Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
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up the case?”
He crossed his heart. “I promise. I can pick you up at seven.”
“Because of the short notice, the ‘you’ will have to include Nicky.”
“Nicky?” Who the hell was Nicky?
She seemed to be enjoying his bewilderment. “Nicky’s my nine-year-old nephew and he’ll make a wonderful chaperon.”
Oh. “That’s great.”
“We’ll be at Never-Never Land.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Never-Never Land.”
“Should I fly in?”
She laughed merrily. “That won’t be necessary. I forgot. You don’t know. That’s the name of my store in Shaker Square.”
He cracked a wry smile. “What a relief. For a minute there I was afraid you and Peter Pan had flitted off to Honalee along with Puff.”
As they neared the ticket booth, she gave him the address. Then she turned and laid a hand on his arm. “You’re sure this is okay?”
He covered her hand with his and hoped he wasn’t fibbing. “Positive.”
“You’re on, then.” Her eyes twinkled. “Seven o’clock.”
As he walked briskly toward his office, Tony had to laugh at himself. After all, he, who made his living as a master of interpersonal communication, had just been adroitly maneuvered by not one, but two women! He plunged his hands into his pants pockets. Nicky, huh?
ANDREA PICKED UP NICKY at the Porters’ and made it to the store ten minutes before the six o’clock closing time. Phil, dressed in his Uncle Wiggly costume, was advising a little girl picking out a birthday present for her best friend. Meanwhile, the child’s exasperated mother kept frantically checking her watch. Andrea smiled. Phil was a whiz at the financial end of the business, but his real talent was relating to kids.
Many men would have been uncomfortable wearing a costume, but Phil and her other employees loved the theatrical touch of dressing as storybook characters. Andrea had to admit the idea had been a stroke of marketing genius—that, along with a carefully selected inventory of books and toys, had been a significant factor in attracting and keeping customers. The store had exceeded all her financial projections for this first year, and a strong holiday season would cap things off nicely.
She picked up the cash register receipts and retreated to her office to tally the day’s sales. In the corner Nicky lounged in a red beanbag chair reading. Fortunately, he was patient about spending time at the shop and amused himself well. Andrea ran the adding machine, then studied the totals on the tape. Not bad for a weekday. Phil, now in his street clothes, stuck his head in the door. “I’ve locked up. Okay if I leave now?”
“Sure. I have a few more things to do.” After Phil departed, she put the cash into a bank bag and stored it in the small office safe, then glanced at the clock.
“Nicky, may I interrupt?”
With his finger marking the page, he closed his book and looked up.
“I hope you don’t mind, but a friend is coming by to take us to dinner. What do you feel like having?”
“Not broccoli.”
“A cauliflower veggie burger, then?”
He made a gagging noise. “Pizza. Let’s have pizza.”
“Giorgio’s?”
His head was already back in his book. “Uh-huh.”
Her friend Daisy Whitcomb, who made all the costumes for the employees, had delivered the new Christmas items Monday, but until now Andrea hadn’t had a chance to examine them. She went into the storeroom. Two forest-green elf costumes for their part-time seasonal help; an immaculate uniform—complete with epaulets and gold braid—awaiting only the bearskin headgear to transform Phil into a nutcracker; and her own flowing white gown with attached buckram wings and a glittering halo. Because of her short stature, she was to be The Littlest Angel.
She decided to try on the costume quickly to see if any alterations were necessary. Because of her jury duty, she didn’t know when she’d have another chance. She stepped out of her brown tweed skirt and pulled the beige turtleneck over her head before carefully donning the angel robe. Stretching and craning, she finally managed to zip up the back and arrange the wings, which seemed to have a will of their own. Then she gently laid the halo on the crown of her head. Picking up the skirt, she returned to the office to check the effect in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Nicky adjusted his glasses with a forefinger, then stared at her.
She pirouetted. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s okay. Don’t spill anything on it.”
He was right. Anything and everything would show. She’d need to be careful. Not easy to do amid the Christmas rush. Yet it was fun to look in the glass and see an angel reflected. Her gaze went to her feet. The low-heeled brown suede boots spoiled the effect. She’d have to dig out her white hose and shoes. But the length was about right—
“What’s that?” Nicky looked alarmed.
“What?”
“That sound.”
Then Andrea heard it. Someone knocking on the plate glass at the front of the store. “Oh, dear. That’s Tony. I need to let him in.” She dashed to the entry, disarmed the alarm and opened the door. “I’m so sorry. The time got away from me.”
Tony just stood there, staring. An amused grin spread over his face. Finally he spoke. “First Never-Never Land, and now heaven?”
“No, not the Elysian fields, just a workplace where we wear seasonal costumes—in this case, Christmas.” She adjusted the halo, which had tilted during her rush to the door, and stepped aside. “Come on in.”
He entered and looked around dazedly. “This is quite a place.” He removed his gloves, stuffed them in his coat pockets, then picked up a jack-in-the-box from a floor display. He turned the handle and laughed aloud when a clown jumped out to the tune of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
“Make yourself at home. I need to change.”
He set down the toy and reached for her hand. “Not for me you don’t. I’ve never had a date with an angel.”
The warmth of his hand enclosing hers sent a shock through her, along with decidedly unangelic thoughts. “Giorgio might not understand.”
“Giorgio?”
“The pizza chef.” She withdrew her hand.
Tony seemed puzzled. “Pizza?”
“Yes, Nicky and I thought that would be best.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
She suspected that, despite what he’d said earlier, the idea of a third party wasn’t appealing. Just then Nicky sidled up alongside her. She put an arm around him. “Tony, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Nicholas Porter. Nicky, this is Tony Urbanski.”
Nicky averted his eyes as he shook hands with Tony.
She started toward the rear of the store. “If you two will excuse me, I—”
Nicky trailed her. “I thought you said we were going to dinner with a friend,” he whined.
Andrea faltered. He was not happy. And Tony had to have overheard. “Tony is a friend.”
They reached the office. Nicky stood, sullen, his hands deep in his pockets. “But he’s a man.”
“Does that bother you?”
He shrugged.