Elizabeth Lane - The Tycoon and the Townie

“It’s of no consequence whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

For the space of a heartbeat she froze, stung, perhaps, by his brusqueness. Then, determined to be cheerful, she thrust out her cherry red chin. “Work? On such a beautiful day? What a waste of creation! But if that’s your choice… Goodbye, Mr. Parrish! The agency will bill you for my time!”

With a toss of her shaggy purple mane, she took one blithe misstep into space, pitched forward and disappeared from sight.

Jeff sprinted to the rail of the verandah to find her sprawled across an azalea bed in a sputtering, tie-dyed heap, her duffel bag lying an arm’s length away.

“Are you all right?” he asked, torn between real concern and wondering how much her lawyer would settle for out of court.

“I…think so.” She wiggled her hands and feet cautiously, then began to struggle like a high-centered terrapin in a vain effort to get up.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she muttered, collapsing into the azaleas again.

“It’s these—idiot shoes! Half the time I can’t see where I’m going, and if I fall down, they stick out so far I can’t get my knees—under me—”

“And here I thought it was all part of your act!” Jeff suppressed a bemused smile as he trotted down the steps toward her. “Relax, I’ll give you a hand.”

“No—don’t trouble yourself!” she snapped. “Not when you’ve got— so much work to do. I can get up myself if I take it bit by bit.”

“If you insist.” Jeff shrugged, then watched with ill-concealed interest as she tumbled onto her side and drew her knees toward her chest. With effort, she managed to roll her big, clown feet under her, push up with her arms and stagger to a standing position.

“There!” she exclaimed, her voice all more intriguing for its breathlessness. “I told you I could do it.”

“Independent little twit, aren’t you?” Jeff observed dryly as she brushed sprigs of loose grass from her costume.

Her small, ridiculously painted face froze for an instant.

“Independent little twit?” She repeated the words slowly, as if dissecting each syllable. “Independent little twit?”

As Jeff watched, the dumpy clown figure seemed to grow visibly taller. Then, suddenly, she spun toward him, her aquamarine eyes flashing cold fire.

“Independent I’ll accept as a compliment,” she declared icily. “But I’m certainly no twit, Mr. Parrish. I’m a woman alone with a daughter to raise and bills to pay. Jo-Jo the clown helps me pay those bills—but that’s something a man like you might not understand. You’ve probably never had a minute’s financial worry in your smug, arrogant, self-satisfied life!”

Before Jeff could gather his wits, she was gone, waddling across the grass like an indignant Jemima Puddleduck in her padded clown suit. He might have laughed—the sight of her was ludicrous enough—but something in her words and her voice had stung him like a smart blow with a riding quirt.

Good Lord, did he really come across as the woman had described him? Smug, arrogant and self-satisfied? Could that be the reason Meredith had—

But never mind, he brought himself up harshly. It was too damned late to do anything about Meredith, and too late to change his own nature. He was what he was, and right now he had work to do. The plans for the new hospital wing lay open on his drafting table, with hours—many, many hours—of changes yet to be done on them.

Closing his mind to the sunlit ocean air, the cry of seabirds and the vanishing figure of the odd little clown, Jeff strode into the house and shut the door firmly behind him.

Summer people!

Kate Valera’s thoughts seethed as she shuffled across the broad expanse of lawn. Every year the summer people invaded Misty Point like a flock of chattering, inland birds, flaunting their money and their success as if they owned the town. They opened up the elegant frame homes they called “cottages,” raced their Jaguars and Porsches along peaceful back roads and treated the yearrounders like second-rate hired help.

Summer people!

Kate quivered, still feeling the sting of Mr. Jefferson Parrish’s high-handed arrogance. She was not sorry she’d put him in his place. For two cents, in fact, she would cheerfully tell the whole pretentious lot of them to—

But what was she thinking? The economic survival of the town depended on these obnoxious visitors. Her own survival depended on them. They bought her beautiful, hand-thrown pots at gallery prices that made the locals gasp. They paid for her performances as Jo-Jo the Clown, with money that one day, she hoped, would finance an education for her daughter, Flannery. Oh, yes, she needed these people, and she had precious little choice except to grit her teeth and be nice to them. Saints preserve her!

As she came around the house, Kate spotted the party group seated at tables on the far end of the lawn. Not a very promising bunch, she mused glumly. A dozen boredlooking little girls in sundresses clustered around the soggy remains of cake and ice cream, overseen by a tall, stern-looking woman who seemed to have no idea what to do with them. Jo-Jo would have her work cut out for her today!

They had seen her. Kate waved breezily and broke into her prancing side-to-side clown gait. These kids were about the same age as her daughter, she reminded herself. Maybe she could pretend she was entertaining Flannery, and— But, no, she was deluding herself. These privileged little girls were nothing like Flannery. They had seen everything from first-run Broadway shows to the Ringling Brothers Circus. They would not be impressed by one shabby clown with a bag of simple tricks.

The woman, a stately figure in a lilac afternoon dress, with a visage as humorless as the Statue of Liberty’s, left the group and came striding toward her. “You’re late!” she snapped, brandishing the antique bull’s-eye watch she wore on a gold neck chain. “You were supposed to be here seven minutes ago!”

Sorry! Kate pantomimed, rippling her shoulders and spreading her hands in an elaborate shrug. She wasn’t usually silent during her Jo-Jo act, but today it struck her as a useful idea.

“Well, it can’t be helped now.” The woman’s ragged sigh revealed the edge of her own frustration. “Don’t just stand there looking silly. You were hired to do a job. Get on with it!”

And with that stirring introduction…

Kate clicked on the portable tape player in her duffel bag, pranced into the open space between the tables and executed a series of spins and fancy heel clicks that would have enthralled any group of three-year-olds. These jaded little dollies didn’t even blink. Well, maybe the juggling act would impress them; though, in truth, she had her doubts.

Scooping a net of multicolored balls out of the duffel, Kate lined them up on the grass in front of her. For a furtive moment her eyes scanned the young audience. It was easy enough to single out Ellen, the birthday girl. She was seated at the center table wearing a gold paper crown and a wretched expression. She was a beautiful child, Kate observed, with a pale oval face, long black hair and her father’s unsettling gray eyes.

Unsettling… now, where had that come from?

Forcing herself to concentrate, Kate went through the elaborate motions of counting the balls. One, two, three, four, five. She paused and shook her head in a show of bewilderment. One, two, three, four, five. She matched the count on her fingers, her actions indicating clearly that one ball was missing.

Aha! I know where it is! With a crafty expression on her painted face, she crept toward Ellen Parrish. The girl’s lips parted uncertainly as Kate’s gloved hand reached beneath the straight, dark silk of her hair and, with a triumphant flourish, produced the sixth ball.

A wave of giggles, underscored by none-too-kindly whispers, rippled around the tables. Too late, Kate glimpsed Ellen’s unshed tears and realized what she had done. She had embarrassed the sensitive child in front of these clannish girls who were not even pretending to be her friends.

Heartsick, Kate battled the urge to gather the sad little creature in her arms and beg her forgiveness. There was no way to undo what she had already done. But at least she could make sure the other girls got equal treatment. Oh, yes, she could, and she would.

Armed with a new sense of purpose, Kate realigned the colored balls on the grass, scooped up the first three and launched into her juggling routine. That little Shirley Temple blonde in the pink pinafore, the one who was smirking like a fox in a hen yard—yes, she would be next

Warm and restless in his upstairs studio, Jeff Parrish swung away from his drafting table and wandered to the window. Cracking it open, though not so far that the breeze would scatter his papers, he filled his senses with the clean, salty smell of the ocean.

He had loved that scent as a boy—loved it so much that he’d dreamed of running off to a life of exploration and piracy on the high seas. It had never happened, of course. Boys grew up to be practical men. Dreams changed, or they died. Now the smell of the sea only reminded Jeff of how far he had journeyed from his boyhood, how mechanical his life had become, and how empty.

The window gave him a bird’s-eye view of Ellen’s birthday celebration on the lawn below. Judging from the looks of things, it wasn’t going particularly well. His mother had planned the party with the idea of finding Ellen some “proper” friends. She had invited girls from Misty Point’s most prominent summer families. As always, the dear woman had meant well, but there was one reality she had failed to grasp. Most of the young guests knew each other from summers that spanned as far back as they could remember. Sweet, shy Ellen was a newcomer, a stranger to them all.

When Jeff’s daughter had declared she did not want a birthday party, he had dismissed her attitude as plain stubbornness. Only now, looking down at the group on the lawn, did he truly understand her reasons. His Ellen sat alone, isolated in the seat of honor, while the other guests formed their own clusters on either side of her. None of the girls seemed to be paying her any attention at all.

Jeff ached with helpless worry. A more outgoing child might have bridged the gap and made friends. But Ellen had experienced so much aloneness in her young life that she only invited more. Worse, there seemed to be nothing he could do for her. The therapist said these things took time. But how much time? It had been more than eighteen months since Meredith—

Brooding over the past wouldn’t help, he reminded himself harshly. Ellen could only heal in her own time. As for him, the single antidote to what had happened was work.

As he turned to leave the window, his attention was drawn once more to the clown. She was prancing before the group, juggling a rainbow of multicolored balls. Jo-Jo, or whoever she was, had been right about nine-year-olds, he conceded. The lady had drawn one tough audience. But at least she was in there pitching. Not only was her juggling ability impressive, but she was making a real effort to involve the girls.

He watched as one of the balls disappeared into thin air, only to be plucked magically from behind one little blonde’s ear. The young audience giggled—more at the girl, Jeff suspected, than at the trick itself, but at least they were laughing. Jo-Jo the Clown knew her stuff.

Giving in to an impulse, he settled himself against the window to watch. A vague, yearning tingle passed through him as he remembered the husky timbre of her voice and the flash of those intriguing eyes. It would be an interesting challenge to find out what she looked like under that ridiculous wig and makeup. She sounded like a cuddly Lauren Bacall—but then, a man’s imagination played strange tricks. He was probably just as well off not knowing.