Wife On Approval

“Tough job,” Sabrina sympathized. “I wouldn’t have any idea what to buy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Cassie murmured. “When was the last occasion when you spent any time in a kitchen, Sabrina? Other than walking in to refill your coffee cup, I mean.”

“That’s easy. Just this morning.” Sabrina grinned. “Of course, I was hanging new blinds for a client, I wasn’t cooking, but—”

“The client should be grateful. And Austin should thank his good fortune that Paige is the one who drew this assignment.”

Paige stared at her soup and thought that Austin Weaver was unlikely to do any such thing. Of course, if she had any luck at all, he might not ever know who had arranged the pantry shelves in his new apartment.

“That reminds me.” Cassie pulled a bundle of cards from her leather tote bag and flourished them. “I had a great idea last week.”

“New business cards?” Paige reached for one. “I thought we had plenty of the old style yet.”

“Job cards,” Cassie corrected. “To leave after each job is completed.” She held up one of the bits of paper and read, “’Your service today was happily provided by Rent-A-Wife. Every working person needs a wife!’ And then there’s our phone number and a spot to sign, so each client will know exactly who did the errand and how to call for additional service.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have individual cards made, with the names already printed,” Paige said.

“Should I have? I thought the actual signature would be more personal. Don’t you like the idea, Paige?” Cassie sounded downcast. “We’re proud of our work, so why not share that fact with our clients?”

“It’s a good idea.” It’s just the timing that’s bad. Of course, because the cards existed didn’t mean she had to use them, Paige thought. She could conveniently forget—at least at certain job sites…. “I have to be going.” She pushed her soup aside. “I have Austin’s groceries in the van.”

“You haven’t finished your lunch,” Sabrina pointed out. “Not that it was adequate in the first place.”

Paige shrugged. “I’ll be cooking this afternoon, so I’ll no doubt nibble.”

“What are you making for the Weavers to eat on their first night in Denver?” Cassie asked casually.

“A chicken and rice casserole. I can leave it in the oven so it’ll be ready whenever they arrive.”

Cassie looked doubtful. “Will Austin’s little girl eat rice? Didn’t he say she’s five? Sometimes kids that age are awfully picky about their food.”

“How should I know what she’ll eat?” Too late, Paige heard the sharp edge in her own voice, and she saw Cassie’s eyebrows climb. “The request was to leave a meal that will be ready to serve when they arrive this evening. Nobody specified the menu. Besides, if what’s-her-name doesn’t eat rice, there will be peanut butter in the cupboard.”

“So there,” Sabrina said under her breath.

Paige tried to smile. At least she’d been successful in making it appear that her irritation concerned five-year-olds in general rather than this one in particular. “Sorry to sound so prickly about it. But it isn’t exactly easy to come up with a menu that’ll be all right in the oven for hours, in case they’re delayed.”

“To say nothing of cooking for someone you’ve never met,” Sabrina sympathized.

Paige braced herself. You’re going to have to say it sometime, she reminded herself. You should have told them long before now.

Cassie was smiling. “If it’s the same wonderful casserole you made for my bridal shower, Paige, don’t forget to leave one of your new cards. That way Austin will know who to call when he wants another one.”

Or he’ll know for certain who not to call, Paige thought. And maybe that’s a better idea yet.

Paige parked her minivan in the loading zone in front of Aspen Towers apartments and eyed the assortment of grocery bags in the back. The small folding cart she always kept in the van was less than adequate for the task, and she wasn’t looking forward to making half a dozen trips with it up the service elevator to the topmost apartment in the tower. So she locked the van, bypassed the doorman, who was absorbed in handing a tenant into a taxi, and paused in the open doorway of the building superintendent’s office.

The super was talking on the phone, but she made an impatient gesture inviting Paige to step in. While she waited, Paige leaned against the nameplate on the door. Tricia Cade, it proclaimed.

The super turned her chair at an angle and kept talking. Sunlight streaming through the narrow window behind her highlighted her severely cut, platinum-blond hair—a color, Paige knew from the darkness of the woman’s eyebrows, that nature had never intended her hair to be. Paige wondered exactly how old she was. Probably only slightly past her mid-thirties, Paige guessed, and it was apparent that Tricia Cade had no intention of ever looking a day older. Perfectly colored hair, sleekly manicured nails, subtle makeup and fashionable clothes were her weapons—and effective ones they were, too.

Beside the super’s elegance, Paige felt just a little dowdy. Of course, she’d deliberately chosen her tweed slacks and dark turtleneck for their practicality on a day which involved far more physical work than public appearance; nevertheless she couldn’t help feeling inadequate in comparison.

She glanced at her wristwatch. How long was the woman apt to keep her waiting while she talked to what was obviously a friend, not a business contact? By now Paige could have had one load all the way upstairs and be coming back for another. At least, she told herself, with the outdoor temperature hovering at freezing, she didn’t have to worry about finding a pool of ice cream in the back of her van. Still, the minutes were ticking by, and a whole afternoon’s work remained to be done.

The super obviously saw the restless movement of Paige’s hand, for she said into the phone, “Hold on a minute, will you? No, it’s not important, it’s just my newest tenant’s maid needing something.” She gave a light laugh at something her friend said and cupped a hand over the mouthpiece.

“That’s a common misunderstanding,” Paige said. “That Rent-A-Wife is really just a glorified maid service, I mean. Sometimes I wish we’d named it At Your Service instead, because we’re actually more like the concierge staff at a big hotel.”

The super looked unimpressed. “Is that what you came in to tell me?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Paige kept her voice level. “I’d like to borrow a cart—a luggage cart or something of the sort—to haul things up to the penthouse.”

“I thought the movers did all that earlier in the week.”

“I’m sure they’d have taken care of this, too,” Paige said sweetly, “if Mr. Weaver had just thought to ship his sugar and coffee and eggs and ice cream along with his furniture, all the way from Atlanta.”

The super waved a hand. “There’s a cart down the hall in the storage closet. The doorman has a key, if the room’s locked. You should have asked him instead of bothering me, anyway.” She put the phone back to her ear and then paused. “Ice cream? That must mean Mr. Weaver is arriving soon—right?”

“How should I know when to expect him?” Paige murmured. “As you so graciously pointed out, I’m only the hired help.”

She regretted the jab as soon as the words were out. She knew better than to make catty remarks to someone in a position to do favors for her, that was sure. Don’t make anyone into an enemy—it was the first and most basic rule of a service business. What was wrong with her anyway?

She considered apologizing, but decided that the super would be even more annoyed by what she would probably see as yet another interruption, so Paige went in search of the cart instead.

When she let herself into Austin Weaver’s apartment a few minutes later, pushing the cartful of grocery bags, she found herself fancying that the spacious rooms held an expectant hush—as if they realized that the new residents would be turning up soon.

She dismissed the notion and hurried toward the kitchen. The logjam at the supermarket had put her well behind schedule, and Tricia Cade hadn’t helped a bit. There was still a meal to fix, flowers to arrange, towels to put out, and all the last-minute touches which went so far toward making an impersonal apartment into a home. Touches which all took time. Touches which were particularly important in this case, since Austin Weaver and his daughter Jennifer hadn’t yet seen their new residence.

Their first impressions of it could have a dramatic impact on Rent-A-Wife, as well, Paige knew. If Austin Weaver liked the arrangements which had been made for him, Rent-A-Wife would have not only an enthusiastic new client but a good recommendation. If he didn’t, the business would be the one to suffer, especially since all three partners had been involved at one stage or another in getting the Weavers settled in Denver so Austin could take on his new job as the chief executive officer of Tanner Electronics.

Cassie had blitzed every real estate agent for miles around till she’d located the best available apartment in the city. Sabrina had whipped the place into shape by organizing the cleaning team and the painters, and then supervising the movers as they arranged Austin Weaver’s furniture.

Until today, Paige had managed to stay away from the entire project. But it was only fair that the finishing touches had fallen to her; not only had the other two already done their share, but she was the most domestically inclined of the three, the best cook, and the most detail-oriented. And since she hadn’t found just the right occasion to explain to her partners why she’d much rather keep her distance from Austin Weaver, here she was.

With the casserole safely in the oven, Paige took another look at the clock and gave a sigh of relief. It was just midafternoon, so she’d be well out of the way before the Weavers’ arrival. She put the flowers, their stems freshly cut, to soak in cold water and went looking for vases. Where would Sabrina have put them? The topmost cabinets in the super-efficient kitchen were entirely empty, and the linen closet yielded nothing more promising. Of course, there was no guarantee Austin owned anything of the sort, she reminded herself.

Paige paused at the doorway of the smaller bedroom and looked in at the sunny yellow carousel horse, the white-painted bookcase crammed with volumes of all sizes and dimensions, the small bed dwarfed by its headboard—an enormous three-story-high dollhouse.

Austin Weaver had a daughter.

She’d known the fact for weeks, of course, since even before he’d actually accepted the job at Tanner Electronics. But it wasn’t until Paige was faced with the hard evidence of Jennifer Weaver’s existence—the carousel horse, the bookcase, the dollhouse bed—that the child seemed real.

Austin Weaver’s daughter. Five years old, and—if the photographs were accurate—a budding beauty.

Paige walked slowly back toward the living room, where a few silver frames were grouped atop a shiny black baby grand piano. The piano was leased, Sabrina had told her, since Austin thought shipping a grand piano cross-country was hardly practical. Paige had had to bite her tongue to keep from saying that she wouldn’t be surprised by anything Austin chose to leave behind, and that the only really amazing thing was that he’d collected as much baggage as he had.

She’d settled, instead, for commenting that since Tanner Electronics was paying the bill for his move, and since Caleb Tanner’s attitude seemed to be that whatever his new CEO wanted he was to get, regardless of the cost, leaving a baby grand piano behind had been a needless economy.