Carolyn McSparren - The Only Child

“Well, he should have. My dolls will sell very well in MacMillan’s.”

“I know that, you know that, Zoe knows that. We just have to convince Logan.”

“Have to is right.” Molly waved a hand at the room. “I went two thousand dollars over budget building this darned workshop. I need some more outlets for my dolls fast if I’m going to pay the bills and have enough left over for frivolous stuff like food.”

“You had to build it, Molly. The dolls were taking over every flat surface in your house. Visiting you was like walking into a deli for very small cannibals.” Sherry wrinkled her nose. “Not to mention the dust.”

Molly bent to get a better view of Quentin’s forehead. “I know, I know. I needed the workshop, I needed the showroom, I even needed the reception room. It all seemed so essential. Now I wish I’d made do with a little less space.” She squinted at Quentin and ran her thumb along his cheekbone, lifting it a millimeter and rounding it off slightly. “I love making these critters, but, Lord, do I hate having to deal with professional store-buyers. Scares me to death. Thanks for giving me moral support. Now tell me a little about Mr. MacMillan.”

“He used to be one of those international construction engineers—you know, build a bridge in Tanzania, a dam in Brazil, then home for a month and off to build a plant in Costa Rica.”

“Somehow I can’t visualize Zoe growing up in a mud hut.”

Sherry laughed. “She didn’t. When I met her mother, Sydney, in college I knew we were kindred spirits—anything less than a four-star hotel was roughing it. Sydney turned that old mansion into MacMillan’s and converted the third floor into a chic apartment. That’s where Zoe grew up. Sydney died a couple of years ago, but Logan still lives there. He’s semi-retired. I guess he didn’t see any reason to move.”

“Is Zoe an only child?”

Sherry hesitated. “She had a younger brother named Jeremy. He was killed in an automobile accident. You were divorcing Harry about that time or you would have seen it in the papers. Big scandal. Jeremy’s wife, Tiffany, was driving. They were both very, very drunk. She didn’t get a scratch.”

“Lord, Sherry, how awful.”

“It gets worse. Tiffany was convicted of vehicular homicide, but before she could be sentenced, she ran away and took her baby with her. Sydney died about a year after that. Officially, it was emphysema. I think it was a broken heart.”

“Poor Zoe. I guess you never know what kind of trouble people carry around with them.” Molly opened the drawer beside her, cleaned her scalpel and put it away. Then she picked up a smaller one and held it up to the light. “I’m glad she and Rick got married. He’s a nice man.”

Sherry glanced at the round kitchen clock that hung on the wall beside the door to the showroom, and laid five red-tipped fingers on Molly’s arm. “Molly, you better put that head away this minute and take a look at yourself.” She pulled a small mirror across the counter and positioned it in front of Molly’s face.

“Oh, good grief. I look like I’m wearing a powdered wig. Why didn’t you tell me my hands look like something from the mummy’s curse?”

“I’ve been trying to spiff you up since that first day in the tenth grade when you walked into my homeroom. You’re my oldest and dearest friend. I’m happy if you stay one step ahead of the fashion police.”

At that moment the alarm bell from the end of the driveway sounded twice followed closely by the crunch of gravel signifying a vehicle in the parking area at the top of the hill. “Damn, they are early. I hate it when you’re right.”

She grabbed a wet towel, swathed the bisque head, stuffed it in the small refrigerator under the counter, then slid the unused scalpel back into the drawer under her worktable. She rubbed the end of her nose fiercely and unhooked her bare feet from the rungs of her stool. “For Pete’s sake, Sherry, help me find my shoes!”

LOGAN MACMILLAN pulled his black BMW into the parking area beside his daughter’s red Saturn, turned off the engine and listened to a silence so profound, he might have been plunged back into the Brazilian rain forest The vegetation was different, of course, but this place felt equally isolated. They might be a thousand miles from civilization, instead of twenty-five or thirty miles from the city.

Why would this Halliday woman choose to live and work in such isolation? Despite his daughter’s protest, he was glad he’d decided to come today. Zoe always accused him of not trusting her decisions, but all he wanted was to give her the benefit of his business expertise. She was developing a fine reputation as an interior designer. A wrong choice now could set her back professionally. Besides, assuming he agreed that Mrs. Halliday’s dolls belonged in MacMillan’s, he felt certain he could get Zoe a better deal than she could hope to negotiate on her own.

Zoe didn’t wait for him. She strode down a gravel path to the left of a log house. Logan glimpsed a rectangular metal building among the pines down the hill. That must be the workshop.

“We’re early,” he called to his daughter’s retreating back. The cool look she threw him over her shoulder told him her mood hadn’t improved. Zoe had refused even to discuss their impending visit. He was going in blind and he didn’t like the sensation. Still, he’d do his best to make certain she came out ahead. He owed her that. She might not believe him, but her happiness was all he cared about.

MOLLY SQUARED her shoulders, pasted what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face and opened the door to the front room of her workshop.

“Zoe,” she said. “Welcome.”

Zoe leaned forward and shook Molly’s hand, then stood aside. “Mrs. Halliday, this is my father. Logan MacMillan.”

Molly took a deep breath to quell the butterflies in her stomach and extended her hand. He had a strong handshake, but he didn’t try to break her fingers the way some men did. She could feel his long fingers winding around hers.

Then she remembered the dust on her hands. He glanced at his palm. She groaned inwardly as he frowned and rubbed his palms together. Familiar insecurity washed over her.

“Please come in, Mr. MacMillan,” Molly said. She looked down to see Elvis, the ginger cat, undulate around MacMillan’s ankles. She hoped the man wasn’t allergic to cat hair because he was going to take plenty of it home on his slacks.

He stood a good six inches taller than Molly, but probably didn’t weigh five pounds more than she did. There was not an ounce of fat on him. His face was deeply tanned and lined like a granite outcropping at the edge of the Arizona desert. His steel-gray hair was cut short. His equally steely eyes seemed to be set for longrange viewing—great vistas, massive creations of concrete. He’d have difficulty adjusting his sight to look at dolls.

He walked in warily.

“Sit down a minute, Logan,” Sherry said, nodding toward the Victorian love seat to the left of the door to Molly’s showroom. “You all need to get to know one another before you talk business.”

He glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to impose on Mrs. Halliday’s time.”

Zoe snorted, then she sat as far away from her father as she could. Sherry perched on a French side chair and smiled.

Molly pulled up her old rocking chair and sat with her feet curled under her. MacMillan waited politely until she was settled, then perched cautiously on the edge of the sofa as though he were afraid it might collapse under his weight.

“I must admit I’m a little confused, Mr. MacMillan,” Molly said. Elvis jumped onto her lap, walked around in a circle and collapsed in a heap. She scratched his ears; he purred softly. “I’ve been trying for several years to find a good outlet for my dolls in town, and when Zoe said she’d like to carry them in MacMillan’s I thought we had a done deal.”