Carolyn McSparren - The Only Child

She laid down the scalpel before she did irreversible damage. Logan had paid for the broken doll; maybe she should simply walk away and forget the whole thing.

Except that she wasn’t built that way. She had to know about Dulcy. Unfortunately, that meant she had to deal with Logan again, and that she had to go outside her little compound into his world of society women and powerful men, a world she’d thankfully left behind when she and Harry divorced.

Did she have the nerve to go back out there without her status as a craftswoman to protect her? She dealt with wealthy and powerful clients every time she sold a doll. Those clients knew she was a recluse, and they loved it. The last magazine interview about her dolls had gone on and on about her log house, her menagerie, and the fact that she hadn’t put on a skirt in three years. She had to admit the paragraph about her “unabashedly gray hair” and her “crinkly” blue eyes had made her want to reach for the Clairol and the telephone number of the nearest plastic surgeon.

But she’d gotten over it.

Then why did it bother her that Logan MacMillan probably saw her the same way. Why should she give a tinker’s damn what he thought of her? Why should it be important that he see the woman she really was?

The damned man was too sexy for his own good.

Sherry should have warned her. Molly took a deep swig of her diet cola, looked into Quentin’s piggy-little eye sockets, and saw instead the sad gray eyes of Logan MacMillan staring back at her.

The man was strung so tight that if you poked him right he’d probably fly apart. Molly was not in the rescue business. True, he’d had more than his share of sorrow, but that didn’t give him the right to show up behind her eyelids every time she blinked.

Molly sighed, wrapped Quentin’s head in a damp towel and slid it into the refrigerator under her work counter. She’d have to refire the piece in the morning, but she hadn’t messed it up yet. She cleaned her tools carefully and arranged everything neatly in the cabinets beside her.

She locked the workshop behind her and walked up the brick path toward the back door of her cabin.

If Dulcy MacMillan was still alive, Molly had to help Logan bring her home. Only Dulcy mattered. Any developing feelings Molly might have for Logan must be squelched before they made her miserable.

She went at once to her junk closet and began to pull out cardboard boxes stuffed with souvenirs and photographs from her trips. They weren’t marked by datethat would be too organized—but maybe she could find a picture that would jog her memory. She had to remember where she’d seen that child!

“MRS. HALLIDAY. I’m so glad you came.” Zoe Jackson set a small celadon vase down on a Federal end table and met Molly three steps inside the front door of MacMillan’s.

Molly shifted her heavy leather handbag to her other shoulder and smiled.

“My father said there was a problem yesterday. He broke something?”

“No problem. He paid for it—a lot, I’m afraid.”

“You’re still going to let us carry your dolls, aren’t you?” Zoe pointed to a tall Welsh dresser against the far wall. “I thought I’d clear off all that Chinese-export stuff and set up a display area on the shelves for the smaller dolls, with the larger dolls in buggies and strollers on the floor.”

“That would be perfect.” Molly followed her. “We didn’t actually settle anything yesterday, but I think you made your point before you left.”

Zoe sighed. “I know. I behaved badly. I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I feel as though my father treats me like I’m about six years old.”

Molly laughed. “My father tried to balance my checkbook for me until the day he died. Fathers are like that.”

Zoe smiled politely. “At any rate, I know we’ll sell lots of dolls for you and get you plenty of portrait orders. Did you and my father manage to discuss how much commission MacMillan’s would charge on the orders we acquire for you?”

“Afraid not. Don’t worry about it, Zoe, we’ll work something out. How’s that precious Rick of yours?”

This time the smile was radiant. “He’s not quite so precious at home, you know.”

“One of my mother’s friends once told me that given the choice of a twenty-carat diamond or her own personal plumber, she’d opt for the plumber every time. You’re lucky to have married one.”

“You know that old story about shoemaker’s children never having shoes? It goes double for plumber’s wives. The hot-water faucet in our bathroom has been dripping for weeks. Rick keeps promising to fix it, but he never does.”

Without Logan around, Zoe reverted to her normally pleasant self. Molly had always thought she was highstrung and nervous, but now that she knew she’d lost a mother, a brother and a niece, that was understandable. “Is your father here? I really came to see him.”

Zoe’s face clouded. “Oh, yes. The negotiations.”

“Nothing like that,” Molly assured her. “Just something that came up last night.”

Zoe obviously wanted to ask more questions, but she didn’t. “He still lives upstairs. Funny, I was raised in that apartment, and now I don’t feel comfortable even going up in the elevator. This is my bailiwick.” She spread a hand at the opulence around her. “Shall I buzz him for you?”

“Please.”

“Have a look around. You haven’t been in before, have you? I should have invited you when Rick brought me out to see your dolls.”

Molly watched Zoe move among the showcases with grace. She must take after her mother. Tall, slim, casually elegant, she looked every inch a successful businesswoman. She must be over thirty. She wore a simple navy suit that probably cost more than Molly’s entire wardrobe. No jewelry. Not even earrings. It was as though she didn’t want to distract the customers from the luxurious surroundings.

Molly didn’t think she needed to worry. A czar in full coronation garb couldn’t distract from a store like MacMillan’s. Molly felt as though she’d strayed into Ali Baba’s treasure cave. The shop was awash in Scalamandré silks and what her mother called antique “sitarounds,” as well as furniture made of wood so old and so beautiful that Molly longed to pet the chairs like cats. Everything was displayed in a sort of higgledy-piggledy ebullience that looked casual but undoubtedly wasn’t.

In her freshly pressed dress jeans and polished L.L. Bean topsiders, Molly felt a familiar sense of panic. She glanced at the other customers. At least no one realized she longed to run out the front door. She picked up a small triangular damask pillow and promptly dropped it when she saw the price tag.

Zoe came back looking puzzled and curious. “My father says would you please go up. The elevator’s by the back door.” She pointed and watched until the door slid shut on Molly.

When the door opened onto the MacMillan living room, the first thing Molly noticed was the number of throw pillows. No doubt Sydney MacMillan paid wholesale prices, but she’d still piled them three deep on every piece of ornate French furniture in the room.

Logan held the elevator door open for her. He was dressed casually but immaculately in slacks and a sweater. He smelled as though he’d just gotten out of the shower, and his gray hair was still damp. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.

Molly came close to pushing the button and letting the elevator doors shut on her again. She must have been out of her mind to come. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered.

“No, I meant I’m glad you came. When I left so rudely last night…”

“Please. It’s all right.”

“Come in. I won’t bite.” He smiled. “I’ve got coffee if you’re interested.”