Authors: Phyllis Halldorson
"It's a good thing I did, too," Shane snarled angrily.
"Otherwise this blockhead might have made the mistake of hiring you."
They were standing in the entrance way and he looked at Mark as he
turned toward the door. "Come on, it's a long drive back to San
Francisco."
Mark reached out and grabbed Shane by the arm. "Calm down,
will you! I told you, Karen is the only one who met all your
qualifications. I'm sorry she's younger than we thought but does age
really make so much difference?"
"I might have considered a twenty-year-old," Shane grated,
"but this one is nothing but a baby herself! You know as well as I do
that she's impossible!"
Karen felt like a slave being auctioned off on the block.
Besides, her throat was so parched it felt like sandpaper, and she'd
lost her chance at the job—whatever it was—anyway,
so there was no reason to be polite. She spoke bluntly. "Will you two
either come in and sit down or leave? I'm tired, thirsty, and hungry,
and I resent being talked about as if I weren't even here."
She turned and walked into the living room and the men
followed, silent for the first time since they arrived. She gestured
toward the couch in an invitation to sit and busied herself in the
kitchen, washing her hands and fixing three tall glasses of iced tea.
She carried them in on a tray and offered a glass to each man, then
took her own and sat on a straight-backed chair, mindful of her
dirt-caked jeans. The long, icy drink relieved the dryness in her
throat and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Shane McKittrick sipped his. She giggled at his look of surprise
and said, "If you were expecting whiskey, Mr. McKittrick, I'm afraid
it's way beyond my budget. I really meant it when I said I needed that
job. If I'm lucky I'll get enough from the sale of the house to get by
until I can take some training and learn to support myself."
Shane frowned. "You're selling this house? Why?"
She took another drink of the tea. "Because I can't make
payments on it."
Shane glanced around the comfortable room then back to
Karen. "Surely there must be someone to look after you."
Karen bristled. "I don't need anyone to look after me. All
I need is a job."
Shane put down his glass. "You'll never find a job. There
are child labor laws in this country. Run along and clean yourself up
and we'll take you out to lunch."
Resentment burned through her as she stood. "I don't need
to be fed like a disadvantaged child. I'm sure you are anxious to get
back to the city, so—"
Shane looked at his watch as he cut in. "I'll give you
five minutes to get under the shower. If I don't hear water running by
that time I'll come and bathe you myself."
Karen gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"
He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to try me?"
Twenty minutes later she was scrubbed and dressed in a
cotton print sundress with a fitted bodice, spaghetti straps, and a
full skirt. On a larger girl it would have looked fashionably adult but
as Karen applied jade eye shadow to highlight her sparkling green eyes
she realized that it made her look even more like a little girl. Oh,
well, it didn't matter anymore. She might as well be comfortable.
Mark Jefferson was talking on the telephone when Karen
came back into the living room. Shane McKittrick looked at her and
grinned. "We've been looking up restaurants in the phone book and
decided on The Copper Lantern. Mark's phoning for reservations."
Karen's eyes widened. "But that's the most expensive place
in town!"
Shane stood and slipped his hand under her elbow. "I think
between Mark and me we can manage to pay the bill."
The Copper Lantern was new and as elegant as Karen had
been led to believe with its dark paneled walls, copper accessories,
and Early American furniture. She fully enjoyed the rich ham and split
pea soup served with thick slices of warm homemade bread and creamery
butter. During the meal Mark and Shane, with their gently prodding
questions, managed to learn most of Karen's history.
As she dug into a bowl of blueberry pie swimming in pure
cream Mark grimaced and said, "How do you manage to eat like that and
stay so petite?"
She grinned. "Richard used to say I'd pay for it when I
get older."
"Who's Richard?" Shane asked quickly.
"He's a boy I used to go out with. He was a little chubby
and claimed he could put on five pounds just watching me eat."
Mark chuckled but Shane apparently didn't see the humor.
He frowned. "Are there any other men in your life?"
She paused, taken aback by his abruptness. "No, there
aren't. I've been too busy the past two years for much social life.
First Mother was so ill, and then when she died I spent all my spare
time doing research for Dad's book."
Shane persisted. "And the book—has it been
published? Do you get royalties?"
Karen shook her head and lowered her brimming eyes. "No.
It was only about half finished when he died. I suppose once I start to
work I'll have to pay back the advance the publisher sent him."
Shane and Mark glanced at each other and Shane spoke.
"Karen, I can't use you in the position you applied for, it's
impossible, but I have a large personal library in my home that needs
sorting and cataloguing. It should take about a month and it will be at
least that long before your house is sold. I can show you quickly what
needs to be done and you'd live at my home on the Monterey Peninsula
and receive a salary besides room and board. Are you interested?"
Karen looked at him with amazement. "You mean you're
offering me a job after all?"
He nodded. "Only a temporary one, but it will tide you
over until you sell your house and decide what school you want to
enroll in."
She was still unsure. "But if I stay at your house won't
your wife object?"
"I don't have a wife, but before you get any funny ideas,
I'm usually only there on weekends and it's a big house with a
housekeeper, cook, and several maids, not to mention the gardener. I promise you we'll be properly chaperoned." His eyes
twinkled and she knew he was making fun of her.
She toyed with her coffee cup. The offer was almost too
good to be true. It took time to sell a house and get it through
escrow, but her home had increased in value over the years, as had all
real estate in California. She should have several thousand dollars
left after the mortgage was paid off that she could live on and use to
pay her tuition to a secretarial school until she was qualified for a
job. She looked from Mark to Shane, who were sipping their drinks in
apparent unconcern, over whether she accepted the offer or not. Well,
it might not make any difference to Mr. Shane McKittrick, but it was of
vital importance to her. She had to start earning some money. She
looked at Shane and managed a lopsided smile.
"Thank you, Mr. McKittrick. I can start anytime you'd
like."
Shane stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray
and stood. "Good. How about this afternoon?"
It had been a hectic few hours, but by late afternoon
Karen was sitting between Shane, who was driving, and Mark in the front
seat of the long, luxurious Lincoln Continental as it sped down the
highway. She was beginning to have second thoughts. Whatever had
possessed her to agree to pack up and leave her home on the spur of the
moment with two men she knew nothing about? They seemed to be wealthy
businessmen, but it could be a clever front. Nobody even knew where she
was going—there hadn't been time to make phone calls. Shane,
as he insisted she call him, told her she could write or make phone
calls from his home, but how did she know where he was taking her, or
why? She moved restlessly against the soft cream velvet upholstery and
made an effort to understand what the two men were talking about. They
paid no attention to her as they spoke of accounts and shipments and
stock manipulations. Shane was obviously the head man, but she gathered
Mark was an assistant or something equally close.
Boredom plus the smooth hum of the engine and the slight
sway of the car combined to relax her so completely that she could
hardly keep her eyes open. The day had been long and she had worked
hard, first in the garden, then packing and getting ready to leave. She
yawned and her head nodded as Mark's arm encircled her shoulders and
made her comfortable against his broad chest. She slept.
It was dark when she opened her eyes and realized that the
car was no longer moving but the chest against which she was sleeping
was.
"Karen, wake up. We're here."
It was Mark, and he had an arm around her, holding her as
he spoke. She jerked to a sitting position and blinked. "Where are we?
How long have I been asleep?"
"Do you make a habit of curling up and sleeping in the
arms of every man you meet?" It was Shane, on the other side of her,
and he sounded irritated.
She was still half asleep and disoriented. "No. I-I'm
sorry. I didn't mean—"
Mark got out of the car and reached a hand in to her.
"Don't pay any attention to Grumpy there, Snow White. He's just put out
because it wasn't his arms you were sleeping in."
Mark grinned and Karen slid out and had barely closed the
door when Shane gunned the motor and drove on down the sloping driveway.
Even though it was dark, the house and grounds were well
lit and she could see that the place was immense. It seemed to be built
on the side of a cliff and she could hear water lapping against the
rocks below.
The intricately carved oak door was opened by a tall,
angular woman, fiftyish, with heavy dark hair brushed back from her
face and worn low on her nape in a chignon. Her face was expressionless
but her gray eyes fastened on then-subject with chilling intensity. She
greeted Mark with cool politeness and he introduced her to Karen as
Mrs. Whitney, the housekeeper. Mrs. Whitney glided stiffly ahead of
them down the mosaic tiled corridor to a spacious room at the back of
the house. Karen gasped in awe. The sapphire blue carpeting felt ankle
deep and the closed wall-to-wall draperies on two sides of the room
were a complementary but lighter shade of azure blue and breathtakingly
beautiful. The grand piano in the corner left plenty of room for
several furniture groupings, and the paintings on the undraped ice blue
walls were originals and expensive.
Mark was talking to Mrs. Whitney and Karen was just
standing there trying to adjust to the magnificence of the room, when
Shane came up behind them. He greeted Mrs. Whitney and said, "This is
Karen Muir. As I told you on the phone, she'll be here for a month or
so cataloguing the library. Please show her to her room and I'll have
her bags brought up later." He turned to Karen. "Dinner will be served
in half an hour. Don't bother to change."
His abrupt dismissal left Karen no choice but to follow
the housekeeper's stiff back through a maze of rooms and hallways and
finally down a flight of stairs. Mrs. Whitney explained coldly, "This
is the lower level; it contains the main kitchen, laundry room, and the
servants' quarters."
She made a right turn and led Karen into a wing consisting
of a sitting room, dining room, and several bedrooms and baths. Karen's
room was about like her room at home, small but comfortable. The
furnishings were adequate, the closet was large, and she shared a bath
with the room next door.
Mrs. Whitney stood in the doorway and her crisp voice was
disapproving as she said, "Apparently Mr. McKittrick expects you to
dine with him and Mr. Jefferson this evening, but in the future you
will take all your meals down here with the rest of the employees. I
hope you will not make a nuisance of yourself with Mr. McKittrick." She
turned and marched off before Karen could say anything.
Dinner was served in a formal dining room that could
easily seat fifty people. Karen was impressed and made no attempt to
hide it as Shane seated her at the solid mahogany table covered with
handmade lace and set with china, crystal, and sterling silver. As in
the living room, two of the walls were draped but on the wall opposite
her she recognized an original still life in oils by Paul Cezanne, one
of her favorite Impressionists. Forgetting her manners, she slid off
her chair and went to stand in front of it, giving in to the impulse to
reach out and touch the canvas that had felt the hand of the master
painter.
Behind her, Shane's voice was soft. "You like Cezanne?"
"Oh, yes—he tempered his flights of fantasy with
realism—but I also like Degas and Monet."
"You'd like this clam chowder, too, if you'd sit down long
enough to taste it," Shane teased.
Karen felt the warm color rush to her cheeks as she
realized how rude she'd been to leave the table. "Oh, I'm sorry! I
guess I got carried away."
She returned to the table and Shane stood and seated her
again. "You seem to know a great deal about French Impressionists."
Karen nodded. "Yes—my mother taught art
appreciation."
Mark spoke. "Was your mother an artist?"
Karen swallowed a spoonful of the clam-filled chowder.
"She painted a little, but I'm afraid her talents lay in teaching
rather than doing." She sighed. "Mother would have loved this house,
too."
Shane looked at her thoughtfully. "Are you pleased with
your room?"
Karen finished her soup just as Mrs. Whitney came with the
salads. "Yes, thank you, it's very comfortable."
Shane looked a little disappointed and she wondered if
he'd expected her to be impressed with the room. It was nice but
certainly not impressive.
The salad was followed by a beef dish with vegetables and
then freshly made ice cream covered with warm cherry sauce. Karen ate
everything that was set in front of her but refused the seconds that
Shane, with an amused expression, urged her to accept. When Mrs.
Whitney began clearing the table Shane rose and said, "We'll have
coffee in the den, Mrs. Whitney."