."

  Samantha tried not to hear what was being said. She also tried to close her mind to the disappointment she felt at discovering Zachary was not going to be here. She was behaving ridiculously. It would be much more relaxed to be alone with Larry than to make stilted conversation with Zachary and Marie. Yet a moment ago she had not been at all stilted with him. From beneath the fan of her lashes she watched him. He seemed oblivious of her presence and was concentrating entirely on the girl sitting in front of him. All at once he went to the door.

  "Game on, Larry," he called, "you're a Farrell, too."

  Muttering good-naturedly, Larry followed him out. Samantha wanted to go too but knew it would be too pointed if she did. With an effort she sat down and tried to look nonchalant.

  "It was naughty of you not to tell me who you were when we first met," Marie drawled.

  "I'm working my way through Farrell's to find out what it feels like to be employed there," Samantha said. "At least now I've some idea what a vendeuse has to go through with different customers."

  The smile on Marie's face was stiff. "You don't mince words, do you?"

  "I see no point. No matter what I say to you, you will tell Zachary something different."

  "You're angry with me?"

  "I was," Samantha admitted. "I'm not anymore."

  There was the sound of a revving motor and

  Marie turned her head. "The first bus has gone," she said with satisfaction. "Thank goodness it will soon be over. These parties are such a bore."

  "Why did you bother coming then?"

  "Because Zachary expected it."

  "I hope he appreciates the sacrifice you've made!"

  "I'm sure he does," Marie said, and uncurling herself from the chair, went out.

  Morosely Samantha wandered round the room. Was it too late to tell Larry she had changed her mind and wanted to go back to London? But even if she did, he would still expect her to have dinner with him. It would look too obvious if she tried to pretend she had forgotten she had had another engagement.

  "That's over for another year," Larry said behind her, and she felt his hand on her shoulder as he pulled her back to rest against him. "I'm glad we're staying behind," he murmured into he ear. "Do you know this is the first time I've got you in my home?"

  "It's Zachary's home," she corrected.

  "I still think of it as mine," he said easily. "Anyway, what I meant was that we aren't in a restaurant with people looking at us."

  "You love being looked at by all the women," she said lightly, pulling away from him.

  "There's only one woman I want to look at me," he said, "and that's you."

  Samantha wished she had not agreed to stay here. More than ever she had a presentiment of fear about the evening ahead.

  Zachary and Marie left for London soon after the last departing bus, and Samantha's uneasiness grew at finding herself alone with Larry in a country house miles from London. True, there were servants around, but they were all well trained and did their job and then disappeared out of sight and—worse still—out of earshot. The knowledge was disquieting.

  "Care for a stroll before it gets too cold?" Larry asked.

  She shook her head and settled herself in an armchair by the enormous windows that overlooked the now peaceful garden. Apart from some overturned chairs in the distance, it was difficult to believe that a short while ago the lawns had been teeming with people.

  "I don't know how you could give up your share of this," she said. "It's so beautiful and peaceful here."

  "Country living isn't my scene."

  "You once said you weren't the town type either."

  "I'm not," he agreed. "I prefer the sporting life."

  "Racing cars," she smiled, remembering his hobby. "You surely don't take that seriously?"

  "I take it very seriously. Cars aren't just a passing interest with me. There's more to racing then going round and round a circuit. It's the only real way of testing a car; of finding out how to improve it and if the new ideas you've put into it, will work."

  "Like special tires and new kinds of brakes or suspension?"

  "Something like that." He hesitated momentarily before saying, "I'm working on a way of cutting down oil consumption. All the tests I've done so far, show that it works."

  "That's fabulous. Have you taken it to a car manufacturer?"

  "It would be a waste of time. They'd turn it down."

  "Why?"

  "Because it would mean retooling and that would cost them a fortune."

  "Then how do you hope to sell it?"

  "By putting it into a car of my own design."

  "That would cost a fortune, too."

  Again he hesitated, but this time decided not to pursue the subject and, when he spoke, it was to ask if she wanted to wash before dinner. She accepted the offer and he led her upstairs to a bedroom. The house was not as large as it looked from the outside and had a homely quality about it which she had not remembered. But she had visited it when she was a child and had been overawed by its grandeur. Today she saw it with the eyes of an adult and recognized it as a well-loved and well-lived-in country home. It was hard to see Zachary in this setting until she recollected the workshop and the beautiful rosewood tabletop. A man with the patience to do such intricate work would also enjoy the peace of the countryside.

  When she went downstairs to the drawing room, Larry was waiting for her with a drink. Holding it in her hand she wandered over to the window again. The summer day was ending and the blue sky had turned to purple, softening the horizon and blurring the outlines of the trees.

  "It's beautiful," she whispered.

  "So are you," Larry said softly. "I never realized until I saw you here, how beautiful you are."

  The depth in his voice made her feel uncomfortable. She did not wish to arouse such emotion in him. With a shrug she continued to sip her drink.

  "Beautiful but cool as an ice maiden," he wen
t on, coming to stand beside her. "It's that long fair hair of yours, darling. Do you remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin?" His hands were warm on her shoulders. "The Princess let down her long fair hair and the Prince climbed up it to her bedroom."

  "He climbed up her hair in order to get into the castle and rescue her," Samantha corrected. "Anyway, my hair is short."

  "Spoilsport," he chuckled and pulled her back until her body was resting against his.

  She felt his heart beating fast and tried to appear unconcerned. "Can we go away from the window, Larry? It's getting chilly."

  "Little liar," he teased and led her farther back into the drawing room. "Do you know this is the first time I've been alone with you since I met you? Until now we've always been surrounded by people."

  "The servants are here," she said abruptly.

  "Too far away to hear us."

  "You make that sound ominous."

  "You make it sound as if you're afraid of me. Are you, Samantha?"

  "I will be, if you go on looking at me as if you're getting ready to pounce!"

  He laughed and settled himself in the corner of the settee. Samantha relaxed, too, glad she had managed to change the mood and hoping she would be as successful the next time Larry had the inclination to wax serious. She had professed not to be nervous with him but she had been lying. For all she knew, the servants could have been told to go after they had served dinner, and she would then be entirely alone with Larry.

  Dusk gave way to darkness and Larry lit the candles on the small table where a cold supper had been set for them: asparagus vinaigrette, fresh salmon and cucumber salad, and a bowl of strawberries and cream. There was champagne on ice in a silver bucket and a silver Thermos of coffee was set on the sideboard. It was an ideal supper to partake of with the right man, she thought, and knew with certainty that Larry was not the one. But would the right one ever come along? An image came into her mind—too blurred to be distinct—and she shook her head and pushed it away.

  "If I had met you earlier," Larry said softly, "I don't think I'd have sold my share of the house to Zachary."

  "It's just as well you did. I can't see him giving up his share to you."

  "He offered to do it."

  She hid her surprise at his being so accommodating. "Where would he have gone?"