Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series, Volume 3 (88 page)

“Mom's doing fine—not great but okay.”

Miranda knew she should give Will the privacy he'd requested but felt an almost overwhelming need to comfort him. “Will,” she said softly, moving a few feet into his office. “Is there anything I can do?”

He kept his eyes lowered and shook his head. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Tell me what happened,” she urged, wondering why he was so upset if there was no new crisis with his mother. She struggled to hide her feelings for him. Admittedly those feelings alternated between annoyance and attraction, but there were times, such as right now, when she realized how deeply she cared about Will. He was vain, supercilious, pompous and a hundred other adjectives she could think of. On the other hand, he was intelligent and witty, a talented businessman, devoted to his family and kind to animals. Not to mention good-looking in a dignified but still sexy way.

“I ran into Tanni Bliss,” Will muttered. “Shirley was in California last weekend.”

“So I heard.”

Will's head shot up. “You
knew?
”

He asked the question as though she'd personally betrayed him by keeping the information to herself.

“Well, yes. Shirley and I are good friends.”

“You might've told me.” His eyes snapped with irritation.

Miranda planted one hand on her hip. “And why would I do that?”

“You know how I feel about Shirley.”

She looked up at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. “You have got to be kidding me. Shirley is no more interested in you than…than the man in the moon. You're a smart boy. You should've figured that out by now.”

“I'm the one who introduced her to Larry Knight.” He jammed his index finger against his chest. “I met her first and—”

“Shirley isn't a prize marble,” Miranda countered swiftly. “Are you so egotistical that you can't accept the fact that not every woman in the universe is going to fall in love with you?”

He glared at her and said, “Then I guess you'll be happy to know Larry proposed.”

As it happened, she was. “Shirley told me. So who told you? Larry?”

“No, Tanni. Like I said,” he returned pointedly, “I ran into her at the bank and she said she and her mother had a—” he made quotation marks in the air “—‘fabulous time' with Larry and his children. When they got there, Larry asked Tanni and her brother if they had any objections to him as their stepfather. And now…they're engaged.”

Miranda smiled delightedly, although she wondered whether Shirley would move to California. She felt a little forlorn at the prospect of not having her best friend close by anymore.

“I feel like I've been kicked in the gut,” Will said.

“Oh, for crying out loud, get over it.”

Will seemed shocked that anyone would speak to him in such a derogatory tone of voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Get off your pity pot. If you think Shirley was ever interested in you, then you're delusional.”

Will got to his feet and placed both hands on the edge of his desk. Leaning forward, he demanded, “And you know this because…”

“Because she told me so herself.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Believe what you want. You aren't the right man for Shirley. She recognized it from the start. Unfortunately, you didn't.”

“Then why did she go out with me?”

That was a no-brainer. “Gratitude. You helped Shaw get into art school and she felt she owed you. That's the
only
reason she agreed to a couple of dates. They didn't mean anything—at least not to her.”

“Are you always this…” He seemed to fumble for the right word.

“Correct?” she supplied.

His eyes narrowed and his ears grew red. “I was thinking more along the lines of
smart alec.
”

“Well,
smart
is true enough. I was at the top of my class,” she bragged. “By the way, did you notice the Chandler sold while you were out?”

Will brightened considerably. “Hey, that's great! I didn't even look.”

“Yes, to a new customer who recently moved here. Veronica Vanderhuff wants to decorate her home with work by local artists and the first piece in her collection is the watercolor.”

Will wore a smug, know-it-all look. “I told you that
wall was the perfect place to display it. The Chandler was the first thing she saw when she walked in the door.”

“Actually, it wasn't.” Miranda could hardly wait to enlighten him. “While you were out, I moved the painting to the opposite wall. She barely glanced at the price before she bought it.” Miranda was sure her expression was just as smug as his—but she didn't care. “The morning light on it was perfect.”

“You moved the painting?” Will barged out of the office, nearly knocking her over in his eagerness to investigate.

Miranda followed him. The space where she'd hung it was now blank, since she'd brought it to the storeroom for wrapping.

“Who said you could move that painting?” he demanded.

“I knew I was right,” she insisted. The painting had sold within thirty minutes, which should tell him her judgment was superior to his. If he wasn't too arrogant to admit the truth…

“You went against my orders,” he flared.

“Orders? Did I join a military unit and not realize it?” she yelled back. “In case you're missing the point here, allow me to remind you. The painting sold.”

“It would've sold where I'd hung it.”

“I'll concede it might've eventually sold, but we didn't need to wait because once it was effectively displayed, a buyer appeared right away.”

“You've overstepped your bounds,” Will said. He stalked over to the counter and slapped his hand against it. “I will not have an employee taking matters into her own hands.”

“Did I mention we got full price and that Ms. Vanderhuff is interested in more artwork?” Okay, Miranda
was willing to agree that she might've been out of line, but she had a point to prove, which she'd done, and very successfully, too. One might think Will would take the fact that she'd sold the artwork—and for top dollar—into consideration.

“You leave me no option,” he said. “You're fired.”

“You're firing me because I sold the highest-priced item in the entire gallery?” He couldn't possibly be serious.

“I'm firing you because you went against my wishes.”

“You're firing me,” she repeated tonelessly.

“Yes. Pack your things and go.” He gestured to the door as if she needed guidance in finding her way out.

“Okay, but before I go I want you to know I regret one thing.”

“Only one?”

“Only one,” she echoed. “I deeply regret that I didn't quit weeks ago. You're the worst employer I've ever had.”

“Then it's mutual. I want you out of here and you're just as eager to go.”

“I couldn't have said it better myself.” Miranda marched into the back room and quickly gathered up her things. With her back stiff and her pride intact, she returned to the main part of the gallery. “I'd appreciate it if you'd mail me my final check.”

“I'll see to it this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” she said, and without another word she walked out.

Well, so much for that. Although she pretended otherwise, she was sorry to lose this job. She'd enjoyed it; she knew she was good at it. Although Will Jefferson was as delusional and arrogant as she'd said, she considered him a friend, too. A begrudging friend, but still a friend. That friendship, such as it was, had probably ended now.

* * *

The weekend dragged by. Looking back on the incident, Miranda wished she'd handled everything differently. Will had already been upset about learning that Shirley was engaged to Larry Knight. Then she'd heaped hot coals on his bruised ego by boasting about the sale of the painting.

Still, it was for the best that she leave. They bickered constantly and neither one of them was willing to give in. Will was just as stubborn as she was. And then there was this…this useless attraction she felt for him. Yes, it was preferable all around that she seek other employment. Only…she'd really
liked
working at the gallery. She knew many of the local artists and they were familiar with her, too. Her being at the gallery was an asset to Will, but apparently he no longer saw it that way.

Normally Miranda would have confided in Shirley, spilled out her tale of woe. Not this time. But she couldn't explain why she hesitated to tell her closest friend that she'd been fired.

Instead, she hibernated all weekend, not venturing out of her apartment, even for groceries. She used the time to clean her oven, scrub the bathroom walls and sort out the clutter in her kitchen drawers. The tasks suited her mood perfectly. She needed a distraction, something to keep her mind off Will and the blowup they'd had. And this kind of work made her feel more organized, more in control.

When her paycheck wasn't in the mail on Monday, she thought perhaps he'd forgotten. She punched out the phone number for the gallery and waited for him to answer. She couldn't help wondering if he'd already hired her replacement.

“Harbor Street Gallery,” Will answered on the third ring, sounding harried.

“It's Miranda. I was looking for my check. It hasn't arrived yet.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I haven't had a chance to write it. I'll do it this afternoon.”

“Would you like me to stop by and pick it up?” she asked.

“Sure.” He paused. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“When can I expect you?”

Miranda glanced at her watch. “An hour?”

“Perfect.”

She replaced the phone and felt better than she had all weekend. Collecting her purse and sweater, she headed out the door. The early part of the week was generally slow at the gallery. She'd filled in for Will a couple of Mondays that month so he could help his mother and stepfather with the insurance people and the builder remodeling the kitchen.

Will was sitting behind the counter, leafing through a catalog, and stood when she entered the gallery. He didn't smile at first and neither did she. The old wooden floor creaked as she walked across the room, which made her feel even more self-conscious.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Will said.

“I have time on my hands, so it's not a problem.”

He grinned at her weak joke.

“You have my check?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, locating the envelope under the counter. He handed it to her but held on to one end. “The thing is…”

“Yes?” she asked eagerly.

“I believe I might've been a bit hasty in letting you go when I did.”

“Really…”

He hedged for a few seconds. “There aren't as many tourists as we usually get this time of year, but…”

“But,” she went on, “the gallery has the potential to bring in a large clientele.” Miranda had plenty of ideas she wanted to share—like a holiday show, sponsoring an art walk, hosting an event for the chamber of commerce. They could invite local artists, serve wine and cheese, consider ways to work with other businesses.

“I believe there's great potential here, too,” Will concurred. “Problem is, I can't do it alone.”

“You need an assistant.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but I was foolish enough to fire the best one I'm likely to find.”

Miranda felt sure she hadn't heard him correctly. “Are you saying you want me to come back?”

“You're cantankerous, insubordinate and a lot of other things I could mention, but two days without you and I was ready to pull my hair out. Pride is a fine thing, but it only carries you so far—and I've reached my limit. I want you back. Would you be willing to let bygones be bygones and start over?”

“I think I could do that,” she said, struggling to hide her delight. The knot in her stomach unraveled and the tension eased from her shoulders. “We can talk.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Will smiled.

And Miranda smiled back.

Ten

S
itting at her parents' kitchen counter, Gloria Ashton watched her mother move briskly around, assembling a variety of bowls and wooden spoons. Gloria wasn't sure what Corrie was making but it seemed to demand a lot of attention. The cookbook was propped open and a dozen ingredients were lined up on the counter.

Roy was in the living room reading the local paper and that, too, appeared to be completely captivating.

“Would you like more milk?” Corrie asked, nodding at Gloria's half-empty glass.

“No, thanks.”

Gloria had first noticed the tension between Roy and Corrie a couple of weeks ago and tried to ignore it. She figured they'd resolve the problem, whatever it was, without interference from her or anyone else. But that didn't seem to be the case.

“Is everything okay between you and Roy?” she finally asked. She'd decided just coming right out with it was better than pretending this uneasiness didn't exist.

Roy rattled his paper and Corrie dropped an egg on the counter, breaking the shell. She tore off a paper towel and used it to shove the raw egg and broken shell directly
into the kitchen sink. She turned on the water, ran the garbage disposal, then washed her hands, drying them on her apron.

“What was that, dear?” she asked as if she hadn't heard the question.

“I asked if everything's all right between you and Roy,” Gloria repeated.

Corrie stood on the other side of the counter, looking into the living room, where Roy sat with the newspaper hiding his face. “That's something you need to ask your father,” she said in a starched voice.

Roy lowered the paper, stared into the kitchen, then resumed reading. He'd been at it a solid hour. Gloria assumed he'd read it from front to back twice over by now. The Tuesday editions were often the skimpiest of the week.