Town Square, The (3 page)

No one else around town could offer her skills, and even without a resume or any background information, she was his best candidate. He couldn’t stand to do administrative work, and if she insisted she wouldn’t answer any questions about herself, he could suck it up. Plus, there were piles of boxes someone had to file, and that someone wasn’t going to be him.

“Okay, you’re hired.”

A secret smile appeared on her lips, and then she stood, pulling her gloves on once again, slowly and deliberately. God, how did women stand the bother of all that fuss about fashion?

“Wonderful,” she murmured. “I only have one other request.”

He took a step closer, studying her amused face. “Name it.”

“I’ve heard some bosses like to call their secretaries ‘sweetheart.’ Don’t.”

Well, she’d just let something slip about her background. She’d never been a secretary, or she would have used the word “seen,” not “heard.”

“Oh, and I don’t make coffee.”

That was interesting. Didn’t most secretaries do that? To get her goat, he simply said, “So what should I call you?”

“Harriet,” she informed him, turning toward the door and walking out. “Or Harry, if it makes it easier to remember not to call me ‘sweetheart.’”

As he watched her gorgeous body stroll out of his office, one thought crossed his mind.

There was no way this woman could be mistaken for a Harry.

Chapter 2

H
arriet walked down the freshly painted hall of
The Western Independent
and had to wonder again at her success.

She’d done it. She’d given him the fake last name she was using in town, so there was no turning back now.

Jenkins was a name she’d spotted on a mailbox as she and her sister were driving into town. It wasn’t like she could use her own. He would have recognized Evangelina Wentworth immediately, and the whole reason she had for being here would have been rendered moot. Evangelina, while a family name, was a mouthful, so she’d gone by her middle name for most of her life anyway.

The sun was stark against the snow when she emerged from the old brick building. Dare Valley was charming with its Christmas decorations of angels and white lights dotting Main Street. Even though the sidewalks had been shoveled, she took care with a few icy patches as she made her way to her blue Buick sedan, mindful of the townspeople’s inquisitive stares as she passed, feeling like an outsider. It was not a new feeling, or a pleasant one.

Arthur Hale wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Part of her wished he hadn’t been so attractive. His thick dark brown hair framed an arresting face punctuated with the keenest blue eyes she’d ever seen. He was tall and lanky, and he seemed to possess plenty of boy–next–door charm.

People said Arthur must have been born under a lucky star given the way he’d landed so many big stories in New York. Granted, he’d had the help of the oil tycoon, Emmits Merriam. People speculated Arthur had left a star–studded career in New York because of some arrangement with the man. Frankly, she could care less.

She eased the car onto the street, trying not to regret being here instead of in New York for the premiere of “Camelot”—where she should have been on this third day in December with her sister, Maybelline, who had some old school chums in the production. Harriet drove to the house she and her sister, Maybelline, were renting as the radio played “Georgia on My Mind” by Ray Charles. She sighed, letting its smooth, slow sound wash over her. It hadn’t been easy to convince Burt Kennion to rent his recently deceased mother’s house to them without a man’s signature on the lease, but the man had finally agreed when she told him their father was dead and they were both unmarried.

Their father wasn’t dead, but he might as well be. And Arthur Hale had caused it all.

He’d shot up the journalism ranks with a series of stories about a scientist who hadn’t performed adequate testing on a new baby formula, which had resulted in the deaths of seven infants in three different states, the hospitalization of hundreds, and a total recall of the product.

That scientist had been her father. Dr. Ashley Wentworth had rallied against the bad press, saying he and the company had adhered to the Food and Drug Administration’s guidelines. But his protestations hadn’t been sufficient in the face of such a disaster. Hale had been tenacious, and the first–person accounts from women who’d lost their children had turned the tide against her father.

He had lost his reputation as a scientist and gone progressively insane in the ensuing months. Since their mother was dead and Harriet was the older sister, the responsibility to commit him had fallen to her. Doing it had broken her heart.

She was here because she wanted to restore her father’s reputation.

And to make Arthur Hale pay for his character assassination.

Once she found proof that he’d exaggerated the evidence he had on her father, she was going to discredit him. Her father had to be covering for someone else in the lab. He couldn’t have done such a thing. She knew it wouldn’t make up for the babies who had died, but at least it would clear her family’s name and give them back their old life.

Under the media scrutiny, they’d been shunned by their friends and family in Boston. Wellesley—where Harriet had just matriculated from in May—had recommended that Maybelline take a leave of absence and not return for her sophomore year.

Since June they had been in limbo, barely leaving the house, unsure of what to do. Harriet couldn’t find a job. Maybelline hadn’t been able to get into another school. Her admissions applications were all politely declined despite her excellent academic record.

They were exiles in their brick townhouse in Beacon Hill.

Until one night three weeks ago, when her inner rage at the injustice of it all had finally compelled her to find a way to change their circumstances. After staring out at the full moon for two hours that night, she decided it was time to take action. She called
The Times
to ask after Arthur, but he had already left New York. The chatty secretary told her of his plans, which most of the people at
The Times
figured would flop. When she hung up, she realized he would need to hire staff, so for the next few days, she kept her eyes peeled on the employment section in
The Denver Post
. One morning she spotted his advertisement for a secretary, and that had set everything into motion.

So here she was, in the smallest place in the world. Amidst all these mountains, she felt even more powerless than she had in Beacon Hill. And even more afraid of doing what she’d vowed to accomplish.

She turned onto quiet Raven Street, where she and Maybelline now lived, pulling up to the simple baby blue A–frame house with its open porch. Some of the paint was peeling, the porch leaned like an old woman resting on a cane, and a few of the screens were missing, but it was home. With the new university being established, housing was scarce in Dare Valley. They’d been fortunate to find this place, furnished with dusty relics of a dead woman’s past.

She parked the car in the driveway—one they’d borrowed from Warren Perkins, a cousin of Maybelline’s former boyfriend, Eddie, who had promised to set them up with “some wheels” when they made it to Denver because he felt guilty for dumping her. They’d swapped their own car, which was registered under their real name, with Warren’s before making their way to Dare.

The sidewalk was freshly salted to melt the ice—Maybelline’s doing—and Harriet headed into the house, the small rocks crunching under her feet with every step.

“Maybelline,” she called out as she pulled off her coat and gloves and deposited them in the front closet. Her hat followed them.

Her younger sister didn’t approve of Harriet’s mission, but she’d opted to come with her rather than stay home alone in their old house.

“How did it go?” Maybelline asked, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea.

“I got the job,” she said and smoothed a hand over her knotted stomach. “It’s a good thing dad had me learn shorthand to help him with his notes.”

Her sister’s strawberry hair curled at her shoulders, less severe than Harriet’s style today. She’d wanted to exude professionalism and cool detachment. Men found her attractive, and the last thing she wanted was for Hale to be interested in her. But despite her best efforts, she knew that he was.

“So, what’s he like?” she asked, resting her tea cup against her pink cashmere sweater.

“We should turn up the heat,” Harriet said, rubbing her hands together. “It’s cold in here.”

“You do that then while I make you a cup of tea. Then you can tell me about him.”

Minutes later, they sat down with their Lipton tea at the small white laminate table in the kitchen, and Harriet ran her sister through the meeting, leaving out her impression of Hale’s looks.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Maybelline said. “Trying to prove he didn’t properly investigate the story about father is risky. Everyone says Hale is smart as a tack. What happens if he catches you?”

Rubbing off the red lipstick stain she’d left on her tea cup, she said, “As his secretary, it will make sense for me to look at his files. Plus, from what I could see, there are boxes everywhere. One of the things his advertisement said was that he needed a filing system created for the office. If he has any questions about why I’m not just filing, but reading, I can play dumb. We both know how well that works with men.”

Sadly, it had even worked on their father, who had never imagined his girls could be as smart as he was. Scientists had their egos, too.

“What do you want me to do? Other than be here for moral support.”

“Just make the rounds. Keep your ear to the ground. Do the shopping—”

“And the cooking,” her sister added. “I know the drill. I get to be the wife while you’re off playing breadwinner. I should be able to pull that off, since we won’t be here too long.”

Harriet’s mouth quirked up. They’d both lost boyfriends over their family’s disgrace. Granted, neither had been serious, but it had wounded their pride. Being the daughters of a man people called The Baby Killer didn’t exactly attract men like honey.

Suddenly Harriet wondered if they would need to permanently change their last name to Jenkins to have a normal life and do things like dating again.

“How’s the TV reception?” she asked to change the subject.

“Abominable. I’m going to be unhappy if I can’t watch
Rawhide
.”

Harriet laughed. “Well, maybe you’ll find your own cowboy around here. Hale is from a ranching family, after all.”

“I’m not looking for a man right now. I just want you to finish this so we can leave. This town is way too small. I’ve decided to read all my favorite Christmas books while we’re here. At least I can have a good holiday season through literature, since we won’t be having one in this town.”

Harriet threaded her fingers through her sister’s and squeezed. “I know it’s hard right now, but we’ll make the best of it. We can make cookies and—”

“Keep our minds off everything we’ve lost. I know you keep saying I’ll be able to go back to Wellesley, but we both know they might not welcome me back, even if you
can
prove father is taking the blame for someone else.”

Harriet stood and walked across the room to the white linoleum counter. Untying the twist cinching the Wonder bread, she took out a piece and popped it in the toaster, taking her time to craft a response. Fortunately, her sister let her. She located the orange marmalade in the ancient white Kelvinator refrigerator and spread it on the toast when the bread popped up. The slightly cracked white dish she carried it on wasn’t the Wedgewood china they were used to, but it served its purpose just as well.

“I don’t want you to be afraid,” she said, praying for the right words. “We’ll figure something out.”

“What about the money?” she asked, gazing at Harriet steadily.

The toast crunched when she bit into it, and she took her time chewing, searching for the right words. “We aren’t poor, Maybelline, but we’ll need to make some changes. The full extent of the fallout wasn’t immediately apparent until I met with our accountant. Dad had invested everything into the company.” Which had gone bankrupt months after Hale’s first story broke.

“And his hospital care isn’t cheap,” she commented.

They both remembered the day they’d installed their father in the hospital. He barely recognized them anymore, having retreated so far into himself that even their pleas could no longer reach him.

The makings of a wry smile broke across Maybelline’s face, putting a little of the usual sparkle into her hazel eyes. “Then I guess it’s a good thing Hale’s paying you.”

“Yes,” she replied, licking the orange marmalade off the corner of her mouth.

It would take time, but she would find what she was seeking.

She couldn’t wait to pay Arthur Hale back for what he’d done to her family.

Chapter 3

A
rthur watched as Harriet chatted with Ernest Pinkel, Dare’s long–standing postman. From his position at his doorway, he could see that her smile was a lot brighter with the older gentleman than it was with him. He’d turned up the charm, trying to get her to add some warmth to her cool–as–a–cucumber attitude toward him, and when that failed, he amped up his banter. Her tense mouth hadn’t moved a millimeter, and he’d started to think he was losing his easygoing effect on people. She was a total professional, he couldn’t fault her there, but underneath it all, he could tell she didn’t like him.

He hadn’t asked her about that. That would have been stupid, and he wasn’t a stupid man.

Plus she was the best damn secretary he could hope to find in Dare, so he wasn’t complaining. Much.

“Harriet,” he called, hating to interrupt their chat, but big news had just come over the teleprinter, and he wanted to start his Sunday editorial for
The Boston Herald
.

Her whole frame tensed up, and he watched as she pasted a fake smile on her face. “Yes, sir?” she asked.