Magnolia. Diana Palmer
Читать онлайн книгу.
platters of food and desserts, and jugs of iced tea, and urns of coffee. Everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with Gertie’s supervision. Kenny Blake came early and would have stayed, but Claire knew his business depended on the personal service he gave his customers. He needed to keep his shop open for long hours, too. She promised she would be all right and sent him back to work. They came all day and into the evening, until at last a familiar but unwelcome face showed itself at the door.
Claire’s eyes were red with tears as she let the bank president, Mr. Eli Calverson, and his beautifully dressed and coiffed blonde wife into the house.
“We’re so sorry, my dear,” Diane Calverson said in her cultured voice, extending a graceful hand in a spotless white glove. “What a terrible tragedy for you, and how unexpected. We came the moment we heard.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, young lady,” Mr. Calverson added, pressing her hands in his. “We’ll make sure the house is sold for the highest possible price, so that there will be a little something left over for you.”
Claire wasn’t even thinking properly as she stared at the old man, who had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.
“And he did have that infernal motorcar, as well,” the banker continued. “Maybe we could find some buyer for it…”
“I won’t sell it,” she said at once. “The buggy and the horse are at the livery stable and they can be sold, but I won’t part with Uncle’s horseless carriage.”
“It’s early days yet, my dear,” Mr. Calverson said smugly. “You’ll change your mind. Diane, have a chat with Miss Lang while I speak to Sanders over there. I believe he’s had his eye on this property for quite some time.”
“Now just one moment—” Claire began, but the banker had already walked away.
“Don’t worry your head about it, dear,” Diane said languidly. “Leave business to the men. We women were never meant for such complicated things as that.” She looked around. “You poor thing. What a dreary place. And you haven’t even a decent dress to wear, have you?” she asked gently.
Claire had been too upset to change the old dress she’d worn to work with Uncle in the garage. Still, she bristled at the woman’s remark. She had dresses upstairs that would have made Mrs. Calverson’s Paris import look tacky by comparison. “My uncle had just died, Mrs. Calverson. Clothes were not much on my mind,” Claire said.
Diane shook her head. “Nothing is more important to me than to be correctly dressed, whatever the occasion. Really, Claire. You should go and change before other people come.”
Claire gaped at her. “My uncle died only hours ago,” she repeated, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I hardly think my clothes matter just now.”
Diane actually blushed as heads turned toward her. She made an awkward little gesture and laughed nervously. “Why, Claire. You misunderstood me. I never meant to demean your ensemble. And certainly not on such a sad occasion.”
“Of course you didn’t,” John said quietly, joining Diane at Claire’s side. Claire hadn’t even noticed his arrival and her heart jolted at the sight of him, even through her grief.
He took Diane’s arm, staring down with concern at Claire. “I’m very sorry about your uncle, Claire,” he said gently. “I’m sure that Diane is, too. She was only concerned for you.”
Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.
“I haven’t misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane’s arm. “Nor one single action.”
They both looked uncomfortable. He moved quickly away from Diane, but not before Mr. Calverson had seen and noted the byplay. He came back to join them, taking his wife’s arm with a look that spoke volumes.
“Come over here, my dear, and meet a new client of the bank. You’ll excuse us, I trust?” he asked John coldly, then turned and led his wife away.
“You’d better be careful, hadn’t you?” Claire whispered. “He isn’t blind.”
John’s eyes darkened with distaste. “Be careful. I’m not the same tame breed as your pet clothing-store manager.”
She lifted her chin, angry at his pointed reference to Kenny, who was a darling but hardly a man of action. “Do you want to snap at me, too? Well, go ahead,” she invited. “Diane’s had a ripping go at me already about my clothes, and her husband is busy trying to sell the roof over my head so that your bank doesn’t lose a penny on the loans you made to Uncle Will. Don’t you have anything hurtful to say to me? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. You should always kick people when they’re down!”
The mettle in her words contrasted painfully with the wobble in her voice and the sheen of tears in her gray eyes.
“Excuse me. I don’t feel well,” she said in a husky tone, and went quickly out of the room, into the hall. She leaned, resting her forehead against the cool wall, while sickness rushed over her. It had been such a long, terrible day.
She heard the door behind her open, then shut. The voices in the parlor receded as footsteps sounded. She felt the pull of a steely hand on her upper arm, turning her, and then she was pressed against scratchy fabric. Strong, warm arms held her. Under her ear, a steady, comforting heartbeat soothed her. She breathed in the exotic cologne and gave in to the need for comfort. It had been a very long time since her uncle had held her like this when her parents had died. In all the years of her life, comfort had been rare.
“My poor baby,” John said softly at her temple. His hand smoothed over her nape, calming her. “That’s right. Just cry until it stops hurting so much. Come close to me.” His arms contracted, riveting her to him.
She’d never heard his voice so tender. It was comforting and exciting all at once. She pressed closer, giving free rein to the tears as she cried away the grief and fear and loneliness in the arms of the man she loved. Even if it was only pity driving him, how sweet it was to be held so closely by him.
A handkerchief was held to her eyes. She took it and wiped them and blew her nose. He made her feel small and fragile, and she liked the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers.
She pulled slowly away from him, without raising her head. “Thank you,” she said, with a watery sniff. “May I ask what provoked you to offer comfort to the enemy?”
“Guilt,” he replied, with a faint smile. “And I’m not the enemy. I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. You’ve had enough for one day.”
She looked up at him. “I most certainly have,” she said angrily.
John searched her fierce eyes and wan face. “You’re tired,” he said. “Let the doctor give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”
“I don’t need advice from you. I doubt anyone close to you has ever died,” she said miserably.
His eyes flared darkly as he remembered his younger brothers, the frantic search of the cold waters for bodies, the anguish of having to tell their father that they were dead. “Then you would be wrong,” he said abruptly, dismissing the painful memories. “But loss is part and parcel of life. One learns to bear it.”
She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “He was all I had,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And if it hadn’t been for him, I should have ended up in an orphanage, a state home.” She drew her shoulders up. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him, it was that quick.” The tears came again, hot and stinging.
He tilted her chin up. “Death isn’t an end. It’s a beginning. Don’t torture yourself. You have a future to contend with.”
“Grief takes a little time,”