at her, eyebrows raised in shock. "Katherine Stafford! How could you suggest such a thing? I'm a gentleman!"
"Nah," she said, pinching his cheek, "just because you didn't burp or pick your nose doesn't make you that much of a gentleman. Did you kiss her or not?"
"Not! I took her out for a banana split, and I didn't kiss her, didn't serenade her, didn't tango with her in the moonlight, didn't—"
"Okay, okay. Then tell me one more thing, but it has to be the truth. You can't fib at all, promise?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I promise."
"You didn't kiss her, huh?"
"Katie!"
She leaned forward until the tip of her nose was touching his, her blue eyes filling his vision. "Did you want to ?"
Did he want to?
Hell, yes, he had wanted to. It was all Michael could think about as he sat at his desk the next day, pretending to be working, pretending to be doing anything except fantasizing about Rebecca Barclay.
She had looked so cute, sitting there across from him in the ice cream parlor, a couple of yellow and blue fluffs of feather in her hair, compliments of Frederick the parrot. And later, the kindness she had shown the old dog and his owner had touched Michael's heart, whether he had wanted it to or not.
"Michael, I'm going home now. Michael..."
The soft voice reached into his reverie, pulling him back to the present. Mrs. Abernathy stood in his office doorway, purse and keys in hand.
"Oh, yes, good night. See you tomorrow."
She gave him a crooked smile and shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Why? Are you taking the day off? Did I forget your dentist appointment again?"
"No, Michael," she said, "I'm not going to the dentist, because he's taking the day off tomorrow, too. The whole country is taking off. It's Thanksgiving, you nitwit."
Briefly, Michael wondered how he had ever hired an employee who would call him a nitwit to his face. Then he realized she was right. How could he have forgotten Thanksgiving?
"Oh, well sure. I knew that."
She laughed and shook her head. "I assume this means that you and Katie don't have plans for dinner."
"Ah... not solid plans.''
Her face softened. "I'm sorry, Michael. I'd love to have you come to my house, but I'm not cooking this year. I'm going to visit my daughter in the valley."
"No problem, Abernathy, really. We'll be fine. See you on Monday."
After a couple more apologies, Mrs. Abernathy left, and Michael decided to do the same. Without her there, and with the salesmen and mechanics gone, the place seemed too quiet. Tonight he wasn't in the mood for quiet. Aware now that it was the day before Thanksgiving, he felt more lonely than ever.
Each holiday since his wife's death, he had tried to celebrate with Katie, but it was difficult. Beverly had always done the decorating, the cooking, the shopping, and he had taken her efforts for granted. He didn't seem to have that knack for making occasions special for Katie. Or for himself, either.
A multitude of plans raced through his head as he walked through the elegant showroom with its restored classics, turning lights off and alarms on. Bridget and
Neil would be leaving at sunrise tomorrow morning to go to her mother's home in San Francisco. Weeks ago, they had asked for the days off and he had gladly granted them. He had assured Bridget that be would make Thanksgiving dinner plans on his own, that she didn't need to leave a full meal in the refrigerator.
Which left him with a dilemma: What should he do for Katie?
He could take her out to a restaurant, try to cook a bird himself—fat chance he could pull that one off—or get a bucket of chicken somewhere and pretend it was turkey. Maybe he could fa c e her out with some of those deluxe microwave dinners.
No, she was a little too sharp for that. He could see it now, Katie hauling the empty boxes out of the garbage and shoving them under his nose.
A restaurant was probably the best bet. He wondered what might be open. In this small, family- oriented community, most businesses