Man In A Million. Muriel Jensen
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I could continue to play with my designs. Well, this is my chance to make something of them and make a bigger contribution to the household. Please don’t argue with me. I’m starting tonight, anyway, right? You have calls to make, or something?”
“Prudie…”
“You’ll have to cut back on the chocolates until after the show,” Prue said.
Paris groaned. “You could have told me that before I agreed.”
“Not if I wanted you to help me.”
“One thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I dropped my cab wallet at the fire station. Would you mind picking it up tonight?”
Determined to look casual, Paris stared at the road as she felt Prue turn to look at her. “What were you doing there?”
“I…had a fare.”
“A fireman called a cab when they have those great trucks to ride in?”
Paris ignored her, concentrating on the turn that would take her to Lake Road.
“Did you go to see that EMT Addy Whitcomb’s trying so hard to fix you up with?” Prue said it teasingly, but when Paris didn’t reply and her color rose instead, Prue shifted in her seat and asked excitedly, “You did?”
“Just to tell him that I wasn’t interested in dating him,” she corrected quickly, “and to assure him that I knew he didn’t want to date me, either. I’ve… I’m just clearing the decks. I’m tired of my life being this mass of confusion.”
Prue was silent for a moment. “Is this the thing about your father again?”
“I’ve just got to get some answers,” Paris said with a shrug of her shoulder, “and it’ll be easier while Mom’s gone because I know how she hates my interest in it. I know you don’t understand.” She forestalled her sister’s protest with a raised hand. “I don’t expect you to. Just let me do what I have to do without criticism, okay?”
“I wasn’t going to criticize,” Prue assured her. “I was going to tell you that I understand what motivates you. If the man I’d thought was my father my whole life turned out not to be, I’d want some answers, too. I just don’t understand why you think it’ll change anything. He’s dead.”
Paris blinked, a little surprised by Prue’s empathy. “I know. I just want to know more than Mom’s willing to tell me.”
“Okay. But a search for details about your father doesn’t mean you have to dismiss the possibility of having an interesting man in your life, does it?”
“He doesn’t want me, either. He apparently has his own reasons for avoiding Addy’s romantic maneuvers.”
Prue nodded knowingly. “His fiancée died.”
Paris glanced at her sister. “How do you know that?”
“Mariah knows him. He works for Whitcomb’s Wonders, you know. He’s on a janitorial crew that services her husband’s building. Randy and his fiancée had been through medical school together and were interning in the same hospital when she got cancer.”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah. What did you think of him?”
That was hard to simplify into words. He was handsome, annoying but oddly appealing, a little bossy, yet seemingly concerned for her welfare. She didn’t know how she felt about him—just that an image of him lingered in her mind.
“Um…” She shrugged again, trying to minimize his impact on her. “Nice-looking, thinks he knows everything, tries to be charming. You know, typical guy.”
“I don’t think he’s very typical. Mariah says she saw him save a man’s life at the gym. The man collapsed on a treadmill, wasn’t breathing, and he brought him back. The ER doctor said he wouldn’t have made it if Randy hadn’t been there. I know it’s what he’s trained to do, but Mariah thought it was pretty amazing close-up.”
Paris could imagine that that was where his confidence came from. Saving a life was pretty big stuff.
“About the wallet…” She tried to divert the conversation.
“I’ll get it. But you can search for information about your father,” Prue insisted, “and still get to know Randy.”
Paris pulled into the driveway of their home and left the motor running, turning to her sister with a firm expression. “If you pressure me and cause me stress,” she warned, “I’m liable to turn to chocolate. And if you expect me to wear that red wool thing you showed me the sketch of the other day…”
“All right, all right,” Prue said defeatedly. “I just think if you’re presented with the gift of a nice guy with romance on his mind, you should take it. But what do I know? Thanks for the lift. I’ll take over for you at four.”
“Six,” Paris corrected. “Have a good dinner, be sure to fix yourself a thermos of coffee, and I’ll turn the cab over to you. If you promise you’ll keep in touch throughout the night.”
“I promise.”
“All right. See you at six.”
“Do I get to say ten-four?”
“No.”
CHILLY HAD ALREADY GONE home to his wife, and Randy had finished restocking their vehicle and was in the office, checking out, when he noticed the leather wallet with the broken chain still sitting on Kitty’s desk. There was no note on it to indicate that Kitty had spoken to its owner, a procedure she usually followed when something was left in an ambulance.
Randy opened it, consulted the business card inside the flap and dialed the number. He would show Paris O’Hara that he could be businesslike even if she couldn’t.
A familiar voice answered. “Miss O’Hara?” he asked.
“Ah…used to be,” the voice replied. “Now I’m Mrs. Hale. Actually, that’s not quite right because I used to be that, too. But I’m not anymore.”
Good grief. Her sister? Did everyone in her family think everything to death?
“Berkshire Cab?” He tried another tack.
“Yes,” the voice replied. “Always Safe, Always Friendly.” She recited the slogan on the business card. “Can I pick you up?”
Now, there was a line a man liked to hear. Well, most men did. With his determination to have relationships on his terms, he had to be selective.
God, he was sounding just like the O’Hara sisters.
“I’m calling from the Maple Hill Fire Station,” he said. “We have your wallet.”
“Aah.” There was something speculative in the quiet way she drew out the word. “Randy Sanford?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“My sister asked me to pick it up, but I’ve been busy since I came on. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
He met her in the driveway so that she wouldn’t have to get out of the cab. But she seemed to want to. She leaped out from behind the wheel and offered her hand with a warm smile.
“Prudence O’Hara Hale,” she said as he shook her hand. “I guess if I just use both names, I don’t have to explain as much.” She laughed over her earlier dithering.
“You don’t have to explain at all,” he said, handing her the wallet. “I’m just a stranger, trying to return something your sister dropped.”
“Ah, but you’re not a stranger at all,” she corrected him, accepting the wallet. “Thank you. Addy makes you sound like a cross between George Clooney and the surgeon general.”