Chapter
Seven

Christine was thrilled to note the early signs of spring. Though dirty snow still lined the sidewalks where the sun’s rays were unable to reach, the water trickling along in the gutters could almost sound like the streams in her beloved North country. She closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy the pleasant memory. Well, said Christine to herself, opening her eyes to continue her walk to work, running water is running water. Even here in the street it still makes wonderful music. She wondered if any workers hurrying along ahead of her had noticed the sound.

She clung to her especially light frame of mind as she, almost by habit, entered the big building, climbed the stairs, and turned to her right. The same routine, the same duties, the same Miss Stout faced her as she opened the office door. The woman had stopped wearing the lacy hankies and fancy pins on her lapels. Apparently she had again given up on Mr. Kingsley. Christine thought the receptionist carried her own little halo with her—not a halo of light but one of cloud. It drifted about her head and wrapped about her shoulders. I am a lonely spinster, it seemed to say. I am unappreciated. Unloved. Miss Stout on occasion withdrew even more deeply into her gloom and wrapped it about her thin body. Christine did hope this wouldn’t be one of those days.

She did not have time to hang up her coat before Miss Stout said, “Mr. Kingsley wishes to speak with you.” Her words were terse, and Christine could imagine that cloud being tucked in tightly.

“Thank you, Miss Stout,” she answered brightly, hoping to share a bit of her spring happiness. She did not bother to go for her steno pad. If she needed it, she’d come back. None of the other girls had arrived yet, so there would be no observers of the early-morning visit to the boss’s office.

She rapped on the door and opened it. “You wished to see me?”

The shaggy head swung her way. “You here already?”

Christine felt the query did not need a reply.

“Sit,” the man said. She sat.

He pushed his chair back, then changed his mind and leaned forward. “I know your answer was no, and I’m not out to change that.” At the same time he raised a hand to forestall any words she might be inclined to say. “However . . .” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you’d object to making another supper. Just one.” He lifted the hand again, this time palm up.

Christine gave the matter thought, then nodded silently.

“Good.”

He exhaled loudly and pushed back again, looking very pleased. Christine’s immediate thoughts went to Miss Stout. The woman would be overjoyed.

“When?” she asked simply.

“Friday. This Friday. I’ll do all the shopping—just give me a list.”

“Friday.” She nodded. “Fine. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve? I have little experience with any fancy dishes.”

“Fancy dishes we don’t need. Just some of that chicken and dumplings you served before. That was wonderful.”

“But . . . but don’t you think your guest might enjoy something . . . well, different this time?”

“Nope. Nope. He’ll love that, I know he will.”

He? Who was her boss referring to?

“It’s to be a surprise. I haven’t told him a thing about it.”

Whatever the plan and whoever the guest, Mr. Kingsley seemed tremendously excited.

“How many? For supper?” asked Christine.

“Just us. Two. And you, of course. I want you to sit with us this time.”

“Me?”

“I want it like . . . like a family meal. Instead of you serving like a maid.”

Christine swallowed and nodded again. “If you wish.”

He beamed. “That’s all set, then. You just get me that list.”

“What if I go ahead and get what I need and you simply reimburse me?”

“That’s good. That’s great. I never did like shopping.” He sounded relieved.

Christine rose. “Friday,” she said as she turned to the door.

“Friday,” her boss agreed, obviously very pleased with himself. “Oh,” he called after her. “You can plan on the meal being ready about seven. Boyd won’t be back home until then.”

Christine nearly stopped in midstride. Boyd? So now she was to be cooking a meal for the boss’s son. For some reason she could not have explained, her heart suddenly began to beat much faster.

Christine was in the large kitchen nervously fussing over the final preparations for the meal when Boyd arrived. She could hear Mr. Kingsley’s booming voice welcoming his son home from college. It made her even more anxious. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her hands from trembling as she served.

“Boy, that’s the longest trip . . .” Christine could not pick up the rest of Boyd’s words. She heard both men laugh uproariously and wondered what the joke was. With a final flutter of nerves she picked up two filled serving bowls and proceeded to the dining room. Quickly her eyes scanned the table. She had tried hard to make the table setting attractive without being too feminine. She wondered now if it seemed overdone, a bit showy for two bachelors. Quickly she removed the two candles in their tall crystal holders. Still she was uncertain. The fanned napkins were the next to go. She shook them out, then folded them and laid them beside the plates. That helped—but she was sure her aunt Mary would have been disappointed.

She had lived with Uncle Jon and Aunt Mary in their Calgary home while she took the secretarial course. During that time she had begged to be taught the niceties of city life that would prepare her for being a hostess in an urban setting. Though her mother had taught her the accepted manners of genteel society, her upbringing in the North had placed her far beyond the range of city social customs. Aunt Mary had been happy to teach her the duties of a charming hostess, along with the decorative touches that helped to make a memorable meal. Christine had been put under Cook’s tutelage in the kitchen. She had loved it. In fact at one point she had considered becoming a chef instead of continuing her secretarial training. Her practical nature had kept her on track, however. There were far more positions available for secretaries than for chefs.

Now she fidgeted with the cutlery and rearranged the water glasses. Was the crystal too much?

She heard the voices drawing close and guessed that Mr. Kingsley was gradually leading his son toward the dining room. There was no more time for fussing. She reached up to tuck a stray curl away, and then they were in the doorway. Mr. Kingsley pushed his tall son ahead of him while he chortled in pleasure.

“My little surprise,” he bawled gleefully. “Got us a cook.”

Christine felt her cheeks burn. The young man was more handsome than she had remembered. He studied her openly, his eyes indicating his own pleasure.

“You remember Miss Delaney?”

Mr. Kingsley had not ceased slapping his son on the back. Rather worse than the tapping pencil.

Boyd nodded. Christine noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “Who could forget?” he said with a courtly little bow and a smile at her.

“Who could forget? That’s good. Who could forget?” Mr. Kingsley thumped his son’s back again. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. You won’t forget the chicken and dumplings. No siree.”

“Excuse me,” said Christine, flushed and a bit uncertain. “I need to finish dishing up.”

“May I help?”

Boyd’s question surprised her. “No. No, thank you. I’ll just . . . I’ll . . .” She gave up and hurried from the room.

“Let’s sit down,” she heard Mr. Kingsley say. “She’ll be right in.”

Christine managed to get the rest of the food into serving bowls without spilling or dropping anything. After finally sitting down herself, she looked to Mr. Kingsley, wondering if he would offer a table grace. But he just said, “What are we waiting for? Let’s eat!” as he grabbed up the nearest bowl.

It was a rather boisterous meal—though Christine had very little to contribute to the conversation. She wished she could have eaten in the kitchen as she had done before. She heard many lively stories about university life. Then she realized that few of the stories had anything to do with classes or studies. Mostly they were of sporting events and dorm pranks.

“So how are your courses coming?” Mr. Kingsley eventually asked. “Still think you’re going to like law?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I dropped that field.”

Mr. Kingsley lifted his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you told me.”

“Sorry. Guess I was just so involved . . .” But there didn’t seem to be any true contrition in his tone.

“When did you make the switch?”

“First of the semester.”

“And what did you switch to?”

“I don’t know—yet. Still haven’t decided. I think journalism might be interesting.”

Mr. Kingsley nodded, his eyes questioning. But his voice was still even, interested, as he said, “Journalism?” He nodded. “Sounds good.”

Boyd turned to Christine and complimented her on the dumplings.

Mr. Kingsley interrupted with, “The girl’s a wonder in the kitchen.”

“Sure beats those second-rate restaurants you usually take me to,” joked Boyd.

Christine flushed again.

“Have you had any courses in journalism?” Mr. Kingsley picked up the previous conversation.

“Not yet. Didn’t want to jump into it in the middle of a semester.”

“But you were taking classes—right?”

“Oh . . . right. I finished up a couple of arts classes.”

“Arts?”

“General. They will apply to almost anything I decide to take.”

“So you’ve only got a couple classes?”

“Well, I have another one from the first semester.”

“I thought you took a full load your first semester.”

“Well . . . yeah . . . I started out that way. Some of them were just . . . useless rubbish. I dropped a couple. Ended up with only one I could use.”

Christine felt very uncomfortable. She wished she did not have to sit in on this exchange. Even so, the two seemed most amiable. No criticism on the part of the father. No apology or embarrassment on the part of the son.

“Takes a while to settle into university life,” Boyd went on. “You sort of have to find your way.”

Mr. Kingsley agreed, seeming quite willing to accept his son’s word for it.

“Well—next year you’ll know what to expect. More what you want. You can work it out then.”

Boyd nodded and asked for the plate of chicken.

“Save plenty of room for dessert. I had Miss Delaney make your favorite. Chocolate cream pie. I got a whiff of it. You’ll want more than one piece, I’m sure.”

After the meal the men stretched out in front of the blazing fire in the drawing room, and Christine hurried off to clean up the kitchen. She had no objection to riding the city’s electric streetcars, but she did not feel comfortable being out alone too late at night. Had she still been in the North she would not have given the late hour a second thought. Christine felt much safer in the North than in the unfamiliar city.

“Come. Come sit and visit,” invited Mr. Kingsley, extending a hand to her when she stepped into the room to bid them a good-night.

“Oh . . . no. Thank you. I must get on home. I’m not even sure how late the trolley runs.”

“Trolley? No trolley. No need. Boyd can take you in his car. Come and sit awhile.”

Christine felt she had no choice in the matter. Reluctantly she laid aside her coat and went to join them. The younger man slid over on the couch and patted the seat beside him. With flushed cheeks, Christine accepted the invitation.

“So . . . has my father been treating you all right?” teased the young man. Mr. Kingsley laughed outright. Christine did not attempt an answer, feeling that none was really expected.

“I tried to get her to move in here,” said Mr. Kingsley. “Room and board in exchange for a meal now and then.”

Boyd looked at her closely, making her blush further. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

“Well, it didn’t sound like a good plan to her. She turned me down.”

Christine could feel two sets of eyes trained upon her. It made her most uncomfortable. “I just didn’t think it would look right,” she managed.

“Told her she could bring some other woman along,” the father explained.

“I really have no . . . no other woman to bring,” Christine defended herself.

“You could always bring Ol’ Bones,” Boyd put in.

At Christine’s frown, he quickly amended the comment. “Whoops. Guess I should say Miss Stout.”

Miss Stout? Ol’ Bones? Christine was shocked at the young man’s lack of respect, but his father only chuckled.

“I do not believe Miss Stout would be interested in making a move to accommodate me,” Christine said, trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

Boyd smiled and shifted, stretching long legs across the heavy carpet. “Oh . . . I think Miss Stout would use any excuse available to be able to move in here,” he said, raising an eyebrow somewhat cynically.

“I really must be going,” Christine said as she stood to her feet.

Mr. Kingsley nodded. “Reckon the boy is a bit tired tonight too. He’s had a long day of travel.”

Soon the two were out in the cool night air, headed toward Boyd’s automobile. Christine took a deep breath. It felt good to be fairly hidden in the darkness.

Boyd opened the car door and helped her into the vehicle.

“How many times a week do you favor us with a meal?” he asked as he started the engine.

“Oh no. This was a . . . a single event. Your father wanted to surprise you with a meal at home on your first night.”

“I’m disappointed,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “It was a delightful surprise, and I was hoping it would be repeated—regularly. You’re quite sure we can’t persuade you?”

Christine stammered for a reply. She couldn’t find much to offer in the way of an argument. He was so gentlemanly. So confident and smooth. She felt like a backwoods bumpkin by comparison.

The car purred effortlessly along the empty streets. He asked, “What do you find to do in this cow town? What do you do for entertainment?”

“Entertainment?”

“Don’t tell me my father doesn’t leave you time for pleasure? Surely he doesn’t work you all the time.”

“Oh no. I have every evening free.”

“And you . . . ?” he prompted.

“I read.”

“Read?” The way he said the word made it sound like nothing could be more boring.

“I love to read,” she said defensively.

“You know,” he said with a laugh, “if you’ll allow me, I guarantee I can find something for you that’s a lot more exciting than that.”

Christine did not answer.

They pulled up in front of her boardinghouse, but before she could express her thanks and open her door, he reached over and took her hand. “How about it?” he pressed.

“I . . . I really must get in.”

He had not let go of her hand, and she knew her heart was racing.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Well . . . it would . . . would depend,” she said. “I wouldn’t . . . I couldn’t give a final answer. I’ve no idea what you might have in mind. I’d have to decide . . .”

His chuckle interrupted her words. “So it’s not a straight-out no. That’s a comfort.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Then I guess it’s up to me to find something you’d agree to do. Right?”

She nodded, then realized it was too dark in the auto for him to see her. “Right,” she managed.

He lifted her hand and gently kissed her fingers. “I accept the challenge.”

Christine hurriedly withdrew her hand and scrambled from the car. She was visibly shaking as she made her way up the walk. She did hope she would meet no one in the hallway on the way to her room.