by Kathy
Darren nodded. "Fair enough. We'll pretend I never said what I said. But I'm not sorry I said it."
Meg did not reply. His faint smile warned her she had not got the hounds off her trail, and she found herself more frustrated than flattered. Why did men assume that a declaration of love was the most desirable offering they could make to a woman? Like having the plumber offer to take a customer to bed instead of fixing the leak that was flooding the basement. What made it even worse was feeling that you had to apologize to the plumber for preferring a dry basement to his unsought embraces.
Darren roused himself occasionally to point out landmarks and make "do you remember" comments, to which Meg replied with a minimum of speech. She knew the road, and she was beginning to get a nasty premonition of what their destination would be.
She should have known. It was the best restaurant in the area, and the ambience was drenchingly romantic. No less an authority (on both subjects) than Nick had determined that.
Darren was obviously a regular customer. The maitre d' greeted him by name, and led them to the same table where she and Nick had sat only a few days ago. Meg told herself it was coincidence; the secluded location must make this a particularly favored table. All the same, she braced herself for disclosure. Sooner or later someone was going to make a reference to her earlier visit, even to the fact that it had not been confined to the dining room. If it had not been for Darren's declaration on the way, she wouldn't have minded. Gran was the only person she wanted to keep in the dark, and even to protect Gran she would not submit to blackmail.
Blackmail made her think of Candy, and the possibility that Candy had learned of her evening with Nick. Small towns were more prudish than cities, but surely even Candy realized that Meg was more likely to laugh than cower if Candy threatened to spread her indiscretions around Seldon.
She realized that a menu was being waved under her nose and that she hadn't heard the question Darren had asked. After the waiter had taken their orders for drinks and departed, Darren said casually, "Nice young chap. Do you know him?"
Damn, Meg thought. The boy must have said something while she was wrapped in thought. "Nice to see you again," or "Glad to see you back."
"I had dinner here with a friend a few days ago," she said.
"Oh, I'm sorry. If you had told me we could have gone somewhere else."
"It's a nice place, and the food is excellent," Meg reassured him. "I'm perfectly happy to be here."
"Well, okay, if you say so."
The service was almost too good, at least for Meg's purposes; it was not until the entree had been served and wine steward, maitre d' and assorted waiters had departed that she got down to business.
"I suppose it's too soon to expect another report from your investigator."
"As a matter of fact, I had a call today." Darren took a bite of swordfish and chewed it thoroughly.
Meg started to speak, stopped, counted ten and tried again. "A direct call, Darren? Or did it come through Mrs. Babcock— as usual?"
"She wouldn't listen in. And even if she did," Darren went on, blandly negating what he had just said, "she's completely discreet."
"I asked you ..." This time Meg had to count to twenty. There was no use arguing, Mrs. Babcock had Darren brainwashed. But that he could disregard her expressed request so casually. . . . "Well? What did the gumshoe say?"
Darren looked at her reproachfully. "I didn't bring my notes with me. I meant this to be a pleasant social evening, without—"
"I am having a very pleasant time, thank you." Hadn't he heard a word she had said? "And I apologize if I seem to be forcing unseemly duties upon you, but my life is getting a little complicated. In the next few days I have to make some serious decisions. I have only a few more days of leave. My boss has been raising cain about my taking so much time, he won't give me any more. It's fish or cut bait—go back, or give notice."
"I thought you had decided." Darren put his fork down and gave her his undivided attention. "When you took over the management of the store—"
"I haven't taken over."
"But, everyone assumed. . . . You certainly aren't an employee!"
"You seem to have forgotten the terms of Dan's will," Meg said. "I'm not an employee, or the boss. Neither is Riley." She leaned forward, pushing her plate away and planting both elbows firmly on the table in defiance of etiquette, so intent was she on making him understand. "The ideal arrangement could very well be the partnership Dan envisioned. Riley is the most talented designer I've ever encountered. He's also a fine craftsman. I lack both those talents, but I have some assets he lacks— especially money. He couldn't take over the store without borrowing heavily and risking bankruptcy; I doubt that finance is his strong point. But if I bought him out, I could never replace him. Together we could make Mignot and Riley a name like Van Cleef and Arpels. One of the reasons why I went to work was to find out whether I could get along with Riley. I can. He's a pain in the ass, but I can work with him—providing people leave us alone. Why do I get the feeling that the whole damned town is rubbing its collective hands and waiting gleefully for the fight to begin? I don't want a fight. I don't want a war either, but by God, if people don't get off my back and keep their long noses out of my affairs, I'll start one!"
Darren had tried several times to interrupt; finally he sat back, composed and patient, and waited for Meg to run out of breath. "Are you finished?" he asked.
"No. Don't tell me I sound just like Dan!"
"I wasn't going to. I was going to say that it sounds to me as if you have already reached a decision."
Meg thought it over. "It does sound that way, doesn't it?" She cupped her chin in her hands and smiled at him. "Now it's your turn. Talk me out of it."
"Fat chance," Darren muttered.
"No, really. This was just what I needed—a chance to talk, without being interrupted—"
"I couldn't get a word in edgewise."
Meg laughed. She felt as if she had been drinking champagne, relaxed and happy and a little giddy. "I was arguing with myself, not with you. I've been going back and forth on this so long, unable to make up my mind—but I had, really, I just didn't know I had until you let me spill it out. That doesn't mean I don't value your advice, Darren. What did the detective find out?"
"Nothing." Darren's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Nothing of importance. So far."
If Meg had been a little less pleased with herself she would have noticed that Darren seemed subdued and preoccupied. However, he perked up when she told him about Candy's peculiar performance that afternoon. "That is strange. You say she asked for her job back? I was under the impression she quit because Riley had—uh—"
"Forced his attentions upon her? If anything, it was the other way around."
Darren smiled. "I admit I found her version a trifle unbelievable. Let me add, in all fairness to the woman, that I got the story second-or third-hand. It may have been distorted by the time it reached me."
"That's not the point, Darren. She didn't just ask for her job back. ..." But Meg found it difficult to convey in words the impression Candy had left her with. Darren listened patiently, but he kept shaking his head. The dead rat and Applegate's attempt to pick a fight with Riley also failed to impress him. "I told you Riley isn't popular. I shouldn't have to tell you that Rod Applegate is a jerk. Always was, always will be. Keep me informed, and if he does or says anything actionable, I'll deal with him."
"Thank you."
"That's what I'm here for. More coffee?"
Meg declined. If Darren had set out deliberately to deflate her he couldn't have done it more effectively. At the beginning of the evening she had almost convinced herself that she ought to tell him about everything that worried her—the ring, the telephone call, the cache of hidden jewelry. The slow, gradual erosion of her confidence in his understanding left her feeling more alone than ever—and her suspicion that anything she told Darren would eventually be known to Mrs. Babcock was
another concern. Cliff was a better audience than Darren; at least he took her seriously.
As they crossed the parking lot toward his car Darren said, "I guess I won't find out what peculiar object you turn into at midnight. Unless you'd like to stop someplace for a nightcap?"
"Thanks, but I'd better not. Gran will expect me to go to church with her tomorrow, and I'm tired, after working all day."
Traffic on the interstate was moderately heavy, but Darren drove easily and skillfully, the speedometer hovering close to the legal speed limit. Meg leaned back, enjoying the smooth ride and the cool night air.
It happened so suddenly she didn't have time to react until it was over—a brilliant burst of light in the rearview mirror, a wordless yell of rage and warning from Darren as he twisted the wheel violently to the right. The headlights swung in a dizzying arc; the car jerked and skidded as the wheels hit the grassy shoulder, and the seat belt squeezed her ribs like an iron hand. She closed her eyes and waited for the crash.
The scream of tortured metal and rubber died, and Meg heard Darren cursing with an inventiveness worthy of Dan at his best. He broke off in the middle of a vivid description of some unknown male individual and turned anxiously to Meg. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
"No," Meg said vaguely. "What did we hit?"
"Nothing. Thank God for good brakes and dry weather. If the grass had been wet. . . . Meg, are you sure you're all right?"
"Don't—don't." Feebly Meg pushed him away. "The seat belt practically cut me in two; if you touch me I'll scream."
"If it hadn't been for the seat belt. . . ." Darren bowed his head over the wheel. His breathing was harsh and uneven.
"Are you okay?" Meg asked.
"Not a scratch. But you could have been. . . . Goddamn drunk drivers, they ought to lock 'em up and throw away the key."
"Drunk," Meg repeated. She took a deep experimental breath and rubbed her sore rib cage.
"They hit the roads like a tidal wave on weekends," Darren said bitterly. "We'll go straight to the emergency room, dear. I apologize for my language, but that was such a near miss. ..."
He touched the starter and the engine throbbed into life. "I have to go home," Meg said. "Right now."
"You could have cracked a rib." Darren eased the BMW back onto the road.
"No, I don't think so."
"Really, Meg—"
"You don't understand. The last time I went out. . . ."
Darren's hands tightened on the wheel as he listened. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"You dismissed the other things I told you about—Candy and Applegate's behavior, and the rat—"
"There is a big difference between a harmless if disgusting dead animal, and an anonymous telephone call. I wish you'd let me be the judge of what is important and what is not."
Neither of them spoke for a short time; Darren was deep in thought and Meg was trying to overcome her resentment of his autocratic manner. When she thought she had succeeded, she said, "You said the driver who forced us off the road was drunk. It could have been an accident."
"I made a logical assumption, based on the prevalence of such occurrences. I didn't know about the telephone call. That alters the situation. You've been out at night twice this week, and both times something unusual has happened. I don't suppose you happened to see the license plate?"
"Are you kidding? It all happened so fast I couldn't even tell you what make of car it was."
"It wasn't a car," Darren said. "It was a truck. A rusty, dark gray pickup."
Without further argument Darren drove her straight to the house. From the outside everything looked perfectly normal. Still, Meg's hands were unsteady as she inserted her key in the lock. The hall sconces burned dimly, the house was dark and still, and no one awaited her.
Or so she thought. Something moved in the shadowy recess under the stairs, and a sound like the screech of rusty hinges brought Darren quickly to her side. "What on earth—"
"It's only Henrietta Marie," Meg said. "That's odd; she usually spends the night with Gran."
With a soft thud the cat jumped down off the chair on which she had been resting. As she sauntered toward them, reflected light made her eyes glow like miniature taillights. Meg said uneasily, "Wait here, Darren. I just want to. . . ."
Dropping her purse, she ran up the stairs. Henrietta Marie followed, at her own leisurely pace.
Gran's door was closed. Meg reached for the knob. Foolish though her fears might be, she would not rest easy until she had made certain her grandmother was peacefully asleep. Before she could turn the knob, however, she heard a soft murmur from within.
She's talking in her sleep, Meg told herself. Everybody makes noises in their sleep—groans, sighs, sometimes words. Do people laugh in their sleep? Please, Gran, don't laugh. I am going to assume you are asleep, I am going to turn the knob slowly,< quietly. . . .
Henrietta, behind her, let out a raucous squawl. It was part of her heritage from a Siamese ancestor, and it sounded like the mating call of a miniature werewolf. Meg turned on the cat, hissing a demand for silence. Henrietta sneered back at her and applied a claw-studded paw to the door.
The damage was done; that yowl would have wakened the heaviest of sleepers. Meg called the cat a vulgar but accurate name and opened the door. Henrietta slithered through the gap and disappeared.
"Thank you, Frances," said a soft voice. "I do hope Henrietta didn't wake you. If she's going to keep this up, we had better see about having a swinging panel installed."
"It's not Frances, it's me," Meg said. "I'm sorry, Gran, I tried to keep her quiet, but she was determined to get in."
"That's quite all right, darling, I wasn't asleep." Thump, went Henrietta, onto the bed, and Gran cooed, "There she is, my baby. Of course she wanted in, didn't she? Was that why she wouldn't stay with me this evening? She was waiting for Meg to come home. What a sweet, thoughtful kitty she is."
Concealed behind the half-closed door, Meg stuck out her tongue at the thoughtful kitty. Life in the old homestead was going to be hard if even the cat rode herd on her.
"Good night, Gran," she said.
"Good night, darling."
From the darkness came a sound like that of a giant bumblebee. Henrietta was purring.
Darren was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Meg came down. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Yes, fine." Meg rubbed her bare arms. "I've got goose bumps, as we used to say. That cat gives me the creeps."
Darren laughed. "I can't say she appeals to me either, but then I prefer dogs. I guess we can assume there was no telephone call tonight. Unless you think the cat took the call."
"I wouldn't put it past her," Meg muttered. "What about a nightcap, Darren? Or would you prefer coffee?"
"I would like a little chat with you. But please don't go to any trouble."
They settled themselves in the parlor, where Darren was persuaded to help himself to Dan's excellent brandy. Returning to his chair, he said, "From the way you galloped up those stairs I gather your injuries are minimal, but I still think you ought to have those ribs checked by a doctor."
"It's not necessary," Meg said shortly. She wished Darren would finish his drink and go home. What more was there to say? She was so tired. She almost wished someone would fire a shot or throw a rock or send a threatening letter. One could then take action, to defend and to strike back, instead of floundering in a sea of uncertainties. One might then convince one's lawyer that one was not a neurotic female.
Despite her poorly concealed yawns and brief responses, Darren stayed on, sipping his Napoleon brandy and talking about subjects that would have held little interest for Meg under any circumstances. About the handsome house he had built a few years earlier, its location, its furnishings and how its value had increased. About general real estate values in Seldon. About the way the town had grown. About business investments in the area.
They had been sitting for over an hour when Meg heard a
car coming up the driveway. It had to be Cliff; and when she saw the alert turn of Darren's head she realized that this was what he had been waiting for.
Cliff showed no surprise at finding them there; of course, Meg thought, he had seen Darren's car. "So, did you have fun?" he asked, beaming at them. "So nice of you to wait up for me. Tell me all about it. What are you drinking, Darren?"
Darren accepted a refill; Meg refused, biting off the words. Cliff looked as fresh as he had when they left. His hair was becomingly tousled (by wind or fond fingers? she wondered) and his collar was a little limp, but he seemed prepared to go on for hours. She was about to excuse herself and leave them to it when Darren said, "Meg, dear, if you want to go to bed, don't feel you have to entertain me. I want to have a little chat with Cliff anyway. A nice long soak in a hot bath would probably be the best thing for those sore ribs."
Meg couldn't have said what annoyed her more—the unnecessary endearment, the proprietorial tone or the so-subtle way in which he had introduced the subject of the accident. She was also getting fed up with the phrase "little chat."
Cliff was prompt to pick up his cue. "Sore ribs, is it? What have you been doing to the woman, Darren?"
"Why don't you run along to bed, dear?" Darren repeated.
Wild horses couldn't have dragged Meg away now. "Because I don't want to run along to bed."
"Oh, good, a lovers' quarrel," Cliff said, grinning. "Don't expect me to be tactful and excuse myself. I adore arguments."
"You're quite mistaken, Cliff," Darren said. "There isn't going to be a quarrel. I was only thinking of your comfort, Meg. If you want to stay, by all means do so. But I intend to tell Cliff what happened tonight, and ask his advice."
"I also adore giving advice." Cliff was still smiling, but his eyes had narrowed. "Tell me all, children."