by Diana Palmer
She was awakened by a loud rap on her door.
"Up and at 'em, Cuz," Horace called. "I'll tiptoe downstairs and start a pot of coffee. You awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake, I'm awake, you do that," she mumbled into her pillow.
With a shrug, Horace went down the stairs in his blue robe, his feet and legs bare, and started toward the kitchen, yawning. He almost stumbled over the cat, cursed, and started to tell her what he thought about cross-eyed cats who couldn't walk straight, when there came a loud knock on the back door.
He wondered idly who it might be at that hour of the morning, and without thinking clearly about it, he threw open the back door.
There was a man standing impatiently on the other side of it. A big, dark, very strange angry man who took one look at the thin stranger in the robe and, without a single word, threw a pile-driving right cross at the thin jaw.
Horace went down and out for the count with a hard thud. And the big, dark man headed straight for the stairs.
He stopped at the head of them and stared at the room he expected to be occupied. With set lips and flashing eyes he caught the doorknob, whirled it, and threw the door wide open with a slam that shook the walls.
Madeline came straight up in the bed, her eyes dilated, disbelieving, and she looked into a face as hard as rock.
"I left your lover downstairs," he said in a voice like ice. "It didn't take you long, did it, Burgundy?"
Still half asleep, she shook her head as if to clear it. "What are you talking about?" she mumbled.
"That balding excuse for a man in the hall. You're priceless, honey," he said through tight lips, his eyes glittering like silvery fire. "I've been stalked by experts, but you pulled a sack over my eyes. How long did it take you to perfect that innocent act of yours? It's a winner. You damned well ought to be on Broadway with it!"
"Cal, it not..." she began, finally realizing what he was getting at.
"Save it!" he shot at her. "What were you going to do, let me stew for a few days, then come back over with a home baked pie and welcome me back with open arms? Just your style, isn't it? Well, for your information little girl, I didn't stew. You should have held on while you had the chance, you could have been on easy street for life. But right now, you're going to be damned lucky if you don't starve."
She ran her hands through her confused, tousled hair. "What are you talking about?"
"You're fired."
She gaped at him. "I'm...what?" she gasped.
"Fired. Canned. Through." He eyed her slender figure under the covers with a contempt that made her shrink back against the pillows. "Futhermore, little temptress, you're going to be looking for another job for one hell of a long time, because you're leaving my employ without a reference to your name. Tit for tat. At that, it's less than I owe you!"
"What have I done?" she burst out.
"Don't throw that wide-eyed innocent look at me, I'm cured!" His eyes narrowed, his deep voice cut like tempered steel. "By God, no woman makes a fool of me and gets away with it. What did you hope to get out of it, a villa in France or a mink? You almost made it if you'd just stuck it out another day, but you got impatient for a man, didn't you? Did you grit your teeth every time I touched you?"
"Cal?" she whispered incredulously. "You don't think I...?"
"The hell I don't." He glared at her across the room. "You were just like the rest of them, after the golden egg, and I was too damned blind to see it. You're nothing. Just a redheaded little opportunist who saw a good thing and tried to use it. But it wasn't so easy after all, was it, you little tramp. For what it's worth, I was tempted. But even a professional like you can make mistakes, and you're about to learn just how forgiving I am."
"It's not what you think!" she whispered, her eyes pleading with him.
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "More tricks? Save it for a rainy day. I can buy all the women I want, but I'm particular. I don't like second-hand merchandise, even in my mistresses. And I particularly don't like worthless little street-corner tramps like you. You're not worth the powder it'd take to blow you to hell."
She felt the insults as though he'd slapped her across the mouth. All she could do was sit there and take it, and tears welled in her eyes.
He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and tossed them carelessly on the foot of her bed. "For services rendered," he said curtly. "I'll have your severance pay mailed to you, and don't bother working out any notice. You are unemployed, Miss Blainn, as of now. You'll have to find another street corner."
With a glance of utter distaste, he turned and stormed out the door. She slammed her face into her pillow and wept like a whipped child.
Vaguely, she heard footsteps and heard Horace's voice close beside her.
"Cuz, don't. Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize he wouldn't know who I was," he said helplessly. "Cuz, do you want me to go after him and explain?"
"No," she choked. "No! He said things to me that I'll never get over, never forget! I hope...I hope I never have to look at him again. Oh Horace!" she moaned, and the tears fell faster.
He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Look, if anyone should be crying, it's me. What a right cross! My jaw feels like raw meat!"
She turned over and looked at him. His whole lower face was beginning to show the bruise where that powerful fist had connected.
"Oh, Horace, I'm sorry," she whispered tearfully.
"My fault," he shrugged. "I should have ducked. Did he have a hold of some sort on you?"
"He was my boss. That," she pointed toward the green bills, crumpled and strewn on the covers, "is my severance pay, I guess. Of all the vicious, narrow-minded, low-down...!"
"Well, it didn't look exactly proper, did it?" he asked. "And from what Brenda told me, the two of you were...."
"Just finish putting the coffee on while I get dressed," she said trying to wipe the tears away. "I've got to think about what I'm going to do. Don't look so miserable, Horace. It isn't the end of the world. It's just the predictable end of a not-so-beautiful friendship."
Chapter 8
She dressed as if she were a zombie, her mind on the fiery brutality she'd suffered—on that beast next door! The things he'd said, the names he'd called her made her shudder with hurt and rage.
To fire her over a misunderstanding—had he really thought so little of her that he could believe she'd take a lover the day after she said good bye to him? Did he know so little about her? Her eyes closed on a moan of pure anguish.
And where would she go? Jobs were scarce right now. There wasn't any rent to worry about, since she owned the house; but she had a car payment coming up and utilities to pay, and only a meager amount of savings in the bank.
Her eyes went back to the wad of notes on the bed. With anger-inspired haste, she wrapped them in a plain sheet of paper, addressed an envelope to Cal, stuffed the disguised money into it and stamped it. She'd mail that back to him today. He could give it to Bess, 'for services rendered.' She choked back the tears as she smoothed her yellow sundress and dragged herself down the stairs moodily.
"Well, made any decision?" Horace asked quietly. He was already dressed in his gray business suit. He looked very dignified, every inch a lawyer in his fine feathers.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat wearily down at the breakfast bar.
"I've got enough in the bank to pay the bills for a month or so," she said. "And I'm still owed a vacation that I'll never get. I think I'll pay Uncle Fred and Aunt Johnnie that visit now, just for a few days, until I can get myself back together. I need to lick my wounds," she said with a watery smile.
"You cared very much, didn't you, little Madeline?" he asked kindly.
She nodded, biting her lip as the tears welled over in her eyes. "I'll get over it," she whispered. "Life does go on, I learned that when Phillip died. However much it hurts for a little while, life goes on."
"I can't say how sorry...."
"Horace, we'd already parted company," she said gentl
y. "You didn't cause anything that wouldn't have happened anyway."
"I wonder why he came over here?" he asked shrewdly.
She shrugged. "Probably to say good bye again. God, he's good at it!"
"It was pure temper, you know. He probably didn't mean half of what he said."
"What he said was enough." She stood up. "I'm going to pack a few things. I'll drop Cabbage off at the vet on my way out of town. And I'll mail that," she said angrily, tossing the envelope full of money on the bar next to her half-full cup.
❧
Within an hour, she'd waved Horace goodbye, packed the car, boarded Cabbage at the vet, locked up the house and was on her way. She couldn't help noticing that the black Mercedes was gone from next door...or that the shiny red Jaguar was back once again. At least, she thought bitterly, Cal wouldn't be lonely now. Bess was home.
❧
Fred and Johnnie Blainn had a small farm on the outskirts of Gainseville, and it bordered on Lake Lanier. It was literally a two-story outfit, and Fred kept a couple of dozen heard of cattle, and despite his sixty-eight years managed to keep active. The farm was a far cry from the several-hundred acre spread he once had, but his age was prohibitive, as much as he hated to admit it.
Madeline loved the big white house on the sloping hill, nestled in trees so big they almost covered it. Mostly, she liked the porch swing where she could sit and look over the pasture and, farther, to the busy highway far beyond Fred's gates. She could breathe here. And if her father's brother guessed that her sudden visit was more than an urge for a few days' vacation, he was kind enough not to pry.
❧
The days were long, but the nights were ten times longer. She couldn't close her eyes without seeing Cal as she had that last time, his face dark with anger, his silvery eyes blazing at her. No matter how she tried, she couldn't forget the things he'd said....
As if sensing the need to keep her mind occupied, Fred and Johnnie planned short trips around the area and put all their energies into making her visit pleasant. But none of it was enough. The hurt went too deep.
❧
"Maddy, what are you hiding from?" Uncle Fred asked her one evening while they sat on the porch steps listening to the crickets.
"A man," she replied quietly. "Horace will probably tell you all about it when he comes home, but I can't...1 just can't."
He ran his hand through his gray hair with a sigh. "Well, there isn't much I can give you in the way of advice except this. No matter how far you run or how fast, the problem you thought you left behind will be two steps ahead of you, waiting. All you're doing is giving it new surroundings."
She lowered her eyes to the sharp, jagged pattern of light on the yard, coming from the window. "I know. I guess I knew from the beginning. I was hurt, though, and I needed someone to run to." She leaned her head against his thin shoulder. "Thanks for letting me run to you."
He patted her head. "Any time, Maddy, any time. Can I help?"
She laughed softly. "Only I can help, now. I've got to start looking for another job, and there's no time like the present. I'm going home in the morning."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Staying here can only make it harder for me." She toyed restlessly with the zipper of her light windbreaker. "Funny, I don't know what I'm going to do. I've had that job for five years. I'm so used to it...oh, well," she sighed, "maybe it was time for a change. Comingin?" she asked, standing.
"No. I enjoy the crickets more than television. Good night, honey," he added on a smile.
" 'Night."
❧
She started back to Atlanta on a full stomach. Johnnie had insisted on cooking a huge breakfast, and Madeline felt her stomach straining at the seams all the ways back home.
It was the thing she dreaded most, going home to an empty house with that blonde next door and Cal visiting her there.
Maybe it would be a good idea to let Horace have the house after all and find an apartment somewhere. The memories would choke her from now on. Every time she went in the kitchen, she'd see Cal sitting at the breakfast bar. Every time she walked down to the little stream at the back of the property, she'd remember picnics there. She sighed, yes, maybe it would be better, after all. Or...would that be running away, too?
But the first order of business was to get another job—without a reference. What business was going to even talk to her about a job without knowing where she'd worked before. And if she lied, if she said she hadn't worked anywhere, how would she explain being idle for the past five years? Every idea she came up with seemed to get more and more muddled as she thought it out, until she gave up trying. Let McCullum do his worst! She'd get a job, if she had to take one as a dishwasher!
With her mouth set in a stuborn line, she turned into her driveway. At least the red Jaguar was gone, though after a glance next door. She stopped at the front door long enough to unload the crammed mailbox, and wearily unlocked the door and went inside.
She didn't even bother to get her luggage out of the car, she was to tired. She slumped down on the sofa, missing Cabbage, who still had to be picked up from the vet's. Idly, she thumbed through the mail, though the usual assortment of junk mail until she reached an envelope with McCallum Corporation in the upper left-hand corner.
She opened it angrily to find two weeks' salary and a hastily scrawled note with Brenda's signature: 'Maddy, please call me, I'm worried about you.'
With a tiny smile, she put the envelope aside. Bless Brenda, she's call her tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was a good night's sleep and the morning want ads.
Light glared against the curtains, and she ignored it as she went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Probably it was the blonde coming home, and she couldn't have cared less.
But when a knock came at the back door, while she was filling the pot with water, it startled her. She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and hesitantly went to the back door, flicking on the carport light quickly.
It was McCallum, a very disheveled, very worn McCallum who looked as if he hadn't slept in days.
With a mixture of anger, hurt, rage, and curiousity, she unfastened the door and let him in.
"Yes, Mr. McCallum?" she asked quietly, her tone very businesslike, cold, carefully disciplined.
He studied her face with narrow, hooded eyes, their color disguised so that they looked dark.
"I'd like to talk to you," he said casually, not a hint of emotion betrayed by his expression or his tone.
"In here, then." She led him into the living room, reluctantly remembering kinder times when they'd have talked over coffee at the breakfast bar and laughed. This stilted atmosphere was so alien, it made her want to cry instead.
She sat down on the sofa, and he took the armchair across from her, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"You've been away five days," he said quietly.
She shrugged, amazed that he'd even noticed. "I went to visit my aunt and uncle in Gainesville."
His eyes narrowed. "There's no need to cover up any more. I told you once that your love life was none of my business."
She gaped at him. "What?"
"I don't give a damn if you went away with your lover. Is that clear enough?" he growled.
Her eyes widened. "Mr. McCallum..." she began gathering anger along the way as the meaning penetrated.
He waved the words aside with a sweep of one big hand. "What the hell does it matter? I came here to see what arrangements you'd made about another job."
She lifted her face proudly. "I'm doing just fine, thanks. A reference isn't always a necessity," she added.
"Which means, in plain English, you haven't found anything."
She dropped her eyes to the carpet, to his highly polished black shoes. "I'll get a job washing dishes if I have to," she said quietly.
"I don't doubt it, you're stubborn as all hell," he replied flatly.
She looked at her lap, not at him. "Why are you here? I've got a lot to
do tomorrow, and I'm very tired," she said in a subdued tone, so unlike her usual spirited one that he sat staring at her for a long time before he replied.
"Come back to work."
She stared at him. "After why you called me, after the things you said, you expect me to...!" she exploded.
"I've got a temper," he interrupted, his voice as calm and commanding as ever. "You saw it because I had a totally different concept of you, worlds away from the woman I saw here that morning. So it's none of my business, all right, I'll buy that. But you told me a lie, and, damn you, I swallowed it." His slate eyes narrowed. "I don't like cheap tricks, not when they're played at my expense. You could have leveled with me at the beginning. I wouldn't have thought any less of you. Not even if you'd said no to me when you said yes to every other man. Was it so impossible to be honest with me?"
Her spine stiffened. "The same way you were honest with me, Mr. McCallum?" she asked with an icy smile.
He clasped his hands between his knees with a heavy sigh. "The unflapped Miss Blainn," he observed. "Oh, yes, I heard all about it. Your reputation is carved in stone at the office. Brenda's been a veritable ongoing documentary about your life. I didn't know you at all, did I, little girl?"
"That works both ways." She toyed with the hem of her slacks. "Why do you want me to come back to work?"
"Because with Richards gone, you're the only person who call fill in the blanks for me on our present domestic operations," he replied.
"On the condition that you'll give me a recommendation," she replied quietly, "I'll come back on a temporary basis."
"A month should do it," he told her. "And let's get it clear at the beginning this time that I'm asking you back into my life in a business capacity only."
She felt her dark eyes burning as they met his. "You did get the envelope back, I hope?" she asked.
He looked briefly uncomfortable. "I got it."
"If I'd thought about it, I'd have added ten cents worth of interest."