Town Square, The (10 page)

She met his eyes, and then promptly lowered them. So she was feeling unsure this morning too. Well, then.

“Let me make you some coffee,” she announced, rising from her seat, looking tired yet lovely in a pale pink cashmere sweater set and navy skirt.

Her gesture surprised him. After all, she’d gone out of her way to tell him she would never make him any. She must be feeling the change between them too.

“No need. I just had some at Kemstead’s.”

“But I want to,” she said softly.

The sweetness moved through him. “Then I’d love some. Thank you.”

She gestured to the front page of
The Denver Post
. “When did you call this in?”

His article chronicling the whole event was featured in the upper right hand corner. “After I dropped you off.”

“But you were—”

“Exhausted, yes, but I had to tell the story.”

Her face fell, and he realized she was probably thinking about how he’d dropped her off and then come back here to hammer out the story.

Maybe she was worried his story was more important to him than their talk.

What she needed to understand was that he’d had the words for the story, but not for her. Not with the bone–crushing fatigue as heavy as an anvil on his chest.

“It took me five minutes to type it up and call it in,” he added. “I composed the article while I was digging.”

Her mouth changed into a small smile, one of her reserved ones. “It’s an incredible piece, Arthur.”

He nodded because he knew it was. He’d mentioned his involvement briefly, talking about what it had been like to dig next to men from his surrounding community, working against the clock to free the trapped men. How he’d felt when they heard the first shouts from the miners. How he’d almost gotten teary eyed seeing the first man stumble through the narrow hole they’d dug, face dark as pitch.

Herman rocked on his heels. “Well, I guess I’d better be seeing to the radiator. Harriet, I’ll take some coffee too if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Herman, I need to speak to Harriet about an urgent follow–up story.” Frankly he didn’t like the idea of Herman getting coffee the first time Harriet made it for him. Wow, he
was
jealous, and over something as banal as coffee. Yeah, the winds had changed, all right.

His friend glanced between the two of them. “Sure thing, Arthur.” And there was speculation in his eyes.

Arthur could tell Herman had heard the story about his kiss with Harriet on the mountain. At the time, he hadn’t thought about that news making the rounds.

He inclined his head to his office, and Harriet walked in. Studying her trim waist, he remembered how soft she’d been in his arms. Closing the door partially, he sat on the edge of his desk as she took her usual seat in front of him.

“Folks around here have heard about our kiss by now,” he said, deciding the direct approach was best. “I’d like to take you out to supper tonight if that’s all right. If not, do you want me to tell anyone who asks that it was a momentary reaction to a life–and–death event?” Thankfully no one at Kemstead’s had alluded to it.

Her fingers stroked her throat. “You’re asking me out?”

Why did women always ask questions like that? “Isn’t that what I said? I kissed you, I want you, and that’s that.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I feel about it?”

He leaned forward. “I already know. I could feel it when you were in my arms.”

The smile turned into a pucker, like she’d just tasted a fresh lemon. “You’re arrogant.”

He stood and caged her in with his hands on the arms of the chair. “No, my dear, I’m observant.”

She leaned forward, and up close, he could see the kaleidoscope of different greens in her eyes.

“Are you wearing a new cologne?” she asked, her nose scrunching up.

He struggled not to laugh. The odor was horrendous. “That would be liniment. When I woke up, I felt like I was eighty years old. It took me two minutes to stand up straight. Every muscle hurt. Hands too. Typing last night hurt like hellfire. I had a flash of what a pain in the…posterior…getting old will be.”

“You have a ways to go,” she said, scanning his frame. “It doesn’t surprise me you were so sore. What you did was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.”

He cupped her face before he could stop himself. “No,” he replied. “I’m from this town. I knew some of those people, if only by name. You were the brave one. I’ll never forget how you stood there with those other women, giving us coffee and food all through the long, cold night. Harriet, you are nothing like I thought you were.”

She ducked her head again. “Neither are you.”

“So, will you go out to supper with me?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His hand dropped. “I need to follow up with some of the miners who were injured in the cave–in. Do you want to come with me?”

“That would be nice, but first, I’m going to go make you some coffee. You still look tired.” She turned and walked to the door.

“Harriet,” he called.

She turned.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to make me coffee,” he said, needing to ask.

And there was that slow smile again. How beautifully it offset her high pinkish cheekbones.

“Things change.”

Yes, he guessed they did.

And with that, she spun around and gave him a view that men since Adam had coveted—the round backside of a beautiful woman.

***

He sent her home at five o’clock and told her he would pick her up at six sharp. Then he took off himself to change for their date.

Maybelline answered the door when he knocked, giving him the narrow–eyed regard of a suspicious sister. “I don’t know that this is a good idea,” she said with her unerring New England directness.

His brow winged up, and he shrugged. “As your sister said, ‘Things change.’”

The click of heels on hardwood announced Harriet’s approach, and boy did the woman know how to make an entrance. She stopped in the doorway of the parlor and propped her hand on the door frame, giving him the opportunity to take in the whole picture. Her body seemed like a lush valley rising and falling with the curve of her breasts and hips. Her red hair curled on her shoulders, down like it had been the night she’d met him in the black slip.
Don’t go there, Hale.
It contrasted pleasantly with a green blouse. The black skirt fell just below her knees, accentuating the slow slide of her calf muscles into her black heels. Her lips were tinted a fiery red, and he knew if he ended up kissing her tonight—which he planned to—he’d need a handkerchief to scrub off the paint, something he was all too eager to do.

“Arthur,” she said, finally lowering her arm.

Suddenly he had a new understanding of the phrase tongue–tied. He inclined his head and stopped short of bowing.

“Harriet. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she simply answered, walking to the closet and taking out her coat.

He stepped forward and reached for it as she turned, their motions as smooth as if they were dancing a tango in Paris, the steps known to them both even though they’d never danced them together.

Since Maybelline was still watching, he didn’t let his hands linger on her shoulders as he helped her shrug into the sleeves. She tugged on her navy gloves after fastening her coat buttons, which were the popular over–sized ones, as big as fresh–baked cookies. Then she turned to hug her sister.

“Be careful,” Maybelline whispered, loud enough for him to hear.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” Harriet assured her.

Arthur wondered if she were trying to give both him and Maybelline the same message.

“Night, Maybelline,” he said and opened the door for Harriet.

They walked out into the dark, cold night dotted with a thousand stars. He took her elbow, leading her to the car, and opened the door for her.

He drove them to Nellie’s Tavern. Though he liked the American Legion, the food wasn’t as good, and he wanted Harriet to enjoy herself since she was used to finer restaurants back East. It was a Thursday night, but there was a good amount of cars on Main Street. As they walked in, people looked up. Some waved. Some even called out his name.

Everyone seemed to have a knowing glint in their eye as he and Harriet made their way to an open booth. He helped her with her coat and then dispensed with his own, hanging them on the nearby rack.

Seated across from her, the conversation swirling around them, he leaned back and blocked out everything but her. But it was hard, knowing what people were saying, thinking. God, he hated being the subject of gossip.

At least the muted light in the tavern and the dark wood imparted a sense of privacy, even if it was an illusion.

“Stop frowning,” she ordered as Bertha Linglefield, their waitress, appeared with water and dog–eared menus.

Bertha chatted about the cave–in, as he’d known she would, but she didn’t include Harriet in the conversation. After she left, he hung his arm on the back of the booth.

“I’m not frowning at you.”

“I know,” she said, “but we both knew this would happen if we went out together tonight.”

“And after what happened at the mine,” he added, his voice dipping into a lower octave.

Her eyes flicked up, and he saw desire in them for a quick second before she smiled. “Yes. That was a rather in–the–moment kind of thing.”

Not for him. He’d been thinking about kissing her since the moment she sashayed into his office and asked him
not
to call her sweetheart.

“Do you regret it?” he decided to ask.

She folded her hands on the table. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

“Good,” he said gruffly. “So, let’s decide what to eat, and then we can talk.”

“You aren’t going to order for me?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“Gads, no. I would never presume to tell you what to eat.”

She raised the menu, blocking her face from him, but he could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Good.”

Bertha came back to take their order and wanted to chat more about the cave–in, so Arthur talked to her while Harriet patiently sat across from him. He’d known Bertha since he was in short britches, and she was the best waitress in Dare, but she sure could be nosy. And she clearly wanted to know why he and Harriet were eating at the tavern together.

“So are you and Harriet working on a new article?” she asked, fingering her pink apron with NT handstitched in the corner.

He didn’t reply, and silence hung over the table for a good minute. “No,” Harriet finally responded with a smile, asserting herself. “He told me Nellie’s Tavern was the best place in town, and since I’m new to Dare, he wanted to bring me here to find out for myself. What’s your favorite?”

So she hadn’t been here before. He’d figured as much. Everyone said the sisters didn’t venture out much beyond a couple meals at The American Legion.

Arthur hung back and watched as Harriet took over the conversation. He didn’t interject that they were on a date, since Harriet hadn’t seen fit to share that information. After Bertha said her favorite things were the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans finished off with banana cream pie, Harriet said she’d have exactly that. After Arthur muttered, “I’ll have the same,” Harriet flashed Bertha another winning smile, and the waitress walked off, beaming herself.

“You’re good with people,” he observed, something he’d noticed in her interactions with everyone from Herman to Ernest, the mailman.

“And you’re gruff when you don’t like people asking questions about you,” she observed right back.

“Hallmark of a good journalist.” He almost harrumphed for good measure.

She took a sip of her water. “Asking questions of other people is okay, but not about you?”

“I’m an open book,” he responded, spreading both arms across the booth all casual–like.

Her delicate rust–colored brows rose. “I doubt that.”

“Ask me anything.”

“So you played football. What position?”

“How did you—”

“The rescue worker mentioned it. I forget his name now.”

Much of that night had become blurred in his mind from the sheer exhaustion of digging. “Oh. Well, yeah. I was quarterback. We didn’t make the state championship, but we won eight to ten games a year. Not too bad.”

Her posture was so prim, as if she’d just matriculated from finishing school. He had the sudden desire to see her mussed up.

“Did you play any other sports?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Baseball. Basketball. There’s not much to do in Dare, as you have probably seen, so it’s pretty much sports, church, and family gatherings.”

“That sounds nice,” she responded. “Did you letter?”

He scoffed. “Of course. All sports. Okay, so now you know I’m a sportsman. What about you? What were your hobbies growing up?”

She tilted her head to the side, almost as if embarrassed. “Well, I played piano and took drawing and painting classes. A few singing lessons, but I was never accomplished enough to perform. That’s Maybelline’s expertise. She was a soprano in Wellesley’s choir her freshman year.”

And now that door is closed
, he thought. “I don’t know if Emmits Merriam has a choir, but I’m sure they’d be open to forming one.” If they stayed, which he was starting to hope they would.

Her face fell, and he was sorry he’d brought it up.

“That’s good to know. This is all a big change for her. She loved Wellesley as much as I did.”

She didn’t need or want pity. That he understood all too well. So he only nodded.

“Now that we’re going to stay for a while, Maybelline wants to do something. She’s tired of being bored at home, reading and playing wife to me.” Harriet laughed self–consciously.

“What’s she going to do?”

“She’s going to volunteer at the library. She loves books.”

“That sounds like a mighty fine idea. I’m sure they’ll be grateful for the help.”

“I’m lucky,” Harriet continued. “I already have my degree. With Maybelline…well, she’s resigned to going somewhere like Emmits Merriam perhaps, somewhere other than Wellesley. But it’s hard. Our mother went there, you see.”