Page 61 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Temperature’s dropping,” Mr. MacHugh said. “We should get you home, Miss Friendly.”
The sky had been delivering a combination of rain, ice, sleet, and snow all day. Ice clicked against the window, though sunset was still a good two hours off.
“If I go home, I’ll be behind. The professor will have the street corners to himself come Thursday, and I cannot possibly allow him to have the last word.”
Christmas fell on Saturday, and Patience had already decided to spend the entire day in bed, swilling tea, and not eating crumpets, or tarts, or stollen. With fresh, free sweets available in quantity, Patience had lost her taste for them. She still sent the boys out for parcels from the bakery, but her consumption was more for form’s sake than out of any craving.
She did fancy another kiss with Mr. MacHugh though.
“So let the professor have Thursday,” Mr. MacHugh said, “and you can put out your final column on Christmas Eve. It’s not the Sabbath, and people will be on the streets visiting back and forth and calling on family.”
Patience rose because her back ached. Her eyes ached, and her head ached, but she had three columns to replace before she’d quit the premises.
Her conscience ached too, truth be told.
“I like that—having the last word,” she said. “I’ll re-create my three columns and then I’ll go. If you need me after today, send Harry ’round to fetch me. You never did let me offer that gin widow any advice.”
And Dougal MacHugh would not have lost track of the letter. He was relentless about details, and that letter was not a detail.
“I’m off to fetch a cab for Detwiler,” he said. “If that old man walks home in this mess, Cousin Avery will report me to the authorities for disrespecting my elders.”
Mr. MacHugh departed, and the silence in his wake was bewildering. He no longer argued with Patience, didn’t contradict her, didn’t instruct her on the finer points of managing a competitive enterprise. She caught him watching her, peering at her over his glasses, leaning against the doorway of the office when she looked up from her writing.
By the time he came back—soaked to the skin—Patience was busily rewriting one of the columns George had destroyed. Mr. MacHugh shook out his greatcoat, droplets of melting snow dotting the floorboards.
One of them hit her on the cheek. She swiped it away and got back to work.
“Patience, the weather is truly foul. Let me get you a cab.”
“I have one more column to go. The rain will let up, and then you won’t need to call me a cab.”
“It’s not raining now. It’s snowing like it means business.”
“Ah! I need another word for business.”
A great sigh gusted from across the room. “Commerce, enterprise, trade, mercantile endeavor.”
Patience considered the walking thesaurus grousing at her from across the room. “I like that last one, mercantile endeavor. I have a question, though, about your own mercantile endeavor. Why name it MacHugh and Sons? You’re not a fundamentally dishonest person, but you are in want of progeny.”
He shook his scarf out next. Some of the shower hit the cat on the mantel. George woke up, glowered at his owner, then went back to napping.
“MacHugh and Sons is poetic license,” Mr. MacHugh said. “If I make a go of this place, then I’ll be free to marry, and the sons might well follow. One wants to sound successful while one is trying to be successful.”
Patience sprinkled sand on the page she’d completed. “Just as I’m Mrs. Horner, a staid, respectable matron with years of domestic experience. Do you suppose Pennypacker is a professor?”
Every time she brought up the professor, Mr. MacHugh’s eyes went bleak. “He knows his books. He’s no match for you when it comes to domestic issues. I’m for some tea. Would you like a cup?”
She rose and came around the desk. “You haven’t been getting enough rest. Is that why you’re so surly lately?”
“I’m no’ surly.”
Mr. MacHugh’s hair had a tendency to curl when damp, and it was a touch longish at the back. Patience liked it longish. She likedhim, and she did not like that he was troubled when, for the most part, all was going well. Rather than kiss him, she slid her arms about his waist and leaned close.
“Patience, you mustn’t…”
“This is a hug. H-u-g. Detwiler says we don’t know where the word comes from, but Shakespeare used it, so it has to be good old English. You mustn’t worry, Dougal. Your plan is going brilliantly, and all will be well. Do you miss Scotland?”
Patience had missedthis, the feel of him close and solid in her arms, the rhythm of his heart beneath her ear, the fragrance of his heathery soap blending with the ink-and-starch scent of a publisher at his trade.
