“Besides,” he said, “everything in here is our product—even if it’s from an earlier era. So the subliminal sales pitch I’m making is that Sticks & Stones products last.”
“It’s awfully subtle,” Joel warned. “I doubt most of our customers would get it.”
“Besides, in this office, marble and glass and extruded aluminum would look out of place.”
“And they wouldn’t go particularly well with the aroma of antique dust, either.”
Whatever Joel thought, the office was perfectly clean. But it did have a unique aroma composed of aged wood, furniture polish and the last remaining hint of old man Brigham’s cigars.
Sloan leaned back, and the oak floorboard beneath the chair’s wheel gave the same comfortable creak it always did. “So what’s so important that you’re waiting for me this morning?”
“I’ve arranged for those two workers we fired, and the union steward, to come in at ten.”
“Fired? I thought you said you’d suspended them.”
Joel shrugged. “It ends up being the same thing. Since they’re not exactly repentant, I expect they’d start their business right up again as soon as they felt safe. And I’ve already talked to the insurance people this morning. They seemed to think the valuation you’ve put on the building is pretty high considering its age, but they agreed to go ahead and increase the limits on the policy, effective today, and send somebody out next week to confirm your estimates.”
Sloan nodded. “They don’t build factories like this anymore. There are beams in this building that are two feet square and span the whole width of the factory floor. Any value we’d put on that wouldn’t be enough. Anything else?”
“I brought the file concerning that complaint I told you about. It’s nonsense, of course, but the customer is pretty steamed and he insisted on talking to you. And I realized after I got home last night that we’d never talked about the outcome of your trip to San Francisco.”
Sloan flipped through the folder Joel handed him. “They didn’t say no.”
“But they didn’t say yes, either?” Joel gave a low whistle. “That’s not good news.”
“Not every sales pitch ends in an immediate sale, Joel.” Sloan’s voice was dry. “Surely you learned that much in business school.”
“But that was a big one. I mean, supplying all the furniture to every branch nationwide of a major new chain of financial service offices…For them to ask you to come to San Francisco to make the pitch and then not say yes…”
“You think they might as well have said a definite no, because that’s what they meant.”
“Well…” Joel hesitated. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think. Now what do we do?”
“We look over the proposal again to be sure it’s the best we can do, and then we let it ride and move on to the next possibility.”
“I guess that gives me my marching orders for the day.” Joel stacked his work and went out.
Sloan picked up a letter opener and tackled the stack of mail on the corner of the desk. But the run-of-the-mill correspondence couldn’t hold his attention.
Joel was right, of course. The lack of a definite answer, especially after a personal presentation, nearly always meant an ultimate refusal. And the San Francisco deal would have been the single largest order Sticks & Stones could hope for all year.
It was a good thing he was experienced enough in the business world not to have counted on that sale. Now that it appeared to have vanished into thin air, Sloan decided, he’d simply start to look for another.
Just as soon as he’d dealt with the suspended employees, soothed the feathers of the offended union representative and figured out how to please the unhappy customer who had surfaced while he’d been away.
As she often did when she felt particularly stressed, Morganna retreated to the miniature room in the late afternoon. Rhythmically kneading polymer clay till it was warm, smooth and workable always made her feel better. The next step, shaping the brightly colored bits into objects which could have been real if they only weren’t so tiny, could almost always take her mind off her troubles.
She was so absorbed in creating precisely the right accessories for a boy child’s bedroom that she didn’t hear the pocket door slide open. Only the stirring of cool air that Sloan brought with him warned her that he was there.
Her fingers clenched, and the inch-high circus train that she’d been constructing turned into a misshapen lump. She put it aside and picked up another marble-size piece of clay.
Sloan leaned over her and picked up the discarded lump of red, yellow and blue clay. “I see you’re taking to modern sculpture now. Is the next project to be an art gallery?”
“No—that’s what happens when you startle me.”
“But you told Selby to pass on the message that you wanted me. This makes two days in a row you’ve been waiting impatiently for me to get home. Better watch yourself, darling, this could get to be a habit.”
“Not likely. It’s my mother again.”
Sloan pulled up the companion to her tall work stool and sat down. “What’s Abigail done this time?”
“Thanks to me, nothing.” Succinctly she told him about Abigail and the tennis balls.
Sloan threw back his head and laughed heartily. “So how did you dissuade her from this philanthropic project?”
“I told her that nothing would induce you to wear pajamas, so creating an antisnoring strait-jacket would be a waste of her time.”
He looked thoughtful. “Is that the way you picture me, Morganna? Sleeping in the buff?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a sexual fantasy,” she snapped. “The fact is, I could hardly let her rummage around in your room in search of pajamas, because who knows what she’d have found tucked in the corners of your closet?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’d have risen to the occasion. There’s probably nothing more embarrassing than the odd pair of black lace panties, and you could always have claimed they were yours.”
Morganna rolled her eyes. “But that’s not the only problem. If she searched your wardrobe for pajamas and came up empty-handed, how could I have possibly have explained that you didn’t own any after all, if I’d already told her you did?”
“You could have just turned slightly pink and murmured that though I’m not in the habit of actually wearing them when I’m with you, you thought I must surely own a pair or two. In any case, if you’d like to know for certain,” Sloan said lazily, “you can stop by my room tonight and find out.”
“I’d rather live with the suspense. You ungrateful wretch, you should be thanking me for saving you from her well-meaning interference. If she’d actually constructed this instrument of torture, you’d have had to report how well it worked.”
“On second thought,” Sloan said, “Maybe I should tell her to make a stab at it.”
Morganna’s jaw dropped. “Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“But you see, I couldn’t possibly report how well it worked, because a snorer can’t hear himself. Which means you’d be the one who’d have to report. And to do that—”
“I’d have to spend the night with you. If you think that feeble excuse is enough to get me into your bed—”
“Furthermore,” Sloan said, “I’m betting that the next morning, if you were truthful, you’d have to tell her that I hadn’t snored at all. Of course, I wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep, either, if you were there—but that’s beside the point, don’t you think?”
Sloan took Morganna and her mother to a new restaurant, located in a renovated warehouse not far from the shore of Lake Michigan and only a few blocks from Sticks & Stones. Morganna had never been there before, and when Abigail wrinkled her nose at the idea of anything upscale locating in a warehouse district that had seen far better days, Morganna was inclined to agree.
“Wait and see,” Sloan said. “I think you’ll like the food—though I admit I have an underhanded motive for wanting the place
to succeed.”
“You’re a part-owner?” Abigail asked.
“Not me. I don’t know anything about the restaurant business. But it’s handy for Sticks & Stones workers, and anything that keeps my people happy and gets them back to work on time is good for me. Besides, every upwardly mobile business that moves into the neighborhood makes my building more valuable.”
Something about the statement nagged at Morganna. As soon as they were seated, she looked at Sloan over the top of her menu and asked bluntly, “Are you thinking of selling the factory?”
“What? No, of course not. Besides, there are still a whole lot of empty buildings down here—why would anyone pay the price for one that’s occupied by a profitable business when they could buy an unused one for a fraction of the price? In the long run, though, if the neighborhood turns into a nightclub and boutique district—”
“The neighboring businesses might object to having a factory in their midst.”
“They can object all they like, but as we were there first—”
The waiter approached, and Sloan broke off to look at the wine list.
Abigail glanced around the spacious dining room and admitted she was impressed. “At least there’s room for the waiters to pass between the tables, which is more than you can say of most ritzy places.”
“With the rent they have to pay in the pricey neighborhoods,” Morganna said, “they have to cram in all the tables they can.” She caught sight of a brunette standing near the maître d’s stand and waved. “Look, there’s Emily and Jack Hamilton. I wonder if they’d like to join us.”
Sloan murmured something to the waiter. “Another advantage of the place is tables that are large enough to allow for a couple of extras.”
Under cover of the greetings, Emily whispered, “You didn’t say anything at bridge club yesterday about your mother coming.”
“I would have, if I’d known. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“You look as if you could use a break. Want me to distract her?” Emily didn’t wait for an answer; instead she hugged Abigail and was quickly absorbed in bringing the older woman up-to-date.
Morganna toyed with her wineglass and divided her attention between the two conversations at the table. Emily was right about one thing: it was restful just to sit and think of nothing. She already knew all the details of Emily’s life, and it was only when she heard the word fired that she really tuned in on what Sloan was telling Jack.
“There wasn’t much else to be done,” Sloan said. “It turns out they weren’t just running a private business out of my building, but the merchandise was only marginally legal. And they both had been in trouble before.”
Morganna bit her lip. Of course, it made sense that he was telling Jack about his employee problems; as the district manager of the Tyler-Royale department store chain, Jack Hamilton dealt with troublesome workers every day, and if anyone could contribute a useful insight, it would be Jack. But deep inside her was a tiny kernel of sadness that Sloan hadn’t confided in her instead of his friend.
Of course, Morganna reminded herself, she hadn’t asked how his day had gone. But even if she had, he’d no doubt have passed the question off instead of answering, because they’d never gotten into the habit of sharing that kind of discussion….
Suddenly a matron in a huge, feather-decked hat loomed over the table, leaning across Morganna to shake a finger at Abigail. “So you’re home,” the matron said. “I knew Phoenix wasn’t the climate to suit you for long. Of course, you’ve chosen exactly the wrong time of year to come back to Lakemont—unless you’re home for the Carousel Ball?”
“I’m not certain how long I’ll be here, Millicent,” Abigail said.
“Well, you might want to stick around for that. Or, on the other hand, when you know the details, you might not.” The matron frowned at Sloan, who had risen politely in greeting, and boomed, “As president of the Carousel Ball committee, I have been asked by my board to invite you to be a host at the ball next week.”
Millicent Pendergast sounded, Morganna thought, as if she’d dutifully swallowed a very bitter pill, carrying out her duty but making it clear that she thought the decision an ill-advised one. It was apparent that Sloan had heard the same lack of enthusiasm in the matron’s voice, and Morganna winced at the dangerous sparkle that sprang to life in his eyes. She tried to draw his attention, hoping to keep him from making matters worse, but Sloan was looking over her head, directly at the matron. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said coolly. “I’ll check my calendar and let you know whether I can fit it in.”
The matron puffed up like a pigeon and glared at him. “Young man, only a nobody like you would even consider refusing the committee’s invitation to host the Carousel Ball. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about what an honor you’ve been given.”
“Inviting him a week beforehand?” Jack Hamilton murmured. “Oh, that’s a real honor all right.”
Millicent Pendergast obviously wasn’t listening. “I told them it wasn’t a good idea, making someone who’s never before even been eligible to attend into a host.” She shook her head at Morganna. “You poor girl. But of course, you got what you deserved, marrying so far beneath your level. You really shouldn’t expect someone like him to be able to function in society without a nursemaid.”
Morganna reached for Sloan’s hand. “Better to be short of experience than of manners,” she said clearly.
Millicent Pendergast turned purple. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then spun on her heel and strutted away.
Sloan choked. For a moment his fingers closed tightly on Morganna’s, then he let her hand slip out of his as he sank once more into his chair. She glanced once at him and then looked away. He was laughing, of course—as if to say that he found her defense of him as amusing as it was unnecessary. Morganna was annoyed. Didn’t he realize that her reason for jumping to his defense wasn’t anything personal? She’d have done the same for anyone who was being bullied by Millicent Pendergast.
Jack Hamilton raised his wineglass. “To the Carousel Ball,” he said to no one in particular. “For once, it looks as if it might actually be interesting.”
CHAPTER FOUR
EMILY glared at her husband. “Interesting isn’t necessarily the same as enjoyable,” she pointed out. “And offending Millicent Pendergast—even though I applaud the sentiment—isn’t very wise.”
Morganna had to agree with that. She didn’t even want to look at her mother. No matter what provocation Millicent had offered, Abigail would probably have a great deal to say about the equal rudeness of Morganna’s comment.
“I didn’t mean to offend her,” Sloan said gently. “I was just buying time to ask you all a simple question. Nobody’s ever told me exactly what the duties of a Carousel Ball host are, so how should I know whether I want to do it?”
“Wrong question,” Jack said. “No man in his right mind wants to be stuck in that position. That’s why the roster of hosts changes every year. Millie and her crew would like you to think it’s too much of an honor to let people serve repeatedly, but in fact—”
Morganna stepped in. “There’s really nothing much to it. Each host dances once with every debutante, and helps to discreetly arrange other partners in order to make sure none of the girls look like wallflowers. Then at midnight each of the hosts escorts one of the past queens in the grand march—”
“Do I get my choice of queens?”
Sloan’s gaze was resting on Morganna with a great deal more warmth than she was accustomed to seeing there. Or, she asked herself uneasily, had the warmth been there all along, but she’d been unable to recognize it because the entire concept seemed so foreign? Until Sloan had made it clear that his long-term plans did not include a platonic marriage, she’d had no reason to be watchful. No reason to wonder what he might be thinking when his gaze happened to fall on her.
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it,” Jack said. “Millie Pendergast is the one who arranges
the grand march.”
“But she does it with an eye to what looks best,” Abigail put in. “And the two of you, because Sloan is so dark and Morganna so fair, do look wonderful together. So I think, Sloan, if we select your costume to coordinate with Morganna’s—which we bought this morning, by the way—even Millicent will have to admit that you should be a couple.”
“Costume?” Sloan sounded just short of horrified.
“Nothing elaborate,” Abigail said cheerfully. “I was thinking in terms of matching your tuxedo waistcoat and bow tie to her dress, not decking you out as a clown or the Grim Reaper.”
“That’s all right, then. Just as long as my costume doesn’t include tennis balls.” The grin Sloan sent at Abigail was loaded with mischievous charm.
“You won’t need them, dear,” Abigail murmured. “Regardless of how Jack makes it sound, the Carousel Ball isn’t boring enough to put anyone to sleep.”
“And I suppose now you’d like me to go over to Mrs. Pendergast’s table and act humbly grateful for the honor and amenable to my duties. Right, Abigail?”
“No,” Abigail said calmly. “Hold off until we’ve eaten. She put off inviting you to the last minute, after all. It’ll do her good to stew in her own juice for a while.”
Morganna watched the look of amused sympathy that passed between the two of them, and felt empty inside.
The waiter served their main course, and she picked at her venison steak while she listened to the conversations around her. Abigail was describing Morganna’s new ball gown to Emily, and the men had gone back to discussing business.
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