My Man Pendleton (21 page)

Surely.

Chapter 10

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I
t was with some trepidation that Pendleton pulled up behind his big Victorian house in Old Louisville shortly after six that evening. He told himself that the only reason he was shivering like a jackhammer was because of the constant rush of icy air that had blown in through the tear in the roof of his car that even duct tape hadn't been able to mend effectively, and not because he was terrified of a slim, blond woman who couldn't even make a sarong burgeon on her best day. Unfortunately, thoughts of Kit McClellan had left him shuddering every time they'd braved entry into his muddled brain.

Just what the hell was he supposed to do about her?

He folded closed the doors on the dilapidated shed that his real estate agent had called a garage, then made his way halfheartedly up the crumbling creekstones that bisected his small backyard. Once the weather turned warm, he had plans to rip out the stepping stones and replace them with a cobbled walkway that led from the back porch to the new garage he planned to build. Of course, that was going to necessitate building a back porch, too, one to replace the boxy wooden, uh
…
thing with screens
…
that was currently affixed to his house.

For now, however, his yard, porch, and garage were much like his house. In need of major renovation. Kind of like his life, too, he thought further as he approached.

He heard her long before he saw her and knew that Kit McClellan was still very much resident in his home. As he carefully negotiated the slick, mossy steps of his alleged back porch, a sound assaulted his ears unlike anything he had ever heard before. And only when he'd opened the back door and stepped inside did he finally realize what was causing the din.

To say she sang badly would have been like saying Josef Stalin had lacked people skills. And the song…

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Betsy from Pike…"
was what it sounded like she was attacking. Then something about green mountains and a brother named Ike. Then egg yolks? He couldn't really say. But the big yeller dog part was fairly clear, as was the spotted hog part. The rest, however
…
Well, he supposed he should be grateful he hadn't understood it all. Because that would have meant he had some working knowledge of Kit McClellan's repertoire. And the thought of such a possibility really didn't set well with him at all.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," he muttered as he entered his kitchen.

Immediately, he sensed that something was wrong. Well, something besides the fact that his house was currently the migratory receptacle for the rare, but unfortunately not quite extinct, yellow-headed, gravel-voiced hobnobber. And it wasn't just because of the tasteful arrangement of table and chairs situated at the center of the room that hadn't been there this morning when he'd left for work. It was also because of the smell emanating from one of the numerous copper pots cooking
…
stuff
…
on the stove. A smell that was quite
…
extraordinary. Not unpleasant, mind you…
Well, not
too
unpleasant. Just
…
um…

"Kit?" he called out to the house at large.

"Pendleton! Darling! You're home!"

Darling?

"I'll be right there! As soon as I fix your martini!"

Martini?

He told himself it was simple curiosity—and
not
crippling fear—that kept him rooted in place, gripping his briefcase as if it were the only thing that linked him to reality. Which was good, because when Kit entered the kitchen less than a minute later, he was sure reality was fast slipping away. In fact, he had to close his eyes for a moment, then open them again, to be sure he wasn't hallucinating.

Nope. He wasn't. Dammit.

Because that was definitely Kit McClellan gliding through the swinging door that connected kitchen to dining room. And she really was dressed like June Cleaver, right down to the high heels, the poufy skirt, the matching sweater set, and the pearl necklace. She strode toward him with a sweet smile, kissed his cheek, and extended a glass toward him.

And then she asked, "How was your day, dear?"

Okay, now this was just plain bizarre. It was one thing to have your house overrun, but when the woman overrunning it starting acting like this, well…
In a word,
ew.
A shudder wound through him, and he snatched the martini out of her hand, downing it in one quick swallow.

Kit patted his arm. "I'm glad to see you, too, honey. Here, let me take your coat and briefcase. Your slippers and the newspaper are in your chair by the fireplace."

Before he even realized what she was doing, Kit had his briefcase on the kitchen table, his coat draped over her arm, and she was refilling his glass from the cocktail shaker she'd been carrying in her other hand. It occurred to him then that not only did he not own a pair of slippers, but there was also no chair by his fireplace. Of course, until a moment ago, he would have sworn there was no table and chairs in his kitchen, either, and look how that had turned out.

"Kit?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What have you done?"

She arched her eyebrows in a way that, judging by the golden age of television still broadcast regularly on Nick at Nite, was endemic to all Eisenhower-era women. "What do you mean, dear?"

He opened his mouth to put voice to the thoughts that had just jelled—more or less—in his head, but all that came out was, "Ummm…"

And then he was crossing the kitchen toward the door that connected with the dining room, shoving it open with far more intensity than was necessary. He knew that, because it immediately banged into something on the other side and came hurling back again, smashing right against his nose.

"Ouch."

The commentary came not from Pendleton, but from Kit, who stood behind him. "That had to hurt," she added.

Without comment, he carefully pushed open the door, peeking around it into the other room to see what had caused its halt the first time. And imagine his surprise to discover a lovely dining room suite on the other side, complete with table, chairs, buffet, and china cabinet. A china cabinet that was half-stocked with what appeared, even to Pendleton's untrained eye, to be pretty primo china.

"Wedgwood," Kit clarified from behind him when she saw where his gaze had settled. "I got Louisville Stoneware for our everyday. Natch. I hope you don't mind me picking out our patterns without consulting you. But the fact is, you men simply do not have an eye for that kind of thing."

He turned to look at her. "My, but haven't you been a busy little bee today."

She grinned. "Yes,
I have, haven't I?"

He said nothing in response, only gazed at the new furnishings that were nothing at all like what he had planned to buy for himself. Kit's tastes obviously ran along the lines of English antiques, where his own were far more contemporary and far less excessive. Maybe, he thought, if he was really nice to her, she'd let him pick the interior paint colors when the time came.

"I wasn't sure who to call about the renovation work," she added, almost as if she'd read his mind. She swept her hand toward one of numerous spots of crumbling plaster near the ceiling. "Call me old-fashioned, but I think that's more a job for someone who has at least one Y chromosome, so I thought you could handle it."

"I'll handle it," he said, feeling just so damned
grateful that she allowed him some small say in the destiny of his own home.

Pushing past him, she strode alongside a half-dozen empty cartons filled with bubble-wrapped items Pendleton felt certain he was better off not knowing about. Then she made her way into the living room, where, by golly, there was an oxblood leather chair sitting by the fireplace—where, incidentally, burned a lovely little fire—complete with a pair of plaid wool slippers and a copy of
The Courier-Journal,
all folded nice and neat for his enjoyment.

"What? No golden retriever?" he asked.

"It's being delivered tomorrow," she announced as she spun around to face him.

He nodded.

"As is the sofa-loveseat combination, the club chair, and the chaise."

"I see."

"Unfortunately, our new bedroom suite won't be here until the day after."

He sighed heavily. "Does this mean you're planning to stay for some length of time?"

She waggled her head back and forth, then wrinkled her nose in thought. "Yeah."

"And, may I ask what I did to deserve such a, um
…
such a distinction?"

She shrugged. "You were nice to me, Pendleton."

He hesitated before saying anything more, wondering just how serious she was about this. Then, when he realized she was, more than likely, pretty dead set on it, he asked, "Will your father really fire me if I throw you out?"

He could have sworn that, for just the briefest of moments, she looked as if he'd hurt her feelings by asking what he had. Then he decided that he must have been mistaken, because she immediately appeared to be as cool, calm, and collected as always.

"Yeah, he probably would," she said. "He's done some pretty wacky things since Mama passed away. He used to only have four vice-presidents besides Holt, but he created all those new positions with huge, obscene salaries just so he could hire more potential life mates for me. And even at that, he's fired and hired a whole mess of people over the last two years. He always has what sounds like legitimate reasons for letting people go, but he's fired an awful lot of them when they didn't, oh, hit it off with the boss's daughter."

"So everyone there now is a fairly recent hire?" Pendleton asked.

She nodded. "I don't think any of the VPs have worked for Hensley's for more than a year. That's about how long Daddy gives them to make me marriage-minded. If you throw me out now, he'll probably decide pretty quickly that you're not vying for my affection and replace you with someone who will."

"What about Carmichael?" Pendleton asked as a new thought struck him. "If your father only hires potential husbands for you, then why did he hire Carmichael, who is quite obviously a woman?"

"He hired Carmichael in one of his more desperate periods, when he thought maybe I just wasn't, shall we say, interested in men. It was back when Hawaii was entertaining the idea of legalizing same-sex marriages."

"Ah."

"Carmichael has since met a very nice osteopathic surgeon named Debbie, and the two of them are very happy together."

Pendleton felt triumphant. "Then there's a good chance your father
won't
fire me if I throw you out, if he's kept Carmichael on in spite of her not being a potential life mate for you."

"Oh, please, Pendleton. Carmichael is positively
incredible
heading up advertising. Daddy would have to be crazy—in the medical sense, I mean—to let her go. You, on the other hand, are a new hire who hasn't even proven himself," she pointed out. "You are by no means irreplaceable."

Pendleton naturally took exception to that, but he supposed Kit had a point. Certainly he could fight his dismissal, but such a battle would be time-consuming. He absolutely, positively, without question had to hang onto his job. At least until the last week of April. He had something very important to prove, after all.

"How long are you staying?" he asked halfheartedly.

She smiled brightly, but once again, he got the impression that she was forcing all this cheerfulness. "I haven't decided yet. It'll be fun, Pendleton. You'll see. Just wait. Someday, we'll look back on this, and we'll laugh and laugh and laugh."

He nibbled his lip as he gazed at her, telling himself to hold back the maniacal laughter he felt threatening until that day dawned. And he wondered for a moment if she really was crazy, or if she just had a very sophisticated sense of humor that people from
South Jersey
couldn't possibly begin to understand. Ultimately, what he decided on was, "You're sick, Kit. You realize that, don't you?"

Slowly, she retraced her steps, her high heels skimming softly across the hardwood floor, her smile thinning as she approached. In one fluid gesture, she plucked from his hand the martini refill that he had yet to taste, then lifted it to her lips for a dainty sip.