Muriel Jensen - The Man She Married

Prue was flattered, astonished, and very aware of just what such exposure could do for the future of Prudent Designs.

“Well, I’d love that, of course,” she said, then felt honesty required that she tell her just what had happened since the wedding she’d missed. “But I think you should know, Aunt Georgette, that Gideon and I—”

“Were getting a divorce,” Georgette interrupted. “Gideon told me. But since you’ve patched things up, you’re still deserving of a wedding present.”

Prue repeated dumbly, “Patched things up?”

“Gideon explained about the misunderstanding, but I’m so happy you had the good sense to hear him out and trust that he’d never do such a thing to you.”

Prue was trying hard to grasp what Georgette was telling her, but her brain just wouldn’t make sense of it.

“When I decided to offer this little gift, I called Maggie.” Maggie Hale was Gideon’s mother. “She told me Gideon had followed you to Maple Hill. He must really love you to leave New York for a tiny town on the edge of the Berkshires to put your marriage back together.”

Prue opened her mouth but could think of nothing coherent to say with it. A male voice in the background shouted Georgette’s name.

“Got to go,” she said quickly. “I have a few things to clear up before I leave. Oh, incidentally, when I first got this idea, I thought we’d have to hire a male model to be in the shots with you, but now that you and Gideon are reconciled, I can’t imagine a more photogenic couple. What do you think?”

“I…I…”

“Good. And it’d simplify things for me if I could just bunk with the two of you while I’m there. I’ll book a hotel, motel, whatever you’ve got there for the photographer.”

“Ah…”

“I’ll be there in three days.”

Prue’s mind tumbled over and over itself trying to make sense of what was happening. Then necessity made her grasp the important issue. A very influential woman in fashion was going to create an advertising program for Prudent Designs. At the moment, that was all she needed to know.

“We’ll see you then.”

“Good. I’ll call Gideon with details of my arrival.”

The moment she hung up the phone, Prue realized what she’d done.

She’d gotten herself an ad campaign! And into a tangled mess.

She called Berkshire Cab. “Paris, you’ve got to take me to Gideon’s!”

Paris’s voice exuded hope. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to kill him. You know where this A-frame is?”

Paris sighed. “Yes, I do. He bought a new truck this afternoon. I dropped him at the car lot, then tooled by later to see what he’d decided on. It’s beautiful!”

“Can you pick me up?”

“Do I have to search you for weapons?”

“Paris…”

“I’ll be right there.”

THE A-FRAME WAS on the wilder, less populated side of the lake. It had a full front porch and big double-glass doors. On either side of the doors was a large pot of flowering cabbage, and the boxes under large square windows were filled with yellow mums.

Parked near the porch steps was a red pickup. Prue remembered that Paris had told her he’d bought a truck, but it hadn’t registered at the time. As long as she’d known him, he’d driven a sports car.

Then the doors opened and he appeared with a Berkshire Cab coffee mug in his hand. Paris had had the blue-and-white mugs printed when she’d first started the company, offering them to anyone who took a trip of twenty miles or more. It was easy, Prue thought, to see whose side she was on.

He wore jeans and a gray Whitcomb’s Wonders sweatshirt with red lettering. The jeans were as out of character for him as the truck, though he looked wonderful in them—long-legged, lean-hipped and dangerously informal. She didn’t like the fact that her pulse accelerated ever so slightly.

Prue paid Paris for the ride.

Paris tried to push the money away. “What are you doing?” she asked with a frown. “I never charge you…”

“Well, that’s going to stop,” Prue insisted. “He told his aunt we were back together!”

“What aunt?”

“Georgette. The one who lives in London.”

Paris nodded slowly, as though trying to figure out how one thing related to the other. “Why does that mean you have to pay me for the ride?”

Prue knew it had nothing to do with that. It was because the cup and the sweatshirt were examples of how he’d been accepted by everyone, and it made her want to do something mean.

“It isn’t the mug, is it?” Paris asked suddenly. “Because it was just a friendly gesture—not a slight against you, just something for him. And if you’re offended, you should know that there’s a small set of Fiestaware Mom sent over for him when I picked him up at the dealer’s. So you can hate all of us.”

“I don’t hate you,” Prue said, chin raised in affronted dignity as she unlocked her door. “I just think it’s interesting that you’re all helping him, when he’s making my life so difficult.”

“I don’t understand about his aunt.”

“She’s coming to visit,” Prue explained, “and she says he told her we’ve patched things up. So she’s expecting us to be together when she arrives.”

“Well, why didn’t you just correct her?”

Prue opened her mouth to explain about the advertising campaign, but she didn’t know where to start. It was all so convoluted.

“Never mind,” she said, climbing out of the car. “Thank you for the ride.” Her tone didn’t sound very grateful.

“Sure,” Paris replied stiffly, then put the cab into gear and turned around to head out onto Lake Road.

“You two still fight all the time?” Gideon asked as Prue approached the steps.

“Yes,” she replied. Then realizing that wasn’t entirely true, Prue amended, “No, not as much. Sometimes.” Remembering that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about, she met his dark gaze as she climbed the steps. “Georgette called.”

GIDEON SMILED in a friendly way, keeping any sexual suggestion out of the gesture and adding a look of understanding. “Ah,” he said, pulling the door open. “Come on inside. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”

She used to like his coffee, he remembered. She’d usually made breakfast when they were married, but he’d made the coffee. She’d claimed to be unable to strike the perfect point between strong and too strong the way he did.

He’d always loved her “Mmm!” of approval when she took her first sip.

It had been a simple but comfortable routine, the memory of which could bring him to the edge of despair when he made coffee in New York in his quiet and lonely kitchen.

But despite his warm memories, he felt fairly sure she didn’t have any so he half expected her to refuse his offer of coffee and choose to have this discussion on the porch. He was pleasantly surprised when she preceded him inside.

He pointed her to the new leather sofa and went to the rustic bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He poured coffee into a bright yellow cup, her favorite color, and carried it out to her.

“You told Georgette we’ve patched things up,” she said, sitting on a corner of the sofa, looking like a duchess displeased with one of her serfs. She reached up to accept the cup. “Thank you.”

“She seemed to have that impression when she called me,” he lied easily. This could work if he was convincing. “I think she probably got it from Mom, who was sure when I told her I was coming here before going to Alaska that you’d either want to come with me or plead with me to stay here.”

“Why didn’t you set her straight?” she asked coolly. Then she took a sip of his coffee. There was no “Mmm!” this time, but she did close her eyes for an instant, her appreciation there but silent.