The Invitation (Montgomery/Taggert 19)

“Jackie, how long has it been since you took a vacation? A real vacation? No planes, nothing that even resembles planes.”

“I’ve never wanted such a time.” She smiled at him over her half-empty plate of food. “What about you? When was your last vacation?”

“Exactly the same time as yours.”

They laughed together.

“Okay,” he said, “I am the Red King and—”

“Who?”

“The Red King, as opposed to Alice’s Red Queen.”

“I see.”

“Whatever. I declare this a holiday. No setting up books, no planning the future, no—”

“No talk of the Taggie?” she prompted.

“No talk of the Taggie. Now, what exactly do people do on a holiday?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

“Let’s see…. Spend more money than they can afford. Sleep in unfamiliar, uncomfortable places. Eat strange food that makes them sick. Get up at four A.M. and spend sixteen hours wandering around looking at things too big, too ancient, or too something-or-other to comprehend, all the while wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep at home in their own bed.”

“Sounds great, doesn’t it?”

“Divine.”

“Anyplace you want to go?”

“You mean a place far away and exotic?”

“Sure.”

She grinned. “How about if we walk up to one of the old mining towns and see if we can find anything interesting? Maybe we’ll find silver nuggets.”

“Sounds exotic enough for me. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’d like to get outside into the sunshine.” In spite of her hurt hand, she felt good. She felt lazy and peaceful, not anxious or restless as she usually did. Maybe it was the loss of blood from yesterday; maybe that was why she didn’t feel like avoiding William’s company today. Or maybe it was that she felt a bit sorry for herself, like when you’re on a diet and you make excuses for giving yourself a treat. You tell yourself that you deserve this because you sneezed and you might be coming down with the flu and it’s not good to starve yourself if you’re ill. So you eat a five-scoop ice cream sundae.

Now she felt as though there were special circumstances between her and William. Yesterday he had rescued her, maybe even saved her life by keeping her from bleeding to death. So how could she continue her demand that he leave her house today? She’d have to be polite and nice to him, and tomorrow she’d resume her vigilance and make him leave. But for today, she’d be nice to him. And maybe in being nice to William, she would also be nice to herself.

“If you’ve finished eating everything on the table, let’s get you dressed and go.”

“I can dress myself,” she said sarcastically.

At that he reached across the table and unbuttoned the top two buttons on her pajama top. “Now you button them back up,” he said.

Jackie made an attempt with the buttons, but pain shot through her hand when she tried to move it. William just sat still, a smug look on his face as she tried to show him that she could fasten the buttons with her left hand. After several frustrating minutes, she looked up and stuck her tongue out at him. He could be such a brat at times. “I’ll bet that you’ve made yourself completely at home while I was asleep,” she said, trying to save her dignity. “What else have you taken liberties with besides my kitchen door?”

He kept smiling. “I tidied a few things.”

At that Jackie got up from the table and opened kitchen drawers. She had been so proud of moving into her pretty house, and she had given a great deal of thought to where she wanted to put things. She had put cooking utensils in a drawer near the stove. Things that she used near the sink were placed near the sink. She’d put the equipment she used most often near the front of the drawers and the things like an egg slicer way to the back.

William had rearranged everything in her drawers. Where there had once been a pleasant, creative jumble, now every utensil was in military order. All of the spoons from everyplace in the kitchen were now in one drawer, lined up perfectly by size and material. Wooden spoons were together, then enameled, then stainless steel. Never mind that she cooked with some of the spoons, dyed socks with one, and used one to clean hair out of the drains. They were all together now. The same with the knives: her roofing knife was next to her bread knife. The pots of plants on her windowsill were arranged by size so they looked like a set of Russian dolls. He had placed a scented geranium next to the herbs so she’d have to read the labels rather than just reach for a stalk of basil.

His presumption was annoying at the least, and it would take hours to re-sort her kitchen drawers. But for now she’d do the best she could to let him know what she thought of his arrogant male assumption that he knew more about organization than she did—and that he had a right to rearrange her personal property.

She gave him a beautiful smile. Then, one by one, she opened the drawers and ran her uninjured hand through the too-orderly contents, jumbling them thoroughly.