Engaging Deception, page 23
“You can use my plans for free. I’ll request that you include my name on the design, though. At least it’ll be there for posterity even if I’m not at the site supervising.”
“Well . . .” Mr. Christman’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “That’s fair. I’d prefer to work with you but if there’s nothing else to be done . . .”
“I regret it worked out this way but with my . . .”—what had Ruby called Leo and Stella?—“with my responsibilities, I must make choices.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a new respect in Mr. Christman’s eyes. “God be with you then, son. I’ll have my lawyer send over a statement releasing us from your contract. Sign it and I’ll move on.”
He would move on while Max was stuck. But he was stuck with good things. He just needed to learn how to appreciate them better.
Let someone else have all the dross. Max would keep the real treasure.
CHAPTER
23
It’d been a week since she’d seen Maxfield. A week since he’d assumed that she was working for Amos and spying on him. A week since the second worst day of her life.
Coming home with a bag of vegetables from the market and a hunk of pork from the butcher, retiring Olive had done her best to be about town. Every day found another excuse to walk past the Dennises’ home, but Maxfield was never outside. She’d gone to a dress shop for the first time since her mother died, just because it was on the same street as his office, but to no avail. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that awful day. Sleepless nights found her worrying about his welfare and wishing she could separate into two Olives—one who did the job she loved, and one whose only concern was caring about Maxfield and his children.
He’d been in her thoughts continually, but she hadn’t expected to see a well-dressed man waiting at the door when she reached her house. Finally, she’d have a chance to present her case. Sensing her presence, he turned to face her, but it wasn’t Maxfield after all.
“Marlowe?” Olive shifted the bag of groceries against her hip. “What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving town.”
He gallantly took the bag from her, allowing her to open the door to the house. “I am leaving, but I can’t do it without saying goodbye and checking on my favorite Kentworth.”
“Favorite? Even more than Willow?” Olive led him into the kitchen and motioned for him to set down the groceries.
“Willow is a Buchanan now. There’s no controversy in my statement.” Marlowe waved the wrapped pork at her. “But how are you? Did anything come of our outing? I could’ve sworn that Maxfield was besotted.”
Olive snatched the chops from him and retrieved a frying pan. “Maybe he was, but he’s not anymore. My client is competing with his client. Our projects make us rivals.” Talking to Marlowe was strangely cathartic. “I should’ve told him from the beginning, but keeping him in the dark worked to my advantage, so that’s what I did. I took advantage of him.”
“You took advantage of the unrivaled Maxfield Scott?” Marlowe leaned against the icebox, his arm propped against the top. “I don’t believe it.”
“I did. I purposefully distracted him so Amos could spy on his project. It was wrong of me. I should’ve told him from the beginning that I was doing the building on Blount’s house. I should’ve told him when Blount asked me to spy on him. Then maybe . . .” Olive shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”
Olive set the frying pan on the stove and dropped the meat into it. Maxfield’s words about Amos being an amateur and a hack still stung. Amos’s résumé was her résumé. Whatever credentials Amos lacked, she lacked. Telling Maxfield would only bring more scorn on herself.
“He doesn’t know, and he won’t guess,” Marlowe said. “You have to tell him, and make it clear as day.”
“And if he doesn’t believe me?”
“He won’t. Not at first.” Marlowe picked at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “You can’t imagine the snobbery, the elitism of those students in Europe. They strolled through the greatest cities of our civilization critiquing great architecture as if they were the superiors of the masters. Maxfield was no exception. While he knows a thing or two about architecture now, he’ll have a hard time believing that someone who didn’t study like him is qualified.”
“So it’s no use.”
Marlowe’s usually genial expression turned stern. “It’s no use keeping it a secret, Olive. You’ve cleared the way, you’ve laid the track. Everything is ready for you. It’s time to fire up the engine and chug forward. You might meet some resistance at first, but you’re doing Max a disservice by not giving him a chance. You aren’t doing yourself any favors either.”
The hinges on the front door squawked. Marlowe raised his eyebrows in curiosity as Olive looked toward the parlor.
“Olive,” her father called. “Are you home?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” she answered as he and Amos walked inside.
“He’s coming. He’s coming to talk to you.” Amos walked with a heavy tread to the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop him, but he’s got it all figured out. I could barely beat him here.”
“Maxfield?” Olive asked as Amos dug a carrot out of the grocery sack. “What do I say?” she asked her father.
“Mr. Buchanan.” Her father held out his hand. “Nice to see you again. I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but we have a rather urgent message for my daughter.”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Marlowe drawled at a speed that infuriated Olive. “If there’s something—”
“Who’s coming?” Olive interrupted. “What’s going on?”
Amos scrubbed the carrot against his canvas trousers and bit off the end. “It’s not Mr. Scott. It’s Mr. Christman. He’s got plans for a department store, and he figured out right quickly that I wasn’t the person he should be talking to.”
This was something new. “Mr. Christman’s coming here to talk to me? What did you tell him?” They’d been in this situation before. Not everyone was as obtuse as Mr. Blount. What would it take to convince Mr. Christman that Amos was the man to talk to?
“Olive,” her father said. “This would be your fourth building project. When will you start taking credit for your work?”
“What does it matter who builds the buildings?” she asked. “It’s just something I do. I’m not looking for attention.”
“Sharing your gifts isn’t boastful,” her father said. “Your mother made the best pecan pies in the county. Everyone bragged on them. Did that mean she should stop making them? Withhold her talent from people because it was remarkable?”
It was on the tip of Olive’s tongue to say that making a pecan pie wasn’t the same as designing a building, but then she saw the pride in her father’s eyes. Those pies and her mother’s skill in making them meant as much to him as her job. As they should.
Maybe she was making too much of this.
Amos pointed at the door with his carrot. “He’s about to knock.”
Olive swore his senses were as fine-tuned as a bird dog’s. She swung her hands into the air, then let them drop. “I’ll see to this alone,” she said.
“I’m here if you need me,” her father added as a rap could be heard against the door.
“You know I’m listening to every word,” Amos said.
“And I must depart.” Marlowe grabbed her by the shoulders and graced her cheek with a quick kiss. “Be patient with Maxfield,” he whispered. “He’s as bullheaded as any man. Give him some time.”
As Marlowe made his departure out the back door, Olive braced herself. If she was going to tell Maxfield the truth, she had to start being truthful with everyone.
Before Mr. Christman could knock again, she’d left the kitchen and opened the front door.
“Mr. Christman, I’m Olive Kentworth. Thank you for visiting. Won’t you come in?”
“Am I in the right place?” He removed his driving gloves as he raised his gaze to the low ceiling then down to the homemade rugs on the floor. “This doesn’t look like a builder’s office.”
“Tell me why you are here.” Olive led him to a sofa and sat. She felt like she should’ve been offering him refreshments, but this was a business meeting. She wouldn’t go back into the kitchen until she’d taken care of her first priority.
“You might have seen the empty lot on Main. I’ve planned to put a department store there.”
“You hired Maxfield Scott to do that. I’ve seen his plans.”
There was a question in his gaze, but he didn’t speak it. “Well, Mr. Scott has run into difficulty. He is unable to start construction and he gave me leave to find another builder.”
Olive eyed the papers rolled beneath Mr. Christman’s arm. “What manner of difficulty did Mr. Scott encounter? Is there something wrong with the lot? Did the city rescind their permits?”
“Nothing like that. From what I gather, it was more of a personal nature. Said something about taking care of his first responsibilities.”
Leo and Stella. Olive picked up a fringed pillow from the sofa and held it to her stomach. Mrs. Wester could care for them. Surely she hadn’t quit too. This was because of what she’d done, though. It had to be.
“He left the plans in my care and signed them over to me. I have permission to use them, but I need a builder. It didn’t take long to hear of the Kentworth buildings going up but when I called on your cousin, I found myself perplexed. He didn’t have the knowledge that I’d expect from someone who was doing these projects. In fact, I found him more than a little ignorant of the designs.”
“I don’t appreciate your insinuations,” Amos called from the kitchen. “I might be ignorant in a lot of things, but I’m exceptionally clever when it comes to recognizing insults.”
“Amos, go on home,” Olive said.
“Come on, Amos.” She heard her father’s languid voice coaxing his nephew. “Olive has got this under control. She doesn’t need us.”
Amos poked his head into the parlor. “She never needed me,” he said. “She could’ve done this herself, and I hope you give her a chance to. I don’t add anything to the bushel weight.”
You never knew what Amos would say or do. That was part of his charm. He winked at Olive before walking out the door with an invite to her and her father for Sunday dinner at the farm.
“Now tell me more about what’s ailing Mr. Scott,” she said as the room quieted.
He wasn’t angry any longer. Oh, Max knew he’d been wronged. There was no question about that. He knew that Olive had manipulated him and betrayed him on behalf of her cousin, but the anger was fading to hurt. How could she do that to him? Had all their interactions been counterfeit? And what if some of them were sincere? Did it matter? How could he ever trust her?
“Daddy, read this book to me.” Leo held up a copy of Five Little Peppers and Max gauged the stack of books on the library’s table. He should’ve brought a wagon to cart them home. He didn’t know what the limit was for books one patron could check out, but the kids were going to find it.
“I can’t read to you here. We have to be quiet, remember. You only get two books each, though. Put the rest of those back.”
“Excuse me, sir.” The rosy-cheeked librarian must have the patience of a saint. “I’d prefer they leave them on the table. I’ll put them back on the shelves after you leave.”
She probably hoped that would be soon, but Max had found a quiet place where he could work. The City of Joplin was taking bids on a new city hall, and Max wanted to have a design to submit. His crew wouldn’t be busy with the Dennis house forever. He had to think ahead.
Coming to the library provided a nice change of scenery for the kids. This reading carrel sat at the edge of the children’s section of the library. Surrounded by shelves of books, it shielded him from the public while giving him a view of the children’s reading area. They were having a wonderful time flipping through books, with Leo pretending to read to Stella. Stella laid her head on the little desk, getting sleepy. If only he didn’t have to continually remind them to be quiet, he could accomplish so much more.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t sketching anything. He was only thinking of Olive—reciting his grievances against her while still trying to envisage some way she could be innocent in her duplicity.
“Miss Kentworth!” Leo dropped his book and darted out of sight. Stella lifted her head off the table and her eyes brightened. She kicked and squirmed to get down, leaving no doubt in Max’s mind that her favorite nanny was within sight.
He forced himself to be calm as he rolled up his plans and set them aside. She hadn’t come to see him. It was a chance encounter. She’d say goodbye to the children, then send them back to him. For one thing, she’d never cared about him. For another, she wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face. Ashamed, as she should be.
All these things were going through his mind as he got to his feet, but his heart knew better. He wanted to see her. He wanted her to understand how much she’d wronged him. There were things he had to say, but once they were said, then maybe he could understand her actions better. Until then, he couldn’t close the door. He might step away and he might always wonder, but he couldn’t say never. Not until he knew.
“He’s back here.” Leo’s voice grew closer along with the sound of his quick steps echoing through the silence.
Max braced himself, but the figure that stepped around the corner wasn’t Olive. It was Mrs. Wester.
“Mr. Scott, we’ve been looking for you. I thought the children would be at Miss Kentworth’s, but she didn’t know where you were either. Thankfully Joplin isn’t so big of a city that people don’t recognize you and these two urchins.” She patted Leo on the head. “It wasn’t too difficult to follow your path.”
He tried to hide his disappointment. This was good. Even if she wasn’t Olive, he needed Mrs. Wester if he was going to get any work done during the day.
“How is your husband?” he asked.
“The doctor said his recovery is progressing. Thank you for giving me the morning off. If I didn’t go with him, I’d never know what the doctor said. He won’t tell me nothing.”
“Of course. If you want to take the rest of the day off, that would be fine,” he said. “You might need to get him home and comfortable.”
“Oh, he’s home and just as rascally as ever. Once the doctor gave us the good news, I headed straight for your house. It’s nearly Stella’s nap time. I think she’s out there with Miss Kentworth. I’ll take them home and leave you two to plan the evening care.”
“Miss Kentworth?” She was there after all. His skin pricked like he could sense her just out of sight.
Mrs. Wester took the stack of children’s books off the study carrel. “I don’t know if she’s free to watch the children tonight, but you could ask. Come on, Leo. Let’s get Stella.”
Max placed his hands on the table in front of him and rested his weight with arms wide. She was helping Mrs. Wester find him, but she didn’t want to see him. Only doing a favor for the older woman. It was for the best. He’d say words that he’d regret, and she’d hurt him even more. There was nothing left for them to talk about besides accusations and excuses.
Again his skin tingled. This time, he knew it was her. Max lifted his head, taking in the narrow leather belt around a trim waist, the flounce of the blouse with a roll of paper beneath her arm, and the practical set of her shoulders. He went no higher.
“Hello, Maxfield.” Her whisper shook him. “May I speak with you?”
He lowered his gaze. There was a lot they needed to talk about. He wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.
“I understand how this must seem to you and while you probably have no interest in hearing from me, I wanted you to know that I’m worried about you. You can’t quit your work. You are an asset to Joplin. Don’t throw it away.”
He could feel the flush rushing to his face. “I’m not ceding the field. This isn’t a retirement. It’s an acknowledgment of my responsibility to the children and my obligations to my current clients. I’m trying to restore some balance to my life. You shouldn’t consider it a failure on my part.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean to suggest that you had failed, but I was worried when you turned this project down. I know how excited you were to get this commission.”
“Maybe you should’ve worried before you tried to ruin my career.”
She blanched. “Your career isn’t ruined, Maxfield. I didn’t hurt you.”
“You used me to give your cousin an advantage. Now he’s got my customer, my designs. He even has Ruby.”
“Do you want Ruby back?”
“Maybe she’d be good for me.” His eyes twitched at the lie, but he stood firm.
Olive had the grace to look hurt, or was that another act of hers?
“I apologize again for misleading you, but I wanted you to know that I never looked at your designs with the intent of stealing them.” Her small, steady voice had gone back to discussing the practical issue before them. “I did avail myself of your library, however. I’ve already read everything this library has on architecture and design and have bought every book I could get my hands on—that’s how I educated myself. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to look at the latest journals.”
She still didn’t understand. “But you knew that Amos was in competition with me. The moment he took the commission from Blount to redesign the house that I built, you should’ve realized that any help you gave him would be at my expense.”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.” She took the plans from beneath her arm and dropped them on the table. Planting one hand on the edge of the paper, she rolled it out flat. “Do you remember showing me these plans? Do you remember when I suggested that you should have decorative capitals on the Corinthian columns? You were amazed at the suggestion. You were impressed. I could tell.”
“If Amos wants to work for Mr. Christman, that’s fine. I relinquished the design. It doesn’t matter if you contributed to it or not.”
