Mrs. Scrooge Page 10

  She ducked her head for a moment, feeling inordinately pleased that someone would go out of his way to be in her company. It had been a long time since she'd felt particularly likable and the sensation was as delightful as it was noteworthy. "The least I can do is give you the grand tour."

  "Wait a minute," he said, turning up the collar of his jacket. "I have to get something from the car."

  He was back in a flash, brandishing a snow-covered pot of Christmas cactus abloom with vivid pink flowers. A huge lump formed in Sam's throat.

  "Murphy! I don't know what to say. . . "

  "You don't have to say anything." He handed her the beautiful plant. "Good luck with your shop."

  She buried her face in the blossoms, taking those extra seconds to blink away sudden and surprising tears. Composure regained, she cleared a spot on what would soon be her main counter.

  "So what about the grand tour you promised me?" He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it over a step stool near the massive chrome refrigerator. "As far as I can see, this is the whole shebang."

  "My dear Mr. O'Rourke, this is only the merest hint of the wonders inside this shop." Sam gave him her best number-one-businesswoman look. "Why, you haven't even seen my stove yet."

  "What are you waiting for?" He grinned and took her arm. "Lead the way."

  There was really nothing all that special about a restaurant-size stove or an industrial-strength microwave but to Sam they were as thrilling as a brand-new, shiny red Porsche. At best her acquisitions had elicited no more than pleasant smiles from her family and friends, and she had expected no more than perfunctory courtesy from Murphy.

  She was wrong.

  "Will you look at these shelves?" he said when he swung open the double doors to the refrigerator and stuck his head inside. "You could fit three Thanksgiving turkeys in here and still have room for a side of beef."

  The stove was greeted with a low whistle, followed by a thorough inspection of the center griddle, the warming oven, and all six burners. "Pilotless?" he asked as he fiddled with a dial.

  "Of course," said Sam.

  He duly noted the wattage of the microwave, the water temperature of her dishwasher, and the beautiful baking pans that had cost her more than a sane person would have paid for them. She found herself eager to show him every nook and cranny of the kitchen, displaying her dazzling array of takeout containers before him as if they were a king's ransom in emeralds.

  She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so exhilarated and confident over her prospects—or quite so happy to share them with a friend.

  "I have to hand it to you," Sam said ten minutes later over coffee in the front room, where she could cast quick peeks at her beautiful Christmas cactus. "Not only did you suffer through the grand tour, you actually asked questions!"

  "Reporter's training." O'Rourke popped a peanut into his mouth and took another gulp of coffee. "I'm always looking for a good story."

  "Well, this is the one," said Sam proudly. "Mark my words—I'm going to make my name or know the reason why."

  "I believe you."

  She looked him straight in the eye, and to her surprise he didn't blink. "I think you really do."

  She told him about her plans for Fast Foods, about the delivery service, and the computer for online orders, and the way she hoped to provide a superlative product and still make a superlative profit.

  "A practical dreamer," said O'Rourke when she finally paused for a breath. "I never thought I'd meet one."

  "What about you?" she asked. "Are you a dreamer, too?"

  "Me?" His laugh was brittle. "I gave up dreaming a hell of a long time ago, Sam."

  "I don't believe you," she said, touching his wrist then pulling away, embarrassed by her boldness, "I see it in your eyes."

  "You're seeing too many years of sleepless nights."

  Let it go, Sam. This isn't your business. O'Rourke was a rare find: a man who actually listened. Why not be satisfied with that and not expect him to unburden himself like a guest on a TV talk show. She cast about for a new topic of conversation. "How are you at installing water faucets?"

  "Don't know the first thing about it." It was the cheerful admission of a man who didn't need to know and was glad of the fact.

  She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. "How would you feel about holding the flashlight for me?"

  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up across from her. "I think I can manage that."

  "Come on," said Sam, heading for the kitchen. "I'll put you to work."

  Two and a half hours later Sam had the faucets working, the garbage disposal running, and—thanks to Murphy—five perfectly matched utility shelves hanging proudly over her butcher-block worktable.

  "You have hidden talents," she said, as she admired their handiwork. "You should have been a carpenter."

  "It may come to that yet." His tone was jovial but she caught an undercurrent of anxiety.

  "Don't worry," she said, in her best mother-knows-best manner. "You'll be back on the foreign beat before you know it."

  He moved in front of her, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side. "Yeah?"

  "You're too good to stay unemployed for long."

  "How would you know? You haven't read a word I've written."

  "Call it feminine intuition," said Sam over his loud groan. "You wouldn't let yourself be anything but terrific."

  He laughed and ruffled her hair the way she often ruffled Patty's and an oddly pleasant ripple of sensation tingled deep inside her stomach. "Come on, Sam. There's a blizzard out there. Let's hit the road."

  Sam glanced out the plate-glass window and shivered: "Good grief! It really does look like a blizzard." She tossed Murphy his coat and grabbed for her own. "Beat you to my car."

  They slipped and slid their way across the snowy driveway, their laughter mingling with the sound of tires spinning from the street beyond. The snow was already well past her ankles and Sam knew her slacks were headed for the rag bin but she didn't care as Murphy ducked behind his rented car and started to make a snowball.

  "Throw that and you're a dead man, O'Rourke." She dived behind her Blazer and began pressing handfuls of snow into a big ball. "I have the best aim in all of Mercer County."

  Splat!

  A huge wet snowball found its mark on Sam's right shoulder.

  Murphy, blast his hide, peered over the fender of his car. "What was that about having the best aim in Mercer County?"

  She ducked as another snowball whizzed past her.

  "Lucky shot!" Sam fell against the side of her Blazer, sputtering and laughing. It was hard to talk with a mouthful of snow.

  "Give up?" called Murphy.

  "Not on your life!" She scrambled behind the fender of her Blazer and went into overdrive as another missile landed just over her head. "You won't get away with this, O'Rourke!" In the blink of an eye she had an arsenal of snowballs lined up and ready to go. "Take this!" she called and fired one off in his direction.

  The man was too smart for his own good and he neatly deflected her shot. "Give up, Sam!" he said, taking aim again. "No woman alive can beat me."

  It was her turn to duck. His snowball caught the edge of her right shoulder. She remained undaunted, pressed against the fender, snowball at the ready.

  "What's the matter, Sam?" he called. "Running out of steam already?"

  The smug sound of male superiority had Sam seeing red, but she kept quiet and still.

  "Hey, Sam! Are you okay?"

  Still Sam said nothing. She waited.

  "I know what you're trying and it's not going to work. I wasn't all-star snowball thrower on the Geneva beat for nothing."

  Silence. Sam could taste imminent victory and it was sweet.

  "Sam?" Murphy's footsteps crunched across the parking lot. Closer. . . closer . . .

  "Bull's-eye!" Sam's cry shattered the stillness and she roared with laughter at the look of surprise on Murphy's snow-covered fa
ce. "Never underestimate the power of a woman on a mission!"

  Murphy sputtered and blinked and shook his head free of the splattered snowball.

  "You play dirty," he said, his hazel eyes bright against his snowy lashes. "I never would've figured you for the type."

  Sam flashed him a triumphant smile. "That'll teach you for typecasting people. I play to win."

  "All's fair, etcetera, etcetera?"

  "That's right." Sam was feeling quite smug. "You're sure about that?"

  "Positive."

  The next instant Sam found herself swept up into Murphy's strong arms and deposited soundly into a snowdrift.

  It was his turn to laugh. "All's fair, Sam," he said.

  With that Sam grabbed him by the right calf and, praying her self-defense training wouldn't fail her, flipped him right off his feet.

  And right on top of her!

  "You're right," Sam said as his torso sprawled across her legs. "I do play dirty!"

  The expression on Murphy's face was priceless. "I'll give you fifty dollars to keep this to yourself."

  Sam knew her eyes were twinkling with delight. "I'll let you know."

  "You could ruin my reputation at the bar if you tell the guys you bested me."

  "Remember that next time you start a snowball fight with a defenseless woman."

  He leaned up on one elbow and met her eyes. His shaggy sandy-brown hair fell across his forehead, and his face was ruddy from the snow and the winter wind. He looked rumpled, healthy and, all in all, quite appealing. Sam was surprised at exactly how appealing.

  "I like you, Samantha Dean." His voice held a note of admiration.

  Again she experienced that odd fluttering sensation deep inside. "The feeling's mutual, Murphy O'Rourke."

  They stumbled to their feet, laughing and dusting the snow off each other's clothing. O'Rourke seemed to take an inordinate pleasure in brushing her derriere clean and Sam made certain she got in an answering message of her own. Murphy waited while she climbed into her beat-up Blazer and started her engine.

  "See you tomorrow," said Sam through the open window as the wind-driven snow swirled all about.

  O'Rourke leaned inside and placed a kiss on her cheek. "See you tomorrow." The kiss was chaste, swift and almost brotherly.

  Sam was very still as he plodded through the snow to his car and wondered what life would be like if she were a small and curvy blue-eyed blonde. The idea quickly disappeared, but the sweet warm feeling of his lips against her cheek lingered as Sam drove home through the storm.

  * * *

  PATTY COULDN'T EXPLAIN how she knew, but the moment she woke up on Thursday morning she would have bet her iPad Mini that something had changed.

  Her mom had been real quiet last night, not at all her usual chatty self. It wasn't that her mom was unhappy exactly; it was more like she had something on her mind and couldn't stop thinking about whatever it was.

  And now, at eight o'clock on a snowy morning, her mom was singing in the kitchen. It wasn't just that she was singing, it was what she was singing. Patty leaped out of bed and pulled on her slippers and robe. She eased her door open and slipped down the hallway toward the kitchen. Her I-hate-Christmas mom was singing Jingle Bells:

  Patty stood in the doorway, transfixed with wonder. Murphy O'Rourke. It just had to be. . . .

  "Are you going to stand there all morning, kiddo, or would you like some breakfast?"'

  Patty started as she realized her mom was talking to her.

  "You were singing Christmas carols," said Patty, staring at Sam as if she were an apparition.

  "I don't think so, honey." Sam flipped the pancakes one-two.

  "You were," Patty persisted. "I heard you with my own ears."

  Sam shrugged and reached for a breakfast plate. "And what if I was? That's all you hear on the radio these days."

  Patty poured herself a glass of orange juice and helped herself to a Flintstone vitamin. "Am I going to school today?"

  "Look outside. School's closed."

  Patty walked over to the window and peered through the yellow and orange curtains. "Wow!" Her breath left a moist circle on the glass. "Can I go sledding with Susan?"

  "And be home sick another two days? Not very likely."

  "Maa-a-a." Patty sank into a kitchen chair. "I'm getting bored being stuck in the house." She'd already finished volumes one through five of the remaindered encyclopedia her mom had found at the book store.

  "Who said anything about staying in the house?" Sam deposited a stack of pancakes on the plate in front of Patty. "I thought you could come with me to the store."

  "Yuk." Patty poured maple syrup on her pancakes. "There's nothing to do there."

  "Oh, really?" Her mother sat down opposite her and frowned at the river of syrup pooling on Patty's plate. "I thought you could help me paint."

  What a boring day! Patty couldn't remember why she'd ever thought something special might happen. She'd just as soon work on her mathematical equation that proved the existence of the Star of Bethlehem than paint walls. No television or radio or—

  "Did you hear what I said, Patty?"

  "We're going to paint the store," she said, sounding as glum as she felt.

  "I asked if you wanted to stop at O'Rourke's with me when I drop off the food trays." Her mother took a sip of coffee. "I could use some help."

  Patty wanted to jump on the table and dance with delight but Aunt Caroline's words sounded inside her head. Be cool, Patricia. If Samantha figures out what we're up to, it's all over. "I guess I'll go." Perfect! She sounded as if she'd rather stay home and mope.

  "We'll be leaving in an hour. Do you think you can be ready?"

  Patty looked down at her pancakes and struggled not to smile.

  * * *

  "I'VE SAID IT BEFORE but that's some kid you've got there," said Murphy O'Rourke as he helped Sam arrange the sandwiches and appetizers on serving platters. "Scotty usually doesn't like anybody under thirty-five."

  "Then that makes them even," Sam said, reassembling a triple-decker BLT on white toast. "Patty doesn't either."

  Her little girl and the cultured professor had hit it off like a house afire. The moment they were introduced Patty launched into a discussion of higher mathematics that left everyone else in the bar gasping for air. When she explained a concept even Scotty didn't know about, he smiled and said he bowed to a higher intelligence.

  "Let us find a table away from the masses," said Scotty with a wink in Sam's direction. "I want to hear your theory on exponential equations."

  Patty beamed with pleasure and Sam's opinion of Murphy went up yet another notch when he served the little girl hot chocolate in a beer mug, complete with a frothy head of whipped cream.

  "Is there really that much to say about fractions?" Murphy asked, scratching his head.

  "Beats me," said Sam. "I stopped understanding most of what Patty has to say about seven years ago. If I didn't have the stretch marks, I'd think she was an alien visitor from some advanced planet."

  "How do you keep up with her?"

  "I don't." Sam took a sip of Murphy's rich dark coffee. "I feed her, clothe her and love her, but I sure as heck don't keep up with her."

  Murphy looked toward Patty. "Some responsibility."

  "Tremendous," said Sam, "but I can't imagine what my life would have been like without her. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

  A series of expressions flickered across Murphy's face, and even Sam, who wasn't inclined toward analysis, saw both affection and admiration in his eyes.

  "You're a lucky woman."

  "Yes," she said, glancing toward her daughter. "I am at that."

  It was a tender, sweet moment. The kind of moment you wanted to stretch on and on. The kind of moment that futures were built on. Unfortunately, Patty and Scotty chose that moment to burst into peals of laughter that rattled the rafters of the bar.

  "I never knew math was that funny," said Murphy.

&n
bsp; "Neither did I." Sam raised her eyebrows in the direction of her daughter but Patty paid no heed. "I think they're up to something." And, unless she missed her guess, that something was matchmaking.

  Murphy grunted and poured himself a tall glass of club soda with a twist of lime. "He probably told her about Saturday night."

  Sam's heart did a funny kind of thud against her breastbone. "Saturday night?"

  "The masquerade ball." He took a long gulp of club soda. "You're going, aren't you?"

  Sam shook her head. "Not this year."

  "Why not? You belong to the association. You're opening your store in a few weeks. You should be there along with everybody else."

  "Tell that to my bank balance and my wardrobe." "I was hoping to see you there."

  Sure, you were, Sam thought. Maybe I could have a drink with you and your beautiful blue-eyed blond date.

  "You'll have to settle for seeing me over my hors d'oeuvre trays tomorrow."

  "Sounds good, but I won't be around tomorrow."

  "Oh." She hoped she didn't sound as disappointed as she felt.

  "I'm going into Manhattan."

  "I see."

  "I have an appointment with CNN."

  "An overseas assignment?"

  "I'm hoping."

  Sidewalk cafes. Elegant Frenchwomen with cheekbones to die for. Moonlight walks near the Champs d'Elysee. "Good luck," she said, not entirely meaning it.

  "I probably won't get the job. I'm still technically with the Telegram."

  "I thought you quit the Telegram."

  "Yeah, but there's a contract and they tend to get real touchy about things like that."

  "I still think you'll get the job." Murphy O'Rourke didn't strike Sam as a man who lost out very often, not once he put his mind to something.

  "You're an optimist."

  "My biggest fault," said Sam. "I always believe people will get their fondest wishes:"

  "What about your fondest wishes?" He leaned closer; she could almost feel his intensity. "Will they come true?"

  "I'm trying," said Sam, "but so far my fairy godmother hasn't found me."