Authors: Donna Richards
She hadn’t expected this emotional attachment. All the magazines implied that intercourse was little more than shared aerobics. But Hank knew. He was experienced at this sort of thing. Was it his plan all along to destroy her heart, her soul? Was it pity? Show the little cripple a good time then dump her? A tear dropped from her cheek onto the betraying face in the newspaper. H.P. Renard, the caption said. Named after a calculator, she reminded herself. One of these days she’d learn to trust her instincts and not her heart. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
Cold-hearted bastard.
“Angie,” Teresa called from the door to the staff room. “Mr. Falstaff would like to see you now.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Angie struggled to find her voice. She turned the newspaper over so she couldn’t see Hank’s newsprint smile. “I worked the problem out, I don’t need to talk to him anymore.”
“No, Angie. Mr. Falstaff would like to see you now.” The emphasis on the “you” made it clear to everyone in the staff room that Angie was not calling this meeting. Max shot a concerned glance towards Angie.
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“Probably wants a progress report,” she said, picking up the manila folders she had just dropped on her desk. Tucking them under her arm, she followed Teresa down the hall to the corner office.
Angie attempted what she thought was a chipper smile before entering the paneled vestibule. “Good morning, Mr. Falstaff. You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down, Angela, we have some serious business to discuss.” His ominous tone overpowered her attempts at being perky.
“If it’s about Tempco, I’ve brought the audit papers.” She placed the manila folders on his circular conference table, then selected one of the surrounding chairs.
Falstaff rose from behind his massive desk and walked over to the table. “I want to talk to you about your relationship with Hayden Industries.”
Her heart stalled. Did he know something he shouldn’t? Or was he preparing to push her for more billings. “Yes, sir, what would you like to know?” She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
Falstaff dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. He lowered himself into one of the chairs. “Did you have a good time at the ball Saturday night?”
“Well…yes …” she stammered.
“That wasn’t your brother you were with, was it?” His penetrating stare made it all the more difficult to continue the lie. Dishonesty was never her strong suit anyway.
“Mr. Falstaff, I don’t …”
“I had a phone call this morning. Never mind from who,” he held up his hand to silence her unspoken questions. “The caller said you’ve been having an illicit relationship with Henry Renard. Is that true?”
The heat scorching her cheeks probably answered his question.
Words refused to surface.
“I might not have believed the caller if he hadn’t sent me this.” He removed a large glossy photograph that showed Angela in Hank’s robe.
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The lapels opened enough to expose a zipper-like scar down the middle of her chest. “I’ve been a guest at the Owens’s house a time or two. I recognize that setting.”
“Let me explain…” Angie said, although she wasn’t sure how she could explain away the damning photo. Her heart raced. That flash…
That must have been… “Who sent this?”
“Not important.” He refused to look at her face. “It’s not up to me to preach morals to my employees. I was young once. I know something about romance. I suspected your date Saturday night wasn’t your brother. The way you two looked on the dance floor…” He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and covered his eyes for a moment with his hands. “But a client, Angela?” He peered at her from over the tips of his fingers. “I expected more from you than that.”
Angie swiped the moisture collecting on her cheeks. “Please, Mr.
Falstaff, I know it doesn’t look good, but…”
“Why didn’t you come to me when this thing first started?” he admonished. He stood up and began pacing the length of the office. “I could have reassigned you. I thought you had a solid future here, Angela.
I hate to lose you.”
“Lose me?” she sniffed, watching as he turned his back toward her.
“You know the rules. You’ve compromised this office, the audit and our reputation. You’ve left me no choice as to disciplinary action.” He turned back to face her. “We are letting you go, Angela.”
“You’re firing me?”
He nodded. “Max can finish up the year-end work on Hayden. You’re to gather up your personal belongings and vacate the premises immediately.”
“I’m fired?” she repeated, shock holding her captive to the chair.
“I’m sorry, Angie, I truly am. I know I’m not your father, but if I can offer a piece of advice. I don’t know what you and Renard had going together, but the caller implied you had spent the night with Renard fairly early on. I didn’t believe it at first, but clearly this was not idle gossip. Given the notice in the paper this morning, I’d urge you to be 210
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more selective in your conquests next time. Maintain some standards, for Heaven’s sake.”
She stood, leaving the papers untouched on the table, then exited the office in a zombie-like state. Outside Falstaff’s office, Teresa quickly lowered her voice and whispered into a phone receiver. Angela slowly walked down the hall to her cubicle.
She scanned the narrow shelves and picked up a framed photograph of Oreo with a Frisbee and a box containing an extra supply of her prescriptions.
“Angie, what’s going on? Where are you going?” Max’s head appeared over the side of her cubicle. He glanced at her face. “My God, what’s happened?”
She held up her hand. “Not now, Max. I can’t talk now.” She slipped her personal items in her purse and turned to leave.
“Can I call you later at home?”
She didn’t reply. She just walked to the exit of Falstaff and Watterson and let the door to that chapter of her life close behind her.
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“Open up, Angie, I know you’re in there.” Hank pounded on Angie’s front door till the hinges rattled. The contents of the paper bag he clenched in one hand shifted with the motion, splattering chicken soup.
Oreo’s incessant barking from the other side of the door added to the chaos.
“I swear I’ll break this door down if you don’t open it,” he threatened.
How could anyone tolerate this racket? If her car wasn’t parked in the driveway, he’d have thought she wasn’t home. He began pounding again.
The strange little man from next door stepped out on his porch. “Is something wrong?” he called.
“Everything would be fine if she’d just open the damn door,” Hank answered, his voice rising to a near shout. Oreo’s barking turned to a frustrated whimper. He could hear her sniffing and snorting at the bottom of the door.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you,” the neighbor said with stiff bravado. “Maybe you should leave.”
That was right. He’d forgotten that Angie had befriended the little zombie. It shouldn’t be a surprise. She had that effect on people. She’d had that effect on him. He looked back at what’s-his-name, the neighbor, and softened his tone. “I heard she might not be feeling well.”
Holding the stained paper sack aloft, he remembered Angie’s vigilance regarding her medically suppressed immune system. The thought renewed his anguish. “She could be seriously ill,” he yelled at the neighbor. “She could need help.”
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“Should I call her brother?” The neighbor suddenly became a collaborator. “I have his number.”
Angie’s dead bolt clicked a moment before the door opened the length of the safety chain. “I’m fine. I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.”
Oreo stuck her long white snout out through the crack. Before Angie could retract the dog, Hank had his foot in the door. He winced as Angie tried repeatedly to slam the door closed. As petite as she was, she could still pack a wallop.
“Angie, please-- I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Go away.”
“Let me explain.” He worked his fingers around the edge of the door.
“Explain it to Elizabeth.”
“It’s a mistake,” he pleaded, grimacing as his knuckles shared the same torture as his instep. The pressure eased on both extremities. “I never proposed to Elizabeth.”
“You’re not engaged?” Although nasal in tone, her question held so much longing it made his throat ache. He pressed his cheek against the door, imagining she pressed hers on the other side.
“Please, Angel. We need to talk, but not like this.” He pitched his words soft and low like a prayer, which indeed it was. “Please let me in.”
He slid his fingers up and down the edge of the door, blindly hoping for a touch of her hand. “Please?”
“All right, step back a minute.”
He hesitated, suspecting that once he withdrew his foot and hand, the door would slam shut, forcing him to start all over again. But if he was going to beg for her trust in him, he needed to begin with some trust in her. He slipped his hand and foot from the door. It closed and in answer to his silent prayer, the safety chain slid back. The door reopened. Oreo ran out, jumping in a fervent display of affection.
“Come in,” she said, still hidden behind the door. Her invitation sounded more like resignation. Hank petted the dog briefly. Oreo’s tail repeatedly bashed his leg. At least someone was glad to see him.
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Once inside, Angie pushed the door closed with her back. Her fuzzy pink robe clashed with her red nose, the only spot of color in a pale, drained face. She pushed unwashed hair over her shoulder, then crossed her arms defiantly in front of her chest. She looked like Hell and Heaven all rolled into one.
“Max said you weren’t feeling well so I brought you some chicken soup.” He held up the crinkled paper bag, the bottom threatening to break loose in moisture-weakened spots. “I think I spilled some.”
She sighed; her whole body shook with the effort. “You talked to Max?”
He nodded. “I was in New York when I started receiving calls congratulating me on my engagement. That’s when I learned of the newspaper article. I called Falstaff and Watterson and asked for you.
When they told me you weren’t available, I asked for Max.”
“Not available,” she repeated. A chortle-like laugh caught in her throat and started a coughing spasm. He stepped closer to help her, but she held up her arm to keep him at bay.
“Come sit down, Angie. You look like you can barely stand.”
Her head jerked up. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“Then sit down for my sake,” he grumbled, tired of playing by Miss Independent’s rules. He crossed into the sitting room, depositing the tenuous bag of soup on a magazine near the couch. “If you faint on me, I’d have to catch you, and you certainly wouldn’t want that.”
Aah, but I
would
, he thought, remembering how she had felt in his arms.
“No, I certainly wouldn’t.” She tugged her robe more tightly around her and stomped to the couch. Hank hid his smile and called Oreo over for a scratch between the ears. That way the dog couldn’t inadvertently trip her up.
“You’re walking better,” he observed.
She shrugged. “My leg’s gotten a lot of rest this week.” She flopped on the couch. “Satisfied?”
“Almost.” He picked up a quilt from the floor and shook it, sending a myriad of dog hairs adrift. “Put your feet up.”
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Somewhat begrudgingly, she leaned on one elbow and pulled her legs up to the couch. He laid the quilt over her, then tucked it tight around the curves of her body.
She batted his hands away. “What are you doing?”
If he had any thoughts of exploring those luscious curves under the pretense of tucking in the quilt, the accusation in her eyes stopped him cold. “You’re sick,” he said, feeling a bit like a scolding father. “You need to stay warm.”
“I’m not sick,” she grumbled.
“But your eyes are puffy. I heard you sniffling. Max said… Don’t you have a cold?”
She dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “If you talked to Max, then you know why I wasn’t available when you called.”
He nodded. “Max and I had quite a long conversation. He said you were let go.”
“Let go,” she repeated, dejection echoing in her voice. “As if I wanted to leave.” Tears welled in her vulnerable blue eyes, tugging at his heart.
“They fired me, Hank.”
He rested his hip on the thin edge of couch near her feet. He felt totally useless. Her small body shook under her sobs, and not for the first time, he suspected. He reached over and plucked a tissue from the well-used box on the coffee table and offered it to her, all the while stroking her hip through the quilt. “I’m sorry, Angel, so sorry,” he repeated over and over, as if the mantra would alleviate some of his guilt.
Even Oreo padded over to offer sympathy, negotiating her nose between Angie’s arms.
“I should never have made you go to that ball,” he said. “I never dreamed they would fire you for going to a dance with me.”
“You didn’t make me.” She swabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose, a sound worthy of a moose. “I could have said no.”
“You did, several times,” he reminded her, “but I persisted.
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weight and dropped his elbows to his knees. “Damn, I was so careful not to let anyone know it was me under that mask.”
“I’ve thought about that.”
A lot.
She didn’t say it, but Hank heard the added sentiment loud and clear. “I think Falstaff knew you weren’t my brother, but he didn’t know I was dancing with Hank Renard.” She patted his knee, and he covered her small hand with his own much larger one.
“Then how did he…?”
“Someone sent him a photograph. Remember when I saw movement in the woods Sunday morning? Guess it wasn’t a deer after all.” She managed a sarcastic sneer. “Whoever it was said we’d been intimate for some time.”