Enchanted (17 page)

Mrs. O’Brien turned to Ashley. “Thank you for bringing Kathleen to meet me.” Then to Kathleen. “You are coming to our anniversary ball?”

“She is an employee, Constance. She has to make an appearance.”

Mrs. O’Brien took Kathleen’s hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. “Why don’t you plan on staying the weekend?”

Ashley’s eyes widened, but the other two women didn’t see her shock.

“I couldn’t,” Kathleen said.

“None of that. Of course you can stay. I insist.”

“Well, I guess—”

“Good. That’s settled.”

“I suppose I could change my plans and stay, too, Constance.”

“No, Ashley. I couldn’t ask you to do that. Besides, we’ve spent enough time together over the years.”

“I could never spend too much time with you.”

“Oh, but you could, my dear.” Mrs. O’Brien’s frozen smile returned as she looked into Ashley’s bewildered eyes.

Kathleen couldn’t tell if Ashley understood the meaning of Mrs. O’Brien’s words, but Ashley continued to smile as if she hadn’t been rebuffed. And then the tension eased when a high-pitched voice beckoned to Mrs. O’Brien.

“Oh, Constance.” A petite, blue-haired woman in a ruffled fuchsia dress waved from across the room.

“It was lovely meeting you, my dear, but I really must go. My friends Eloise, Linda, and Nan don’t like to be ignored.” Mrs. O’Brien waved back at her companions. “Be right there.”

Kathleen liked Mrs. O’Brien. All her life she’d thought rich society types would be stuffy snobs. But not Constance O’Brien. Just the opposite had to be said about her.

“I look forward to seeing you this weekend, my dear. Goodbye, Ashley.”

Mrs. O’Brien disappeared, and the waiter instantly helped Ashley with her chair and poured the wine for her approval. Without a thought, she swirled the wine in the crystal stem-ware, then tasted the sample. “This is awful. Where did you get it? California?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Tate.”

“Just get me something else.”

“Could I bring you something?” he asked Kathleen.

“No. But thank you very much.”

Ashley jealously watched the exchange between Kathleen and the smiling waiter. She sipped on her water until the waiter left, then launched into Kathleen.

“I brought you here as my guest. How dare you monopolize the conversation. If I’d known you were going to throw yourself at Constance, I never would have introduced you.”

Kathleen didn’t utter a word. Never, never apologize. Instead, she grinned and watched Ashley’s composure melt.

“You’ll just have to think of a reason not to spend the weekend. What would Mac think? He didn’t invite you. He wouldn’t. Not to his mother’s house.”

The waiter returned with a fresh bottle of chardonnay, popped the cork, and started to pour. “Just fill it up and get out of here.”

Once the waiter left, Ashley turned her frown toward Kathleen.
“The help is horrible around here lately.”
She
took a sip of wine, then another, and glared again into Kathleen’s eyes. “It’s absolutely ridiculous for you to spend the weekend. I mean, what would you wear? Surely not the stuff you wear to the office.”

Kathleen couldn’t help herself. She had to say something. “I don’t think she invited me so she could check out my wardrobe.”

“Then why? I just don’t understand.”

Kathleen couldn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the
short, round, white-haired
woman heading straight for their table. She
was dressed all in red, except for her black orthopedic shoes. She didn’t belong in this club any more than Kathleen did, but she didn’t seem to mind. She
appeared to be in a world of her own, staring at the luscious dessert on the plate she carried. She hummed something that sounded to Kathleen like a Christmas carol, but she couldn’t place the song.

Kathleen didn’t know when the woman’s movements switched to slow motion, but she clearly saw her stumble. The plate sailed out of the old lady’s hands and propelled through the air just as Ashley looked up from her glass of wine. It seemed to hover above Ashley’s head, looking for the perfect position. And then it happened. The dessert slipped off the dish, an oozing concoction of brownie, vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry. It settled on top of Ashley’s blonde hair, each portion choosing its own course for sliding down her head. The gooey fudge streaked one cheek, the whipped cream another. The brownie slipped into her lap, and the plump, red cherry settled perfectly at the tip of her nose.

Kathleen laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The women at surrounding tables laughed. But not Ashley. Her face turned crimson, ready to explode. She pushed away from the table, upsetting a water goblet and her glass of wine. The two liquids flowed together over the edge of the table, and Ashley stood in a dripping
dress
, the brownie choosing to slither down the yellow silk, leaving behind a zigzag pattern of chocolate brown.

Ashley incoherently shrieked obscenities as she attempted to brush the brownie off her skirt, but ended up with more of a mess and a sticky brown blob in her hands. She straightened, her back stiff, glared at Kathleen with all the hate she could muster, and thundered from the dining room.

Kathleen caught Mrs. O’Brien’s eye. Mac’s mother winked while her companions laughed quietly amongst themselves. Kathleen searched the room for the woman who had lost her balance, and her dessert. She hoped she hadn’t hurt herself when she tripped, and she secretly wanted to thank the lady for brightening her day. But the woman had vanished.

“Good morning, Mother.” Mac planted a firm, loving kiss on the ageless woman’s brow.

He sat down in the chair the butler had pulled out for him and stared at the sliced melon and steaming black coffee. “Excuse me, George. Could you possibly find me something more substantial for breakfast? Hash browns, sausage. You know, a big country breakfast?”

George eyed him skeptically. “Would you prefer biscuits and gravy, sir?”

“I think you’ve got the right idea.”

Mac picked up the newspaper lying next to his plate and quickly scanned the front page.

“I hope you didn’t forget you’re breakfasting with me this morning,” he heard his mother say. “You can read the paper when you’re alone, but this morning you’re here at my invitation.”

Mac eyed his mother over the top of the paper. She looked pretty good for seventy-six, and right now she looked as if she had a million things to discuss with the son she saw only once or twice a month.

He folded the paper and laid it back on the table. “Your roses look beautiful this morning,” he said, surveying the expansive lawn bordered by roses of every hue. Their fragrance caught in the light breeze, and drifted toward the patio. He always loved spring and summer at McKenna House. At times he wished he lived here again, instead of in the city. He enjoyed looking at the garden, his mother’s pride and joy. He remembered the feel of the dew on the freshly mown grass that he ran through, barefooted, as a child. And he loved and missed conversations with his mother, and his father, when meals were served outside in the clean, fresh air.

“You’re off in never-never land, Mac.”

“Sorry. Just reminiscing.”

“I didn’t ask you here to talk about roses, or to talk about old times. I want to talk about Kathleen Flannigan.”

Mac scowled. “How on earth do you know about Kathleen?”

“Besides the fact that your picture was plastered across the front of
The Tattler
, your old friend Áshley introduced her to me.”

The frown lines deepened in his forehead. “When?”

“Yesterday
. They were hav
ing lunch together at the club.”

“That’s not possible. Ashley despises Kathleen.”

“Possible or not, they were together.” Mrs. O’Brien took a sip of orange juice and studied her son’s face. “Kathleen’s charming, not a bit like the other women you’ve known.”

“No. She’s much different.” Much, much different, he thought. “So what do you want to know about her?”

“Everything. She’s spending the weekend with me, and I want to make sure we have plenty to talk about.”

Mac choked on his coffee. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“Yes.”

“What weekend?”

“This weekend, of course. After the ball.”

“No, Mother. Kathleen is not spending this weekend here. I’m staying here and you know it.”

Constance folded her hands in her lap and smiled sweetly at her son. “Yes, darling. Kathleen will be here for the entire weekend because I invited her. She’s my guest, not yours. Now, will you please tell me what I should know about her, and why it is that you don’t want her here?”

Mac stared at the plate of over-easy eggs and biscuits and gravy that had just been placed in front of him. His stomach churned. His appetite disappeared.

“I don’t want her here because, well . . .” He couldn’t think of a reason.

“Go on, Mac. I’m waiting.”

What could he possibly say to his mother to make her change her mind about having Kathleen stay at McKenna House? In nearly fifty years, he couldn’t remember his mother backing down on a decision. As much as he begged and pleaded, she had never changed her mind.

Cutting into the thick, creamy gravy and biscuit, he started to take a bite then paused, aiming the fork and his determined eyes at his mother. “I have no intention of seeing her again on a personal basis, and I think you should leave well enough alone.”

“But I like her, son. You must, too. Why else would you spend the night together?”

“We didn’t spend the night together,” he fired back.

“Then why was that picture in the paper?”

He shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

“Did you or did you not spend the night together?”

“Am I on trial?”

“Yes, young man, you are.”

Mac put down his fork and ignoring years of etiquette training, rested his chin in his hand, closed his eyes, and shook his head. His mother was the most relentless woman he’d ever known. Why did strong women seem to dominate his life?

“Yes, we spent the night together. No, I didn’t sleep with her. And . . .” He looked up at his mother, hoping for sympathy and understanding. “She works for me.”

“I see.” Constance offered only an indulgent smile. “Broke your number-one rule about romance in the workplace, didn’t you?”

“Don’t make it worse. That night was an accident. I thought I was meeting someone else.”

“And what happened to that someone else?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she’s very pretty.”

“And you like her?”

“Yes.” He envisioned her buttery lips, her bare feet, her generous smile.

“I’m not getting any younger, McKenna. I’d like a grandchild or two.”

His brow furrowed once again. “She’s not the marrying kind.”

“And why not?”

Mac leaned back and thought of numerous reasons why Kathleen wasn’t the marrying kind. Discounting those old rumors, there were dozens of other reasons. “Well, for starters, she’s stubborn . . . opinionated. We don’t get along away from the office and we sure as hell don’t see eye-to-eye at work. Would you believe she told me she wants to eventually run McKenna Publishing?”

“She’d have to be a member of the family to do that,” Constance stated.

“I’m sure she’s perfectly aware of that. But what she seems to forget is that she can’t have both.”

Constance frowned. “I don’t quite understand. What do you mean by both?”

“She can’t be married and run the company, too.”

Constance laughed. She pushed her chair away from the table. Apparently she’d had enough of her son’s excuses. She picked up a wicker basket and shears from a table at the edge of the patio, and walked across the lawn to her rose garden. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she delicately touched the bud at the end of a long-stemmed yellow rose and inhaled its sweet perfume, then started to clip her favorite flowers to fill the many vases inside.