Chapter 5
Hagen’s parents arrived first. Each kissed Marigold. His mother, dressed in a white silk shirt with a blue silk skirt, admired the room and seemed delighted to see the fire. “So cozy, darling,” she said to Marigold who gave a pleased little lift of her shoulders. “You told me you don’t have any ideas. That’s a wonderful idea. It makes a home out of a house.”
Hagen rubbed the back of his neck. “It could be the company rather than the fire,” he said, trying not to sound as if he needed to defend Mercia’s choices while at the same time realizing that until tonight he had never been particularly comfortable in the sitting room. He poured his parents a drink.
The doorbell rang again and he welcomed the head of the engineering department at the university, Caroline Mason, a brusque shorthaired woman in her fifties who dressed in layers of dusty colored wool. “I’ve brought along Morgan Evans, my assistant professor,” she said in her hearty voice. “I thought he deserved a good meal.”
Since Morgan, a chunky, curly haired man in his early thirties, could barely button his tweed jacket, Hagen accepted the statement with a smile and shook each of the pair’s hands. Morgan stared at Marigold with a hungry expression on his face. When he held her hand too long, he annoyed the hell out of Hagen. Then the doorbell rang again. Hagen stumped off, disgruntled. If Marigold had been his wife, she could have answered, but he had to leave her with starving Morgan instead.
The politicians had turned up in a group, smartly but casually dressed. One was in government and the other a member of the opposition. While he was ushering them into the sitting room, the government official and his female partner arrived. By this time, Rosie, the waitress, was handing around the canapés.
In due course, after everyone had expressed satisfaction with the champagne, the emu pate, the Stilton and grape bites, and the crab cucumber tartlets, among the other delicacies Marigold had chosen, he ushered everyone into the dining room. He saw the glitch in her seating plan. If she had been his wife…but she wasn’t. Therefore, she had put his mother at the other end of the table as the hostess. Instead of sitting near to him, where he wanted her, Marigold had placed herself between the opposition member for planning and infrastructure and Morgan. Hagen had the wife of the member on his right, and the wife of the opposition on his left. Both were diplomatic and determined to enjoy the night out.
However, neither of those ladies was the only woman he could think of lately. He watched Marigold enjoying herself too much, flirting with Morgan and the minister in turn. She had no right to be so at ease in exalted company. She should have been as miserable and bored at this business dinner as Mercia had always been when presented with intellectuals rather than the socially savvy people she ran with.
Instead Marigold was charming all with her natural manner and her offbeat humor. Not only that, but her dinner service was a great hit.
“Where on earth did you find these plates?” The wife of the minister for planning stared at the blue gold-edged setting. “I think these are Royal Doulton but it’s not possible. This design hasn’t been made for more than a century.”
“You’ll need to ask Marigold about the plates. She let me borrow them for the night.” Hagen took a rather large sip of his red wine.
The woman, Aggie Barwell, made an O of her mouth. “So brave,” she said to Marigold. “If we chip these or break one, you will have lost a true treasure.”
Mercia would have said, “No matter. We have another twenty,” which would show that she could afford to lose a plate or two. Ten years ago, Marigold had told him he was simply a person with someone else’s money made from someone else’s effort, newly rich, and completely crass.
Remember, most rich families lose their money within the first three generations, she had said, poking one long finger into his chest. And you’re the third. He had never forgotten that. Her words had preyed on his mind ever since. Although he’d been born with self-confidence, a man had to take into account the fact that he needed to work hard to maintain his family’s professional standards.
And as one who knew firsthand what happened to the third generation of money, she now said, “The dishes were meant to be used. It’s a shame to keep them for best and never enjoy them yourself, don’t you think?”
“I’m honored,” Aggie said in her careful voice. Her father had also been a politician and she made the perfect wife for another with her inbuilt charm and tact. “To be eating from something this precious is a first for me. How did you come to own this set?”
“I inherited it, but the reason we are using the set tonight is because it originally belonged to the house. I thought putting the plates and the house together one more time would be rather special.”
“I’m honored, too,” said Susan Payne, the wife of the other politician. “My parents have some lovely old things they never use and it does seem to be a waste.”
This moved the group into reminiscing. Marigold managed to turn the conversation to one of the newer AA projects, which then led to the proposed one, which had been the purpose of the dinner. Hagen no longer had the urge to compare Marigold to Mercia. He had never been more conscious of his greatest mistake, six years ago, assuming he could have Marigold, which rankled tonight more than ever.
Finally, when the last dish had been removed from the table, he ushered the now replete and mellow company back into the sitting room for a glass of his father’s treasured old brandy. The fire crackled, his guests settled comfortably, and Rosie appeared in the doorway. She caught Marigold’s glance, and the two disappeared. Marigold returned and sidled up to him. “The staff has cleaned up and gone. I told them they were magnificent.”
Aggie turned and said, “I should have thanked them, too. The meal was perfectly prepared and presented. I think Doug and I could use Eight’s Late for our dinners, too.”
“I’ll find you a card. I have one in my bag in the kitchen.” And Marigold disappeared again.
Not long after she returned, his parents made departure noises, which the rest of the company picked up, leaving Marigold with him. The silence lingered while he stared at her, noting her natural elegance, her beautiful clear skin, her shiny bright hair, and the way she avoided his gaze. Her body language told him he couldn’t have her. Once upon a time, he had thought he loved her. Back then, after she had spurned him, he had thought he would never desire another woman.
“Sit,” he told her in an impartial voice, using an indifferent smile. “Now is your chance to relax and put up your feet. You and your plates were a great success tonight.”
“We probably need to thank your mother for the success. She put me onto Sam and Rosie. The meal was superb and the unobtrusive service was delightful. I won’t waste any more of your time, but do you think you could help me carry the dinner service to my car?”
“No,” he said promptly. “I wouldn’t consider doing any such thing at this time of night. You’ll have to get it out again at the other end, and I think that is the least I can do for you. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. Will you be home sometime in the afternoon? I know you shop in the morning.” Trying not to show his uncertainty, he plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and stood, his chin raised, staring at her lovely face.
“That would be nice. Yes, I’ll be home in the afternoon. Now, brrr.”
“Brrr?”
“It’s cold outside. I didn’t think to bring a jacket. I had too much else on my mind. I’m not exactly longing to brave the night.”
“If you’re wanting a jacket or a coat, I can give you at least one.”
“At least one?” She laughed. “One would be plenty. That would be very chivalrous, and I won’t say no.”
“Follow me, then.” He stepped through the doorway and made his way to the hallway.
“I’m allowed to choose?” She sounded puzzled, but she followed behind him.
“I wouldn’t give you any old thing. I have a selection upstairs.” He kept his tone casual.
“Lead on.” She laughed.
He had to admit to a touch of indecision. Taking the stairs, he continued talking to relax her, or himself. “I have a private boutique of clothes, all brand new and hoping to be worn before they pass into antiquity.” He paused at the top landing. Guiding her into his bedroom challenged the past and fought hidden memories. “Step inside.” He opened the door into a room whose décor she wouldn’t like. He didn’t like his white bedroom either, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to make a change while he needed to atone.
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable wandering into your bedroom.”
“I quite understand.” He tried for a remote voice. “I don’t like the décor either, but I have a large room through here full of clothes. It’s called a dressing room because we like, liked, to be able to say to our friends that we have separate dressing rooms.” He opened the door to the area that had once been Mercia’s. “I won’t crowd you. Go in there and choose whatever you want. All of it, if you like. I would be glad to have the clothes removed but my daily, Imelda, wouldn’t hear of it. She took away everything Mercia had worn and donated it to the AIDS Society, but she said that was enough and that the new clothes needed to go elsewhere. I have never discovered an elsewhere.”
“Are you telling me that this is a roomful of clothes that have never been worn?”
“The price tags are still intact, as you can see.”
She glanced along the row of clothes that Mercia bought and hadn’t gotten around to wearing. “I can see at least two coats. How weird. Why would you buy two coats if you didn’t need them?”
“For emergencies, I presume,” he answered drily, watching a crease form between Marigold’s eyebrows.
“I don’t want to wear Mercia’s clothes.” She skimmed a dismissive finger along a line of evening dresses.
“I no longer have any of her clothes. I consider these to be my clothes. Everything here was delivered after she died. Mercia had a plan for my money which she didn’t share with me.”
She scrutinized his expression. “Oh, damn. This is a Burberry.” Her hand lingered on a camel-colored coat. “I can’t leave a Burberry to be eaten by moths.”
“Take it. Here’s a scarf to match the lining. And a bag.” He stuffed the scarf into the bag and pulled a cream knit and a dark blue knit from the hangers and shoved them on top, remembering Marigold’s comment about a higher wage meaning she could buy a few new things to wear. Until now, he hadn’t connected the dots. Of course she couldn’t afford the luxuries he had hanging in this room and going to waste. “Please. You will be doing me a favor.” He slid the coat off the rack and held it open for Marigold to don.
With a wary glance at him, she slipped her hands through the sleeves. In the circle of his outstretched arms, he wrapped her into the fine wool, wishing he could hold her close against his heart and rest his face in her warm glossy hair.
She moved away closing two buttons. “She and I are the same size,” she said, her palm flat on her belly as she glanced at herself in the mirrored wall at the back of the room.
“You’re taller but the coat is still a good fit. Now, although I would love to entertain you in my bedroom all night, I think for the sake of my sanity we should grab these things and leave.”
She gave him a sideways, quizzical glance. “Are you finding being in a bedroom together unnerving?”
“Somewhat.” He twisted his mouth into the semblance of a smile. “And, unfortunately, too intimate.”
She nodded. “Let’s not be awkward about this. I know you well enough to feel perfectly safe with you. As for the coat, as gorgeous as it is, I’m not sure I should take it.” She smoothed the fabric over her slim hips while she lingered over her decision.
“Please. Even I can see these clothes are well worth the money spent and I would like someone worthy to have them, someone who will do justice to the price.” Which Mercia had never done. For her, shopping was a competitive sport. She wanted the best and the most expensive and she thought being complimented for the way she dressed was meaningful. Marigold, on the other hand, took compliments as polite encouragement, which for most people they were.
“I don’t want to disregard Mercia’s memory,” Marigold answered, sounding wistful. “You’re right. If you just sling them off to any old body you are being disrespectful. I gave my mother’s treasures to people who knew her and wanted something to remember her. I’m honored that you trust me with your treasures, Hagen, and thank you.”
“Take the bag, too. I would like to be rid of everything in here. The way you transformed downstairs has proved that it’s time I moved on.”
She picked up the bag, and wearing the coat she proceeded toward the stairs. “I’m moving on, too. Tonight seemed to be the start to a whole new beginning. I could count on my left hand how many dates I’ve been on in the past six years, and tonight, I had a worthy offer. It pays to be an event coordinator, that’s for sure.”
“A date?” Trying to sound lightly entertained, he followed her down the stairs. “Morgan, I’m guessing.”
“Not a bad guess, since he was the only single male, other than you,” she said, turning to smile delightedly at him. “We have a lot in common. He reads for relaxation and we like the same food. I’ll just nip into the kitchen and get my bag.”
He waited in the hallway beside the bag he had given her, finding that the thought of her with Morgan did not please him one bit. If she planned to throw herself away, she could throw herself in his direction. He had more money than Morgan and, though the point was moot, possibly more class. As well, she liked his family, who certainly liked her.
When she returned, he raised his head, keeping his expression neutral. “You can’t choose a man because he reads. He has to, because of his job. You decorate, but you wouldn’t want him to be interested in you because you have a good color sense.” He moved toward the front door, knowing he sounded as peeved as he felt.
She shrugged and picked up the new bag. “Of course I would. Every time I enter someone’s house, I automatically redecorate in my head. I can’t help myself. My mind also moves furniture to other spots, too, in almost everyone’s house.”
He studied the expression of challenge on her face. “That’s interesting to hear. I’ve been pondering about having someone look over this house with a view to redecoration. The success of your dinner set gave me the idea that my entire house should be redone as a tribute to the history of the place. Would you consider taking the job?”
“Do you want your house furnished in antiques?” Her forehead creased.
“No, not entirely, but I would like to see a nod to the house’s heritage.”
She hesitated. “I would really love to do that, but I have a full-time job at present. After Christmas I would be free.” She buttoned the coat all the way down, and snuggled the collar to her face as if savoring the soft fabric. The color complemented her hair color and her face softened with pleasure.
“I would like it finished for Christmas,” he said, lingering over his words, and congratulating himself for finding a way to interest her. “Perhaps I could redeploy you.”
“You can’t do that.” Her tone heightened with indignation. “I have a million things I need to do at AA. Tiggy would be devastated if I didn’t turn out to be reliable. I have to finish the jobs I started and keep up with the others. But I tell you what”—she stared into his eyes—“I could mock up the design during my days off.” Her nose wrinkled. “But I can’t for a few weeks. I need to renovate a room in my own house and if I don’t finish before the summer arrives, I’ll put myself a year behind.”
He placed his hand on the doorknob. “What do you need to do?”
“Strip wallpaper, strip paint, sand, and then paint. I want to move into the main bedroom.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll help you if you help me.”
She laughed. “I’m willing to bet you’ve never painted a room in your life, let alone stripped wallpaper and painted.”
“If my sisters can do it, I’m sure I can, too. Do we have a deal?”
She stared at him, her tawny eyes narrowed with calculation. “A room for a room?”
“Is that fair? You only have to plan my rooms, but I have to physically labor in yours.”
“I’ll have to shop for you, too,” she said with a small amount of heat. “I think it will be fair. We could count hours spent and make it fair.”
He opened the door and let her through. “In that case,” he said, following her outside, “I think we’ve made a deal. I’ll bring your plates back about one, and I’ll be dressed as a laborer.”
She dinged her car door unlocked, and he walked out onto the street to open it for her. Edging past him, she tossed her two bags onto the car seat and slid into the car. He watched her leave, triumphant. Finally, he had found a way to spend time with her.
* * * *
The bright morning light filtered into the room, reflecting a white glimmer onto the tabletop. Marigold dumped her weekly bags of goods onto her kitchen counter and swiftly unpacked. Since Hagen was about to arrive in barely over two hours, she wondered if she ought to prepare lunch for him. She decided to eat early and if he hadn’t eaten that would be his problem. Eating would waste good working time. She doubted he would last a full afternoon stripping wallpaper, anyway, unaccustomed as he was to physical labor. He would manage a couple of hours at best, though even that would be a great help.
After she had filled her fridge, she hurried out to the car and brought in the paint can, sandpaper, and brushes. Her adviser at the hardware store had recommended sugar soap to remove the wallpaper lining. When she had eaten a quick snack, she made up the solution in a bucket of warm water. She could have hired a steaming machine, but the less money she spent, the better. If all else failed, she would send Hagen off to pick one up while she worked.
She changed into old jeans and an older shirt and began ripping off the top layer of wallpaper. At this rate, she wouldn’t finish a single wall until next Easter. Eventually the doorbell rang and she ushered Hagen, dressed in old jeans and a rather nice denim shirt, into her mother’s bare bedroom. Scraps of torn wallpaper lay on the floor as witness to her mad effort to finish the job as quickly as possible.
“So, we’re ripping off the paper?” Hagen stared at her puny effort. “Don’t we have a more efficient way of doing this?”
She made a face of deliberate tolerance. “We strip off the vinyl layer and then we wet the lining paper and scrape that off.”
“We can’t do it all in one go?” He picked off a piece of lining paper.
“You can try, but this is the way the man in the paint shop told me how to do it.”
He glanced at her and turned back to the wall, beginning to rip off long lengths of vinyl. When she looked at her little scraps she was very disappointed with herself. She wanted to be able to do at least one thing better than Hagen. “You must have found the easy part of the wall,” she said with no grace.
“We’ll swap then.” His face a picture of patience, he moved over to her wall and began to tear off almost whole lengths.
“I hate you,” she said with no heat. “You remind me of Hubbell Gardiner. Life came easily to him, too.”
“Who?”
She shook her head with disappointment. “Morgan would know who Hubbell was. He was the hero in The Way We Were, an old weepy I still love.”
“If a film makes you weep, why do you love it?” He moved to the next wall and stripped the bleeding, bloody thing almost bare.
She was pleased to see that he hadn’t been able to move the lining paper as well. “It’s kind of satisfying to have a good cry once in a while.”
“This is one of the reasons why men will never understand women.”
She stood, staring at his back view, noting the width of his shoulders and the sinews in his bare forearms. The sight of him with rolled-up sleeves made her belly clench with the ache of helpless desire. He had always had a gorgeous male body—tall and broad at the shoulders and slim at the hips. His golden-tanned skin made him perfect. “And a good thing, too.” To distract herself from wanting a man she could never have, she started off a shaky rendition of the song, but not being Barbra Streisand she eventually warbled to a stop.
Hagen laughed. “That’s pretty awful. No wonder you cried the whole way through.”
She sighed loudly. “I’ll leave you to rip off the vinyl while I wet the lining. It will need to soak through for a while.”
Using long brush strokes, she sugar-soaped most of the first wall, by which time he had finished removing the top layer of vinyl. After she gave a detailed description of the items in her back shed, he came back with the ladder and took over from her, reaching high to the top part of the wall. “Pass me the scraper, and I’ll get this lining off while I’m up here.”
“I think we need to wait a while for the solution to soak through,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Apparently not. Hagen ignored her instructions, as always. The soggy lining practically fell off the wall in long lengths in his hands, peeling off the bottom layers with the hanging weight. “I now double hate you,” she muttered darkly as a damp streamer landed on her head and stuck to her hair.
“You’re far too competitive,” he said in a companionable voice. “That might have been handy on the swimming team but working together rather than competing is more useful in this situation.”
“I’m not competing. I’m simply trying to show you that I am competent.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I am, too?”
“No. You just are. Everyone knows that. You couldn’t be a golden boy if you had faults.”
He laughed. “I’m amazed to hear I have no faults. Why don’t you go and boil the kettle for a nice cup of tea while I finish this?”
“Because I won’t be shunted off to do a so-called woman’s job so that you can be manly.” She planted her fists on her hips.
He turned and grinned at her. “I wouldn’t call you a so-called woman. You are definitely a woman, obstinate, and cranky. If you would rather finish this while I rummage around your kitchen trying to find cups and what-all, that’s okay by me.”
“I wouldn’t and you know that. I’ll make a cup of tea while you be a man.”
“I’ll be one whether you make a cup of tea or not.” He turned his back on her again.
“I know. And you always have to have the last word,” she said as she huffed out of the bedroom, making sure she had the last word.
She pulled a couple of stools up to the countertop and placed two mugs of tea on the laminate, already knowing he didn’t take milk or sugar. “Tea’s ready,” she called. “I hope you’ve finished, Superman.”
“One last scrape and done, Lois.” He strode along the passage, confident and masculine without a hair on his golden head disturbed. “We’ll have time for the first coat of paint today at this rate.”
“Oh, joy. Have you painted before?”
“I’ve done a brush stroke here and there. I’m sure it’s not difficult. I might find an instruction or two on the paint can.” He widened his eyes in a gormless way.
She sighed loudly. “I’m absolutely sure that your confidence in yourself is not misplaced. Painting this wall will be the same breeze to you that everything else is.”
“Not everything.” He stood perfectly still, his softened gaze meeting hers. “You are more like a gale.”
“Let’s not get into times past, Hagen. We were doing so well.”
His gaze flickered and the blink of his eye said subject ended. “I have the idea that we might have to wash the wall before we start to paint. How about if I do that while you prepare the brushes, or whatever needs to be done?”
“I can’t leave you with the dirty work.”
“Yes, you can. You might not understand, but it’s doing me the world of good. I don’t have to think. I simply need to do. It’s therapeutic.”
“Go ahead,” she said, waving him off. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you in that case.”
Trying to remember why they were wrong for each other, she turned her back on him while he walked into the bedroom. He might have been her crush since she was sixteen, but even then she knew he needed a feminine, helpless woman who would stand around admiring him, not that Marigold couldn’t do that as well. She simply thought she owed it to him and herself that she shared the load. But what would she know? She was the product of a dysfunctional marriage, and he was the product of a successful one. If she’d had half a brain, she would have learned from him rather than try to fight him every step of the way.
Collecting the sandpaper from the pack she had left in the kitchen, she followed him. He held the handle of the bucket of sugar-soap solution in one hand and the big sponge in the other. His arm swept over the wall, swishing steadily.
She kneeled and began to sand down the skirting boards.
“Are you going to do that by hand?” he asked in an interested voice.
“I don’t know a way to do it with my foot.”
“Don’t you have an electric sander?”
“No.”
“Are you going to sand down the floor boards or install carpet?”
She worried at a bump of thick paint. “Sand. I want polished floor boards in here, the same as before.”
“Then you’ll want to sand the floor boards around the edges, too. Stop doing that the hard way. I have an electric sander. I’ll run home and get it. Are we planning on painting the walls tonight?”
“What are you? Some kind of masochist? I’ve barely done an inch of this skirting board and you want me to start on the edges of the floor.” She frowned up at him.
“If you want this room done this weekend, you’ll need a plan.” He stepped down from the ladder. “You continue washing the walls while I get the sander. We’ll do the first coat on the wall tonight after a quick meal. Tomorrow Kell will come and sand the floors. I’ll get the edges done and that will save him time.”
“Kell will sand the floors,” she repeated in a tone of disbelief. “I don’t happen to owe him a single favor. I can’t ask him to do that for me.”
“I can. If he has other plans for tomorrow morning, I’ll find out and he’ll have to do the floor another day.”
Open-mouthed, she watched him slide his phone out of his pocket and call Kell. He turned his back on her while he spoke. “Hagen here. Do you have plans for tomorrow morning?” He laughed. “No, I want you to go to AA’s workshop and pick up the floor sander. Marigold needs help with a floor.” He listened. “Yes, I’m sure Calli will find something to do. I’m planning on being at Marigold’s house around nine tomorrow. I’ll get the windows covered up. Right. See you.”
“I was going to sand the floor myself. I don’t really have the money to pay someone to work for me on a weekend,” Marigold said, totally embarrassed.
“He and Calli are only too pleased to help. The company owns the floor sander so there won’t be any cost to you. However, we need to do as much as we can tonight in prep. The floor dust takes a day to settle and so you won’t be able to paint tomorrow. If we can, we’ll finish tonight.”
“I didn’t know you had an electric sander,” she said in a robot voice as he wiped his wet hands down the sides of his jeans. She couldn’t quite handle how he had taken over. Not having to sand the floors herself was a great relief but everything was moving too fast for her, and now Hagen was organizing her. She never did take well to having someone telling her what to do. Next he would be mansplaining and she would clock him one. “But, by all means get it. And I’ll take over washing the walls while you’re gone. Unfortunately, we won’t have time to paint the room tonight.” She lifted her chin.
He gave her a glance of tolerance and he actually drove to his house two streets away while she washed the walls with the long-handled floor sponge. She had almost finished when he arrived back with two electric sanders, reams of sandpaper, and a large can of ceiling white. “I thought finishing the ceiling first might be smart,” he said with an apologetic smile. “And I had this in the garage, left over.”
She groaned. “Getting the walls of this room painted seemed like simple exercise to me yesterday. You’ve made it into a full production.”
“You don’t want to start something that you’re not prepared to do properly.” He plonked his hands on his hips and stared a challenge at her.
“What’s the time?”
“Half past four.”
“Right. So, I’ll paint the cornices and you can do the rolling of the ceiling. We should be finished in a couple of hours.”
In the end, they finished layering two coats on the ceiling in about an hour and a half.