Using the mails to defraud. Yes, that’s a nice one. Ten years in the slammer, as I recall. And then there’s the matter of embezzlement. Not to be overlooked, that. Probably another two years or so. And I’m sure I can think of a few more items, given a moment or two.’
‘You—you wouldn’t—’ Abby stammered hopefully. ‘She’s a sweet little old lady, and—’
‘And she’ll be a lot older when she comes out,’ he added. ‘No doubt about it. I’ll have her little posterior in a sling, lady, unless—’
‘Unless?’ Abby’s voice broke into a squeak.
‘Unless we get to stay here until September fifteenth.’
Abby choked on her own hurried breath. ‘So stay,’ she half whispered. ‘So stay and be happy. Aunt Letty’s too old for gaol sentences!’
‘How kind you are.’ That grin returned. ‘How about that, Harry? The lady wants us to stay.’
‘I don’t know that she means it,’ the boy returned.
‘She means it,’ his father assured him. ‘Or else! Now then, lady, we are all here together. Don’t you think that as our hostess you should start making us dinner?’ Mr Farnsworth had put the persuasive tone into his voice, as if to try and make her feel that she would either be obliged to cook or she would want to cook for his son and himself.
Abby had never felt that cooking dinner was a gender-orientated task. ‘I’m not hungry tonight and you aren’t really here at my invitation. So if you want to eat dinner the kitchen is down the hall.’
‘Harry and I have been surviving on peanut butter sandwiches and I’m sick of them,’ he said. ‘And you did invite us.’
‘Didn’t you bring anything else to eat?’ Abby forced herself to ask, trying hard not to offer any of the food she had brought over with her.
‘We brought only canned goods and, since neither of us likes washing dishes, we eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.’
‘I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,’ Harry contributed to the conversation.
‘Well, there you are. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Before either of them could tell her anything more that she didn’t want to hear, she scuttled out of the room and back up the stairs. Cleo paced along behind her. The dog was older than anyone cared to think, and running upstairs was difficult. As Abby ran she could hear the sound of their male laughter, and no amount of holding her hands over her ears could shut it out.
She almost tripped over her trailing robe, but managed to catch herself on the smooth oak banister. She thought for a moment that the man was surely going to blister the boy’s bottom; instead the laughter rolled on. And I, she told herself bitterly, am the butt of it all. Well, we’ll see about that.
Her door slammed behind her, almost amputating Cleo’s tail. A very satisfactory slam. Just enough to relieve her tensions. Just barely enough. And how would your Sunday-school class react to all of this? It was a thought somewhat stronger than she could bear. She walked over to the bed and fell across it, peering towards the half-open window. The boy she could understand. She had ten of them just like him in her Sunday-school class. But the father?
He was more than she could handle, even on her best day, this Selby Farnsworth. He wasn’t handsome, not on your life. Too rugged. Too outdoorsy for a girl who spent most of her life among books. Too darn sure of himself. And a lawyer to boot? Lord protect us! she thought. But maybe—only a couple of weeks? Just long enough to teach him a lesson? Hit him in his ego, the way I handle my brothers. That ought to do the trick!
A lawyer, she mused; that ranked him just below used-car salesmen and just above politicians on her personal list. She giggled at the idea. The curtains swayed in the wind, and a thin spray of water reached as far as the bed.
‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered, and dashed to close the window. Oh, hell? ‘Yes,’ she said firmly as she eased the window down. ‘Oh, hell! A girl is entitled to at least one swear word now and then. Especially in the privacy of her own room.’ Cleo, who had been lying down in the corner listening, made a funny noise, almost like laughter.
There were a few of her things piled at Abby’s feet. She looked down. A suitcase, a bag of fruit, and a— She gulped. It was decision time already. ‘So, unless you’ve got some magical signal to summon help, I guess we’re all stuck here together, right?’ he had said, and then that funny laugh and that leer.
‘Well, we can call for help,’ she said, giggling. ‘But you’ll never know, Mr Know-it-all Farnsworth. Not until I’m ready to tell you.’ With a very large grin on her face she picked up the leather case containing her portable cellular telephone and her big battery-operated AM-FM radio. She made sure they were both turned off, then stored them on the upper shelf of her wardrobe.
With this happy thought she took a piece of fruit from the bag and one of the manuscripts she had to read with her to bed. She would just read a while and then she’d have to go and wash her hands. The orange was a particularly juicy one.
‘Yes, Mr Selby Farnsworth, now we play the game my way,’ she murmured.
CHAPTER TWO
ON THE way back from the bathroom that evening, Abby passed by Selby’s door and heard a familiar ‘tap, tap, tap.’ There was a light under the door and inside a typewriter was being used. She knew the sound well.
‘Selby Farnsworth. If you aren’t Selby Jones, the author of my favourite hero, I’ll be darned,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve come all the way up here to write a book. There’s no doubt about it. Is there no limit to your cleverness? You’re a lawyer and a writer, perhaps something else as well? I wonder what?’
Quietly, so as not to give the whole show away, she stole back to her own room and walked in, closing the door behind her. Cleo was already coiled up on the throw-rug by the bed. Abby had to climb over the dog to get into the bed and once she was in she knew she would have difficulty getting to sleep. It was too early for her to go to bed! Besides, there were too many secrets to be analysed. Nevertheless, in the middle of her argument, sleep came quietly over her and in just a few seconds she was out.
It was the noise that woke her up. What was it? Someone was crying just outside her door. Someone who was trying to smother the noise. Cleo was awake as Abby pulled herself out of bed, awake and shuffling to the door to sniff at whatever might be outside. Haunts? Abby asked herself. Of course not! That was one thing which Uncle Teddy would have never allowed in his house.
She unlocked her door and pulled it open. Little Harry Farnsworth was sitting on the top step of the stairs, nestled hard up against the newel post of the mahogany banister. He was crying, a soft, muted cry as if he wanted to ease his agony without letting the world know he was hurting.
After a moment’s consideration, Abby padded over to the head of the stairs and sat down beside him. He stirred a little—just enough to give her sitting space. She put her arm around him. His head lifted away from the newel post and leaned on her. A soft, sweet head was resting on her breast, crying softly.
‘What’s the matter, Harry?’ she murmured.
‘I don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘I was dreaming about—about—well, you wouldn’t care about that. You don’t have to sit with me. You could go back to bed. I’m all right.’ There was a large amount of pride in his voice, more than his age or size should have contained.
‘I’m sure you are,’ Abby said. She applied a little pressure and pulled the boy against her until the whole length of him was resting against her body. The sobbing gave way to intermittent tears. ‘Do you want me to call your dad?’
‘No!’ said the boy sharply. ‘Not that! He’d be awful mad.’
The