Time After Time by Antoinette Stockenberg

anyway.
    "Maybe things will turn
around once Mrs. Stonebridge returns," Liz said, implying that she
was more intimate in the family's affairs than she really was.
"Families have a way of pulling together." She added innocently,
"Stacey Stonebridge is, what, a cousin of Jack's?"
    Netta's eyebrows did a
quick little lift. She leaned more closely to Liz, as if they were
sharing a box at the opera, and said, "Not a cousin. And nothing to
do with Jack. If
you get my drift."
    Liz got it. She nodded and
said, "These things happen," which meant absolutely nothing but
seemed like the right thing to say.
    "Well, I'd like to stay
and help, dear," said Netta, "but I have to interview a nanny in
ten minutes, and—"
    "No, no, please, I'll be
fine. Thank you so much, Netta. Truly." Liz had to resist an urge
to hug the overworked housekeeper.
    Netta gave Liz's forearm a
little squeeze. "His bark is worse than his bite, dear."
    She left Liz on her own.
The first thing Liz did was stalk from rug to rug like a beagle,
hovering over the areas of offense and sniffing for vile smells.
She was stooped over the Aubusson, the oldest and most beautiful of
the carpets, when Jack Eastman walked in on her.
    "Good morning, Elizabeth,"
he said from behind her.
    Liz whirled around so
sharply that her blunt-cut hair slapped up against her cheeks. The
sound of her given name on his lips sounded shockingly intimate to
her; the tone of his voice, even more so.
    "Ah! Hello,
Mr.—"
    "Jack."
    "Mr. Jack," she said,
unable to resist twitting him. At the same time she was saying to
herself, Why did you do that? Be nice.
Maybe he'll pay the rest of the bill.
    He was dressed in working
khakis and a dark polo shirt that showed off his strong build and
rugged good looks one heck of a lot better than some prissy old
blazer and lemon-yellow tie. He's going
sailing, Liz decided. Poor, poor
Jack.
    "I had to come back for my
briefcase," he explained unnecessarily.
    "Ah," Liz said. Not going
yachting, then. How too, too bad.
    He seemed to want to chat.
"I've been so distracted by this mess at the shipyard that I walked
out without it. Every damned bureaucrat in Rhode Island is down
there, crawling over the spill." Obviously he, too, was assuming
that Liz had heard about the crisis.
    She began to wonder if the
spill was serious. "How much solvent actually poured out?" she
asked, becoming alarmed.
    "Someone knocked over a
fifty-gallon drum. It wasn't properly sealed — which I can't
understand — and now there'll be hell to pay."
    "Not exactly Chernobyl,
then," Liz said with an ironic smile. She picked up the nearest
Mickey Mouse cutout she could lay her hands on, just to have
something to do, and began fussing with the two-sided tape on
it.
    She thought he'd be on his
way in search of his briefcase, but he surprised her by coming the
rest of the way into the Great Room and perching his buns on the
rolled arm of the leather chair. He seemed to be in no hurry,
apparently pleased to think that here was yet more labor coming to
him for free.
    Liz didn't like it: didn't
like having him watch her, didn't like having him stiff her, didn't
like having him out-stressing her. Dammit! She resolved not to
engage in his game of oneupmanship by either meeting his glance or
matching his stare. She simply ignored him. For all she knew, he
could be counting the squares in the parquet floor.
    "I'm sorry for the way
I've behaved," he said out of the blue. "l've been taking a hell of
a lot out on you. I hope you don't take it amiss."
    Amiss. Who talked like
that anymore besides lords of manors? "I'm sure you have weightier
problems than most," she said, without meaning a word of
it.
    "Look, I've decided to pay
you the money that's due," he said more stiffly. "I've told my
secretary. The check's in the mail."
    That made her turn around and smile. It sounded so low-rent,
coming from him. "Of course it is," she said sweetly, mostly to
irritate him. Clearly she was still smarting from his treatment