see the first one ever built in New York City?"
The beautiful gray-blue eyes widened in excitement. "Oh, yes, could I?"
"I'll show it to you. And your mother," he added casually.
"How nice of Mr. McKie. Say thank you," Sara urged.
"Thank you. When?"
"Really, darting—"
"How about Tuesday?"
"I have to go to school."
"Afterward, I meant." In truth, he'd forgotten all about school.
"Can we, Mum?" She looked dubious, and Michael tugged on her wrist to persuade her. "Can we? Why can't we? Please?"
"Well…" She didn't work at the settlement house on Tuesdays.
"We could have tea afterward at Dean's," Alex mentioned innocently. "Oh, Dean's!" cried Michael, jumping up and down. "Dean's! Dean's!"
Sara knew she was outnumbered. "It's very kind of you, Mr. McKie. We accept." She interrupted Michael's triumphant crowing by sending him upstairs again, firmly this time. He scampered out, tossing "See you Tuesday!" over his shoulder as he went.
"That really was very nice of you," Sara repeated, getting up and going to sit in a chair, "but you needn't have done it. You must be very busy, especially on a weekday."
"I am; that's
why
I did it." They smiled at each other. "Michael's very special, isn't he?" And he wasn't even trying to flatter her, he realized; it was simply a statement of fact.
"Yes, he is. But of course, I can hardly be objective about that."
"Did he…" He hesitated to bring it up because the subject embarrassed him. But he needed to know the answer. "Did he like his father's birthday present?"
She sent him a long, level look. "Ben changed his mind," she said kindly. "He gave him a bicycle."
He had the feeling he'd just been forgiven. "Did he? Well, that's—good, I'm glad. You were worried, as I recall, and I was thinking afterward that you were probably right—seven's too young for a boy to have a rifle. So. I'm glad." He closed his mouth and told himself to shut up.
Her sweet, knowing smile unnerved him.
The maid came in then and took away the tea things. Sara said, "I must apologize again for my husband, Mr. McKie," as she watched him roll up his drawings and slide them expertly back into the tube. "I can't imagine what's kept him. It was very thoughtless of him to ask you to come here—"
"Not at all."
"—on a Sunday, away from your office, and then not even to—"
"Don't give it a thought," he interrupted magnanimously, thinking he couldn't have arranged the afternoon better if he'd tried. "I'll just leave these here, if I may, and Ben can take a look at them when he gets a chance."
"Yes, of course." She stood up when he did, wishing he didn't have to go quite yet.
The telephone rang. The sound came from the hall, just outside the door, and after two rings Alex wondered why she didn't answer it—before recalling that the Cochranes had servants for everything. But after the third ring, Sara frowned, said, "Would you excuse me?" and dashed for the door.
It was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation. When he realized the caller was Ben, he didn't try. He strolled over to a table near the door, on which a group of framed photographs was clustered artistically. "Yes, you've missed him, he's just leaving," she was saying. "Well, what did you expect?" The change in the tone of her voice chilled him a little; he wouldn't have thought it could sound so tense and brittle, so utterly devoid of warmth. He picked up the largest photograph, one of the Cochranes on their wedding day, and studied it while he listened. Sara looked young and fresh in her virginal white Worth gown, her beautiful face alight with hope and excitement—but not love, he thought. Perhaps it had never been a love match for either of them. Ben at thirty-five was leaner, more energetic, yet already that familiar self-satisfied look had begun to settle in his blunt-featured face.
"Yes, I'll explain it to him. Well, when
will
you be home?"
He put the photograph down and picked up another, this one of Sara, Ben, and
The beautiful gray-blue eyes widened in excitement. "Oh, yes, could I?"
"I'll show it to you. And your mother," he added casually.
"How nice of Mr. McKie. Say thank you," Sara urged.
"Thank you. When?"
"Really, darting—"
"How about Tuesday?"
"I have to go to school."
"Afterward, I meant." In truth, he'd forgotten all about school.
"Can we, Mum?" She looked dubious, and Michael tugged on her wrist to persuade her. "Can we? Why can't we? Please?"
"Well…" She didn't work at the settlement house on Tuesdays.
"We could have tea afterward at Dean's," Alex mentioned innocently. "Oh, Dean's!" cried Michael, jumping up and down. "Dean's! Dean's!"
Sara knew she was outnumbered. "It's very kind of you, Mr. McKie. We accept." She interrupted Michael's triumphant crowing by sending him upstairs again, firmly this time. He scampered out, tossing "See you Tuesday!" over his shoulder as he went.
"That really was very nice of you," Sara repeated, getting up and going to sit in a chair, "but you needn't have done it. You must be very busy, especially on a weekday."
"I am; that's
why
I did it." They smiled at each other. "Michael's very special, isn't he?" And he wasn't even trying to flatter her, he realized; it was simply a statement of fact.
"Yes, he is. But of course, I can hardly be objective about that."
"Did he…" He hesitated to bring it up because the subject embarrassed him. But he needed to know the answer. "Did he like his father's birthday present?"
She sent him a long, level look. "Ben changed his mind," she said kindly. "He gave him a bicycle."
He had the feeling he'd just been forgiven. "Did he? Well, that's—good, I'm glad. You were worried, as I recall, and I was thinking afterward that you were probably right—seven's too young for a boy to have a rifle. So. I'm glad." He closed his mouth and told himself to shut up.
Her sweet, knowing smile unnerved him.
The maid came in then and took away the tea things. Sara said, "I must apologize again for my husband, Mr. McKie," as she watched him roll up his drawings and slide them expertly back into the tube. "I can't imagine what's kept him. It was very thoughtless of him to ask you to come here—"
"Not at all."
"—on a Sunday, away from your office, and then not even to—"
"Don't give it a thought," he interrupted magnanimously, thinking he couldn't have arranged the afternoon better if he'd tried. "I'll just leave these here, if I may, and Ben can take a look at them when he gets a chance."
"Yes, of course." She stood up when he did, wishing he didn't have to go quite yet.
The telephone rang. The sound came from the hall, just outside the door, and after two rings Alex wondered why she didn't answer it—before recalling that the Cochranes had servants for everything. But after the third ring, Sara frowned, said, "Would you excuse me?" and dashed for the door.
It was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation. When he realized the caller was Ben, he didn't try. He strolled over to a table near the door, on which a group of framed photographs was clustered artistically. "Yes, you've missed him, he's just leaving," she was saying. "Well, what did you expect?" The change in the tone of her voice chilled him a little; he wouldn't have thought it could sound so tense and brittle, so utterly devoid of warmth. He picked up the largest photograph, one of the Cochranes on their wedding day, and studied it while he listened. Sara looked young and fresh in her virginal white Worth gown, her beautiful face alight with hope and excitement—but not love, he thought. Perhaps it had never been a love match for either of them. Ben at thirty-five was leaner, more energetic, yet already that familiar self-satisfied look had begun to settle in his blunt-featured face.
"Yes, I'll explain it to him. Well, when
will
you be home?"
He put the photograph down and picked up another, this one of Sara, Ben, and
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