Wyoming True - Diana Palmer Page 0,92
go to any, as she referred to them, party schools. So I ended up in one known for its academic excellence and I never went to a beer party or even dated much.”
He just stared at her, incredulous. “How old are you again?”
“Almost twenty-five,” she replied.
“And you don’t date?”
She cocked her head and stared at him. “Frankly, I find most men lacking.”
“Lacking what?”
“Manners, decorum, intellect, compassion, that sort of thing.” She smiled at him.
He let out a breath and shook his head. “At least you won’t be after me.”
“Mr. Chandler, I do not stalk fifty-year-old men!” she exclaimed haughtily.
He burst out laughing, recalling their first meeting, because she certainly knew he wasn’t yet out of his thirties.
“Just as well,” he commented after a minute. He sipped coffee. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me, anyway.”
“You can put a rose on top of that,” she agreed. “I’ve never indulged, so I don’t know what I’m missing. That’s my macro for my lifestyle. You’d be amazed how often I have to use it in the modern world.”
“Modern.” He made a face. “I was raised by traditionalists.”
“Me, too. It makes it hard to fit in. Even harder, because I don’t own or watch television.”
“You reactionary,” he accused.
“Guilty as charged.”
He finished his coffee. “I have briefs to work on.” He stood up. “If you want to watch any of the new movies, we have most of them on Prime video,” he said. “Feel free.”
She shook her head as she, too, stood up. “I read in my spare time.”
“Read what?” he wanted to know.
“Right now it’s Arrian.”
“Arrian?”
“And Quintus Curtius Rufus,” she added.
“Alexander. You like to read about Alexander the Third, called the Great,” he replied.
She nodded. “It truly fascinates me, that you can read something written almost two thousand years ago and feel what the author felt when he was writing it.” She paused. “It’s almost like having them speak to you, across the years.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s how I’ve always felt about it. I read the classic authors, as well.”
She smiled. “I wish more people did. They might have less pessimism about the future.”
He smiled back. “Yes. They might. How’s the cataloging coming?”
“Slowly,” she said. “But I’m getting them in some sort of order so that I can start. You have an impressive library.”
“It was more impressive before Jackie pitched a temper tantrum and overturned two bookcases,” he mused.
“We all have our issues. Perhaps a course in anger management...?”
“Please don’t suggest that where she can hear you,” he said with mock horror.
She grinned. “I’ll try. Good evening.”
He nodded. “Good evening to you, too.”
* * *
GABY WENT BACK to her room, pleasantly surprised by her boss’s laid-back attitude. But once she closed the door, through the walls came the loudest, most vulgar rap song Gaby had ever heard.
She reached in her closet for her recently purchased CD player, extricated a CD from its case and inserted it, placed it against the wall that adjoined Jackie’s, and maxed the volume. The exquisite strains of “Scotland the Brave,” played by a magnificent bagpipe band, almost shook the walls.
Within two minutes the rap music was abruptly turned down. Gaby turned off her boom box. She waited, poised over it, but the rap didn’t reoccur. So Gaby got into her silk gown, crawled into bed with her iPhone, turned off the light and read herself to sleep.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING the boss was missing from the breakfast table.
“Had to go in early to meet some important client,” Tilly sighed as she put delicately scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and biscuits on the table. That was followed with jars of preserves, all homemade.
“Tilly, this is wonderful,” Gaby told the cook, smiling.
Tilly glared at Jackie, who was picking at her food. “Nice to know that somebody appreciates my efforts,” she said and went back into the kitchen.
Gaby took another bite of her eggs and sipped black coffee. “What happened?” she asked the girl.
Jackie glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“What happened to you, with your mother’s boyfriend?” Gaby persisted.
Jackie was so flustered that she dropped her fork. “Why...why would you think...?”
“Oh, give me a break,” Gaby muttered, staring at the girl. “You might as well be wearing a sign. Come on. Talk about it.”
Jackie’s whole face tautened. “He backed me into a wall and I couldn’t get away,” she said gruffly.
“Did he...hurt you?”
“No. But he tried. I told my mother.” Her eyes lowered. “She said I was lying, that he’d never do anything like that.”
“How did you get away from