Enchanted (4 page)

“I didn’t barge. You opened the door for me.”

“I opened the door to see who was there.”

“That’s right. You saw who was there and I came in. I’m your new housekeeper, and I really would appreciate it if you’d get out of that wet towel and put something more respectable on. My word, young man, you leave
nothing
to the imagination.”

He frowned and, in an absentminded gesture, crossed his hands over the front of the towel. “It’s my house and I’ll dress any way I want.” Actually, he wanted to be dressed in something warmer. God, he was freezing.

And then her words registered.
Housekeeper?

“Wait a minute. How can you be the new housekeeper? I haven’t called the agency yet.”

“Good. Then I’ve saved you all that time and trouble.” She fidgeted with the roses, arranging them to perfection.

Maybe he needed to try another tactic to get her out of his house. Then, again, he did need a housekeeper, and she wasn’t the least bit threatening. In fact, she looked rather familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen her before. “Do I know you?”

“So to speak.” She opened one of the carpetbags and pulled out a feather duster, busying herself around the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stopped her dusting and turned to stare at Mac. “Haven’t you put any clothes on yet?”

“I’m not moving one inch until you tell me who the hell you are.”

“Is that all you’re waiting for?”

“Yes.”

“Name’s Mrs. Nicholas, but you can call me Merry. That’s Merry—spelled M-E-R-R-Y.”

“Okay, Merry—spelled M-E-R-R-Y. Who the hell are you?”

“I told you. Your new housekeeper. Now, please stop swearing.”

“I don’t swear.” He followed her into the living room, where she delicately dusted the glass and chrome, and the black-and-white leather furniture.

“My, my, my. This furniture won’t do at all.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a few things in my bags to make this place look a bit more homey.”

He stepped in front of the rosy-cheeked lady, whose eyes leveled at his hairy chest. “Do you expect me to let you barge in here and take over?”

“Of course I do, young man. Now, run along and finish your shower, or whatever it was you were doing when I arrived. I’ll talk to you when you’re decent.”

He’d been dismissed—by a total stranger.

Mac came out of his bedroom half an hour later dressed in
charcoal
corduroy slacks and a
dove gray cashmere
sweater. He’d checked the thermostat. It was set at seventy-two degrees, but the temperature had dropped to sixty. He couldn’t fool around with it now, though. He wanted to learn more about Merry Nicholas.

He found her in the kitchen, humming a tune while she arranged a vase of red and white carnations.

“Oh, hello, Mr. O’Brien. Don’t you look handsome all dressed up like that.” She bustled over to the table and pulled out a chair. “Here. I’ve made you a nice warm lunch, and I’ve got cookies baking in the oven.”

“I don’t eat lunch.”

“Of course you do. Mine, anyway. Now sit down and eat.”

He wasn’t about to argue with her. Besides, the soup and sandwich looked and smelled delicious. And was that hot chocolate in the mug, with miniature marshmallows floating on top?

He bit into the sliced turkey on white bread and savored the taste of thickly spread mayonnaise. When had he last allowed himself the luxury of high-cholesterol mayonnaise?

“Mrs. Nicholas?”

“Merry. Please.”

“
All right. So, Merry, h
ow did you know I needed a housekeeper?” Since taking his shower he had regained some of his senses. He couldn’t let this little old lady take the upper hand with him. But, against his better judgment, he realized there was something about her he rather enjoyed, something kind of cherubic.

She shrugged her shoulders and pulled open the oven door to take out a tray of sugar cookies. “Oh, I just have a way of knowing when someone needs me.”

“Like a premonition?” He remembered his other housekeeper’s word that morning.

“
Premonition?
No, no, no. That’s a warning something bad is going to happen. Nothing bad happens when I’m around.”

“Nothing?”

“Of course not, child.”

Mac took another bite and forced
hims
elf to smile. He hadn’t been a child to anyone in well over thirty years. He liked the feeling. In fact, he liked Merry, in spite of her uniquely forceful personality. Somehow, whether it was the tone of her voice or the matter-of-fact things she said, she made him happy. God, he hadn’t been really happy in ages.

“Are you from New York, Merry?” he asked, peering over the top of his turkey sandwich.

“Oh, no, no, no. I just came here for the summer.” She sat down at the table across from him with a cup of the steaming hot chocolate and a plate full of freshly baked sugar cookies.

When she sat down, he noticed the potted plant on the table.
Poinsettias?
Weren’t they available only at Christmas?

Her small, rectangular-lensed glasses settled on the end of her nose, perched so precariously close to the edge he thought they would topple off. She gazed over their shiny gold rims while talking to Mac. “I always go away for the summer. Nicky, that’s my husband, likes to tinker in his workshop all summer long. He just loves making things for the kids.”

“The kids?”

“Oh, you know,” she said with a wink.

He shook his head. No, he didn’t know. Why couldn’t she give him a straight answer? If he didn’t know better, he could swear Mrs. Claus had just winked at him. Of course! That’s where he had seen her before. The photo on his desk. The photo of the woman his dad swore had winked at him.

“I just remembered where I’ve seen you before.”

“I knew you’d remember. How many years ago was it you got that frame for Christmas? Five? Six?”

“Five, but how did you know about the frame?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Like I said, I just know these things.”

“But . . . it
is
you in the picture?”

“I’ve been in a picture or two in my time.”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

She glanced at the clock, then jumped up from the table. “Look at the time, Mr. O’Brien. Don’t you have work to do and a party to go to tonight? Do you need me to iron your shirt? I’m really good at ironing, you know. Not all women can do that well, but I’ve got the knack.”

She
can
read my thoughts. This little old lady has just walked into my life, appears to know everything about me, and I’m allowing it to continue. I must be losing my mind.

oOo

Mac spent most of the afternoon at his desk, catching up on a stack of correspondence that needed his personal reply. Although Merry never bothered him, he could hear her humming Christmas carols in the living room which adjoined his office. It sounded as though she was pushing furniture around, but he didn’t want to look, afraid of what the strange lady might be doing. She seemed harmless enough, maybe a bit eccentric, but he didn’t think she was casing the place or pocketing away valuables.

At six o’clock he walked into the living room, totally unprepared for the scene that greeted him.

Merry sat in an ancient maple rocker before a blazing fire, a lacy white afghan draped around her shoulders. Before he could ask where the rocker came from, she looked up from her knitting. “Oh, my dear. You look absolutely splendid in that tuxedo. My Nicky, now, he’s partial to flannel shirts and suspenders. I just can’t imagine
him
in anything quite so fancy.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to take one of my old tuxes home to him?”

“No, no, no. Nicky’s not nearly as tall as you. Actually, he’s a bit on the short side. And his belly, oh, you know that old saying about a bowlful of jelly. Well, that fits my Nicky to a tee.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Mac mumbled under his breath.

“What was that you said?”

“
N
othing.”
Mac shook his head. “Nothing at all.”

Mac stood by the door, contemplating the mysterious rocker, the husband named Nicky, the bowlful of jelly. It was all too unbelievable, too crazy to even consider. No, she couldn’t be Mrs. Claus. After all, he quit believing in Santa forty years ago—Santa was a childish myth—and Mac lived in the real world.

“I’ll be home late,” he said, dreading the thought of leaving his nice, rather chilly apartment for the heat and humidity of the hot June night.

“You mean early—as in near morning?”

“Okay. Very late. Don’t wait
u
p for me.”

“Now, now, now, Mr. O’Brien. I have every intention of waiting up. Besides, I have a few things to discuss with you.”

“Such as?”

“Such as you’ll never find a wife at this Pallenberg shindig you’re going to tonight”

“Who said I’m looking for a wife?”

She didn’t answer, just glared at him over those funny little glasses in that defiant stance she seemed to have taken all day, her arms folded under her ample bosom.

“
And I definitely won’t be looking
for a wife at the Pallenbergs’.”

“I should hope not. Those society types aren’t right for you at all.”

“And you know who is right for me?”

“I’ve got a few ideas. Run along now, child, and enjoy your party. We’ll talk later.”

oOo

Mac disliked parties. He preferred quiet, intimate affairs, just himself and a beautiful woman. But his position in society demanded that he attend and make his presence known. Since the day he turned two and his mother put him in his first tuxedo, short pants and all, he’d been attending grand functions like this one. At two he kicked and screamed, until his mother took him aside, wiped away his tears, and told him to straighten up and act like a fine young man. He bore the O’Brien name, and O’Briens always put their best foot forward, even when they hated the task.

Tonight, as always, he did as expected, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème, the jet-setters whose lives revolved around parties, basking in the sun, and enjoying a steady stream of old money that never seemed to run dry. He could be just like them. He could let someone else operate McKenna Publishing, and all the other entities that made up the McKenna empire. But he’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t earn his way in this world. Mac had never wanted anything handed to
him
on a silver platter, although many people forced the plate in front of his face.

He stood before a six-foot ice carving of embracing swans, sipped a delicate glass of champagne, and wished he held a cold bottle of beer. The frigid air around the icy sculpture was the only invigorating thing about this party, with the possible exception of the woman he had accompanied.

Ashley stood with Mrs. Pallenberg, looking beautiful, graceful, and serene, with her blond hair swept off her back to reveal a slender, perfectly straight neck. Even in the heat she appeared cool, as though the night’s warmth were air-conditioned just for her.

His eyes trailed down her spine, slender, straight, to her narrow waist, where the silk of her gown began. When had he last caressed that spine, slipped Ashley’s gown from her shoulders to savor the satiny smooth skin of her breasts? One year? Two? He lost count a long time ago. Instead of making love, they shopped for jewels and furs. Instead of indulging in rich desserts, they ate rabbit food. Instead of sweating together in a passionate embrace, he exercised to keep in shape, in case someday someone might want to see what he looked like out of his fancy suits.

Oh, Ashley. How did we ever get together? Mac watched her animation as she flitted from one person to another, kissing a hand here, a cheek there. Ten years ago he asked her to marry him, but marriage didn’t appe
ar on her agenda, especially
when he mentioned children. They turned her off completely. But he still stuck with her, year in and year out. She laughed, she looked beautiful, she kept him from being lonely on business trips. At one point their life together had been good. When did it end? He couldn’t remember why or when the passion died. It just happened, and he blamed no one but himself.

He dated others on occasion, but nothing serious. Ashley didn’t seem to mind as long as no one found out. The other women shared a common bond with Ashley—rich, pampered, spoiled. He had a knack for attracting the wrong type of women, the ones who flocked around him and his wealth. He’d been
born
into money and found it very hard to get out of the rut

“You look rather bored this evening,” Ashley whispered, slipping her hand around his arm.

“
Bored?
What makes you think I’m bored?”

“I haven’t seen a smile on your face even once this evening. Come on now. Don’t you have a smile, even for me?”