Kitabı oku: «Yesterday's Love», sayfa 2

Chapter Two

Upstairs, Victoria listened to the cacophony of explosive sounds and winced. Obviously, her incomplete warning had been far too little, too late. Cautiously, she poked her head out the door of her makeshift office-storeroom and peered down into Tate McAndrews’s scowling face.

“Are you okay?”

He was getting gingerly to his feet, testing his ankle. “Nothing’s broken, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to warn you.”

“So you did,” he admitted dryly. “How can you live like this?”

“Like what?” she asked, honestly puzzled by the question. She loved this old house and she’d never been happier anywhere else. It was exactly the sort of home she’d always dreamed of owning, a place with character, with all sorts of interesting nooks and crannies. It would be a terrific place for hide-and-seek.

“This place is falling apart.”

She looked at the wobbly stairs, the tattered wallpaper and the dangling light bulb that Tate could see from the downstairs hall. Even she had to admit it didn’t give the very best impression of the house. “You have to think in terms of potential,” she suggested.

“Potential?”

“Like the kitchen,” she explained, deciding that he needed concrete images. Men like Tate McAndrews always did. They seemed to have trouble dealing with the abstractions, with feelings and moods and ambiance.

“You mean the kitchen looked as bad as this?”

“Worse,” she admitted. “It was my third project. It turned out rather well, don’t you think?”

“You did the kitchen yourself?”

She wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased or insulted by his incredulous tone. She decided to remain neutral. “You’ve seen my tax return. Does it look like I could afford to hire somebody?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, then. Of course, if I’d gotten that refund….” Her voice trailed off forlornly.

“Forget it,” he advised. “You said the kitchen was your third project. What were the others?”

“The bedroom and bathroom.”

Despite himself, Tate was intrigued. Knowing he was going to hate himself later for allowing yet another distraction to keep him from wrapping up this audit and escaping to the relative safety of Cincinnati, he asked, “May I see?”

“Are you sure you want to risk the stairs?”

“Just tell me what the secret is.”

“I’ve fixed every other one,” she explained brightly, as though that were a perfectly sensible thing to do.

He looked down and saw what should have been obvious to him in the first place: every second step was made of new wood, polished and solid looking. The ones in-between were broken planks that looked no better than the floors he’d seen in the downstairs rooms. The third one was splintered where his weight had been too much for the dry-rotted wood.

“I should have guessed,” he said, taking giant-sized steps to join her. “Lead on. You can warn me where the booby traps are.”

“Careful,” she whispered conspiratorially. “You’ll hurt its feelings.”

“Houses don’t have feelings.”

“Of course they do. They have feelings and personalities all their own.”

“This one’s obviously split,” he murmured.

“What?”

“You know…a split personality. Repaired in some parts. Disastrous in others.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought it was.”

“You would. You obviously have a cruel streak.”

“I’ll admit I’m not quite as tolerant as you appear to be,” he retorted, giving her a grin that shattered her indignation into a thousand pieces. Victoria found herself smiling back at him helplessly.

“Do you want to see the rest or not?” she asked softly, her flashing blue eyes more challenging than her words. A flicker of desire had flared to life in Tate’s eyes and Victoria felt a matching tremor of excitement so intense it startled her. So, she thought, this was what the fuss was all about. One minute you’re leading a perfectly ordinary, placid existence, and the next minute some thoroughly impossible, sexy man turns up and turns your insides into warm honey. The sensation was both thrilling and frightening.

“Oh, I want,” he replied in a low voice, his gaze drifting down over her slender neck and bare shoulders before halting in apparent fascination at the swell of her breasts. There was no doubt in her mind that he wasn’t referring to a tour of the house. Victoria suddenly realized with a flush of embarrassment that her nipples were clearly visible beneath the light cotton of her blouse. Worse than that, they seemed to be responding merely to the appreciative warmth of his examination, swelling to an aching tautness. She suddenly felt claustrophobic and had the strangest desire to run. At the same time, she wanted very much to stay right here and see exactly what Tate Mc-Andrews had in mind and whether he meant to follow through on that dangerous glint she thought she’d read in his eyes.

Almost hesitantly, he reached toward her and her heart thundered in anticipation, while her head seemed to be shouting to her to get a grip on herself. Sighing regretfully, she decided that just this once she’d better listen to her head. Before Tate’s fingers could touch her cheek, she whirled neatly around and stepped away from him.

“This is the bathroom,” she said briskly, determined to keep the shakiness she felt from her voice. Just because Tate McAndrews was the sexiest creature she’d seen since her last viewing of Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind, that was no reason for her to go all wobbly and woolly-headed. The man was here to audit her, after all. It wasn’t as though he’d asked her for a date. He’d only looked at her as though he’d wanted to…what? To kiss her senseless? And that was what had made her go weak in the knees. It was not a good way to begin a business relationship with an IRS agent, not unless you planned to follow through, which she most certainly did not.

With determinedly cool detachment she showed him the bathroom with its lovely old tiled walls and floor, its huge tub and the circular leaded window that let in shattered streams of bright sun during the day and soft moonlight at night. When they reached her bedroom, her composure slipped a little as she wondered idly what it would be like to have this virile man sharing her huge brass bed, the colorful, handmade quilt tossed anxiously aside in a tangled heap as a desperate, urgent passion made them oblivious to anything except each other. The prospect sent a disturbing shiver racing down her spine, and she blushed and turned away, avoiding his speculative gaze.

“Very nice,” he murmured softly, and for one very disconcerting minute she wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the bedroom or whether he had read her mind. The possibility that he, too, was looking at that bed and wondering who-knew-what unnerved her. She turned back to study him, a quizzical expression on her face, but he was looking innocently around the room.

“How long do you suppose it’s going to take you to do the rest of the house?” he asked with nothing more than casual interest. Victoria wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

“At the rate I’m going, it should be finished by the twenty-first century,” she admitted bleakly.

Her response seemed to make him angry for some reason. “You can’t go on living like this.”

“Of course I can,” she retorted. “What’s wrong with the way I live?”

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe. Just because the wallpaper is peeling doesn’t mean the house will fall down.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Well, I am.”

“Okay. Okay,” Tate said resignedly. Obviously, there was no point in arguing. Besides, it was definitely none of his business how she lived…unless, of course, it happened to be beyond her reported means. From what he’d seen today, that was hardly likely.

“Where are those records you came up here to get?” he asked. “I think we’d better go over them and finish this up.”

“They’re in here,” she said, walking down the hall to the door she’d pulled shut as he came up the stairs. “Why don’t you go back down to the kitchen and wait for me?”

“Why? Do you have something to hide?” he asked, his highly trained and very suspicious mind instinctively surging into action.

She glared at him. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m not sure you are ready for this.”

“Ready for what? The room can’t be in any worse shape than some of the others I’ve already seen. I think my system had become immune to the shock.”

“It’s not the room I’m concerned about.”

“What then?”

“I have a feeling you have an orderly mind.”

“I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

“My records aren’t…” She hesitated. “…Well, they aren’t exactly…orderly.”

“What are they exactly?”

Victoria sighed and opened the door. “See for yourself.”

Tate stepped into the room and immediately his eyes flew open, his eyebrows shooting up in horrified disbelief.

“Holy…!” His voice trailed off, and he stood there, seemingly unable to complete the thought. It was the cry of a wounded man and, for a fraction of a second, Victoria almost felt sorry for him.

“Maybe it would be better if you went back to the kitchen,” she repeated in a consoling tone, pulling on his arm. “Have some more lemonade. I’ll get what you need and bring it down.”

“How? It would take an entire office of accountants to bring order to this…this chaos,” he said weakly. He still seemed to be suffering from some sort of professional shock.

“It will only take me a little while,” Victoria reassured him. “I know exactly where everything is.”

He shook his head disbelievingly. “You couldn’t possibly.”

“Of course I do. I have a system.”

He eyed her wonderingly. “This I have to see,” he said, plucking a stack of old magazines off of the room’s only chair and settling down to watch. “If you can locate the records you need for last year’s tax return, I will buy you dinner in the most expensive restaurant in Cincinnati.”

It seemed like a reasonable challenge, though Victoria wasn’t at all sure it would be wise to spend an evening in the company of Tate McAndrews. Without even trying, he’d already stirred up all sorts of desires that only this afternoon she’d despaired of ever feeling. What on earth would happen over an intimate dinner? She’d probably fall head over heals in love with the man, and he’d go blithely along to his next audit. It was not a comforting prospect.

Still, she couldn’t very well lose the bet on purpose. She had to prove to him that while her system of accounting might be a bit unorthodox by his standards, it was as effective as ledgers and computerized spread sheets.

“Okay, Mr. McAndrews, you’re on,” she replied determinedly. “How long do I have?”

Tate grinned at her complacently. “Oh, I think I can afford to be lenient. Take as long as you like.”

“You really don’t think I can do this, do you?”

“No.”

“You haven’t said what happens if I lose.”

“You hire an accountant and get your finances straightened out.”

“My finances are fine, thank you. I’ve never missed a mortgage payment. My electricity’s never been turned off. And I don’t even own a credit card.” She absolutely refused to tell him that she’d lost them and never gotten around to obtaining replacements.

“Thank God,” he murmured fervently under his breath.

She regarded him indignantly. “Are you insulting me?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Let’s just say that individuals more organized than you seem to have gotten themselves in way over their heads by haphazardly buying with plastic.”

To be perfectly truthful, that was exactly why Victoria had decided not to replace the credit cards. It wasn’t that she’d overspent. It was that she had this silly habit of misplacing the bills so that she never knew whether they’d been paid or not. By buying with cash she was relatively certain that she, not the credit card company, owned her possessions.

She did not, however, intend to stand here and discuss the relative merits of plastic money with Tate McAndrews. Not when he’d just bet her that she couldn’t turn over the receipts she needed to back up her tax return. Taking a deep breath, she surveyed the room and went to work, picking up, studying and then discarding stacks of paper that had been stashed in boxes and bags of every size and shape. Every so often, she triumphantly dumped something new in Tate’s lap or at his feet, gloating at his increasingly bemused expression.

“There,” she said at last, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. “I think that’s everything.” It had taken her exactly twenty minutes.

Tate looked at the four shoeboxes, two bulging shopping bags, three manila envelopes and one beat-up purse that she’d deposited with him. “This is it?” he said skeptically. “Price Waterhouse would be impressed.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Sorry. What exactly do I have here?”

“These two boxes have the receipts for everything I bought for the shop last year. These two are all the bills for fixing it up, the mortgage payments on the shop and so on.”

“The shopping bags?”

“My cash register receipts. The envelopes have all of my other stuff. Medical bills. Interest payments. Insurance.”

“I know I’m going to hate myself for asking, but what’s in the purse?”

“Contributions to charity. You know like when you’re driving along, and somebody’s on a street corner collecting for muscular dystrophy and you give `em a dollar.”

“You actually kept track of that? I’m impressed,” he said, opening the purse. He pulled out a Popsicle stick with “2/M.D.” scribbled on it, followed by a button from the heart fund drive clipped to a scrap of paper that said 50 cents. There were also stubs for at least a dozen charity raffles and the ends from three boxes of chocolate mint Girl Scout cookies. He groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Victoria demanded. “It’s all very clear.”

“Yes. I suppose it is,” Tate admitted. “It’s just that I’m used to…”

“You’re used to nice, tidy books with columns of numbers that all add up.”

The way she put it sounded insulting, as though there was something wrong with believing in order. “I can’t help it if I’ve been trained to respect reliable accounting methods. This is…it’s…” He couldn’t even find a word to express his utter dismay at her lackadaisical approach to record keeping.

“Mr. McAndrews,” Victoria said, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes flashing. “I have better things to do with my time than write a bunch of figures down in some book. They all add up the same whether they’re in a book or in that shopping bag.”

Tate’s head was starting to pound. He was beginning to feel the way he had earlier when he’d understood her logic in expecting that ridiculous tax refund. “I suppose,” he agreed without very much conviction. He stood up and tried to balance the stack of shoeboxes in one arm, while grabbing the two shopping bags and the purse with the other. He motioned toward the envelopes. “Can you get those?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I’m going to take it into the office and try to make some sense of it. That’s what an audit is all about. I have to assure the IRS that you haven’t tried to cheat them.”

Victoria sighed. “I haven’t, you know,” she said softly, her voice filled with something that sounded like disappointment at his continued disbelief.

Tate nodded. Ironically, he did believe her. No one whose head was as high in the clouds as Victoria Marshall’s would ever dream of cheating on her taxes. And even if the thought had crossed her mind, he doubted if she could figure out how to do it.

Victoria followed him down the stairs and out to his car, noting that it was what she would have expected him to drive: a very conservative, American made, four-door sedan. Anyone with his precise, orderly mind definitely would not be into flash and dazzle. She was a little worried, though, about the effect the afternoon seemed to have had on him. He did not look like the same determined, self-confident man who’d walked into her life a few hours earlier. He appeared defeated somehow, though his brown eyes did twinkle a little when he said goodbye.

“What happened to dinner?” she taunted. “I did win the bet, you know.”

“As soon as I figure this out, I’ll be in touch,” he promised with a sizzling, sensual smile that sent her blood pressure soaring. “And we’ll celebrate your victory over IRS with champagne, caviar and beef Wellington.”

As he drove off, Victoria sighed. If he threw in candlelight and roses, she’d be a goner.

Chapter Three

The following morning, Victoria sat at the kitchen table for a long time, dreamily sipping a cup of tea and trying unsuccessfully to push disturbing and unexpectedly lusty thoughts of Tate McAndrews from her mind. The rumpled tan sports jacket he’d forgotten and left draped over the back of a chair was not helping matters. When she’d run her hand over the fine material, her fingers had picked up the lingering, tangy scent of his cologne. The clean, outdoorsy odor had brought back a sharp image of that brief, tantalizing moment when he’d caught her and held her in his arms.

Of all the men who might have wandered into her life and stirred up her untapped passions, Tate McAndrews was the worst possible choice. Tate was so…sensible, so practical. She had the distinct impression that he would never do anything impulsive. He would examine all the implications, evaluate the possible consequences and then, if it didn’t seem too costly, he might indulge in a few minutes of simple fun.

She, on the other hand, was constantly getting sidetracked by interesting, unexpected things. Not once could she ever recall going from point A to point B without wandering off to explore along the way. She saw life in glorious, spectacular Technicolor. If what she’d seen yesterday was any indication, Tate seemed to view it in black and white, without the benefit of any grays.

Victoria sighed. It was definitely a mismatch. And yet…. She glanced over at the bright yellow wall phone, dared it to ring, then shook her head.

“You are losing it, Victoria,” she muttered aloud. “It’s barely 8:00 a.m. No man, however enchanted he might be, is likely to call at that hour, and Tate McAndrews did not seem the least bit enchanted.” She paused thoughtfully, recalling those one or two looks that could have sizzled bacon to a crisp. She shook her head and dismissed them. “Uh-uh. The man thinks you are a certifiable nut. There is a very good chance he will not call at all…unless he remembers his jacket or decides to haul you in for income tax evasion. Forget about him.”

Deep down she knew this was good advice. She also knew she wasn’t likely to follow it. Unfortunately romantics never listened to their heads. Lancelot, who had finished his breakfast and retreated to the windowsill for his morning sunbath, meowed softly as though in complete agreement with her analysis of the absurdity of her behavior.

“Oh, shut up, cat! Don’t you start on me,” she grumbled irritably, slamming down her teacup and grabbing the morning paper. She turned the pages with a vengeance that caused more than one of them to tear. When the phone shrilled a moment later, she jumped nervously and stared at it, almost afraid to pick it up.

“Hello,” she said at last, her voice soft, low and unintentionally sexy.

“Victoria? Is that you? You sound like you have a cold.”

“Oh. Hi, Mom,” she said, unconsciously trading sexiness for disappointed grumpiness.

“My goodness, that’s certainly a cheerful greeting. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” she denied, trying to inject a little spirit into her voice before her mother rushed over with chicken soup and parental advice. “I’m fine. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you’d like a little company at the shop today. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Three days.”

“Well, it seems like longer.”

Victoria chuckled. She knew how her mother loved to help out at the shop. She enjoyed meeting the people, and she absolutely loved haggling with them over a price. She said it made up for the frustration of having to pay outrageous prices without question in the local stores.

“Come on over, Mom. I should be there about ten.”

“Why don’t I stop by and pick you up? There’s no point in driving two cars.”

“I gather you’re planning to spend the day?” Victoria teased.

Katherine Marshall refused to rise to the bait. “I thought I might as well. Your father had to go up to Columbus on business, and you did say you wanted to do some refinishing work in the back on that new washstand you bought last week.”

“Why don’t you say it, Mom?”

“Say what?”

“That you think you’re better at the business side of running the shop than I am.”

“Dear, surely even you must agree that you are a bit casual about making the best possible deal. I swear, sometimes I think you’d give something away just because someone admired it.”

“I like my pieces to go to people who’ll treasure them,” she said defensively. “Not just to the highest bidder.”

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that the highest bidder must like something very much to pay so dearly for it?”

“I suppose. But it seems so…”

“Businesslike?”

“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point,” Victoria said, wishing her mother didn’t sound quite so much like Tate McAndrews. She had a feeling if the two of them ever joined forces, her life would become a boring, organized regimen of computerized bookkeeping. The very thought made her shudder. “If you promise to drop the lecture, you can come on over and pick me up.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” her mother replied tartly. “But I won’t promise to keep my mouth shut.”

She hung up before Victoria could respond.

As Victoria dressed in a pair of oversized, paint-splattered coveralls appropriate for the refinishing work she needed to do, she thought about her shop. Located just outside of town in the front of a large, converted barn, it had been open less than a year. She’d started the venture at her parents’ enthusiastic urging. She’d accumulated so many interesting odds and ends at garage and farm sales that she’d run out of space to store them. In fact, her parents’ garage had become so cluttered that for three months in the dead of a very snowy winter they’d been unable to get their car inside. At first they had dutifully admired the battered, scratched treasures she had dragged home. But after digging the car out of snowdrifts more than once, they had begun dropping subtle hints that these wonderful finds of hers would look much better “someplace where they could be displayed to advantage. Perhaps even sold.”

The idea of selling something she’d discovered in a dusty old attic or in the back corner of some other shop had vaguely disturbed Victoria. She’d bought these things because she’d loved each and every one of them. Only after her mother had reminded her that she couldn’t very well afford to hoard every antique in southern Ohio had she agreed to consider the idea. The more she’d thought about it, the better she had liked it.

Once the plan had taken hold in her mind, she went about it with her usual high-spirited enthusiasm, spending a small inheritance from her grandmother to rent the perfect, old, unused barn on the Logan property and to renovate it. At first she’d only been open on weekends, continuing to teach history during the week. Soon she had quit her job at the high school and kept the shop open Tuesdays through Sundays. Her mother willingly filled in whenever she needed to go to an auction or wanted to take some time off.

“Victoria!” Her mother’s shouted greeting broke into her reverie.

“I’ll be down in a minute, Mom.” She ran a brush hurriedly through her hair, then twisted it into a loose knot on top of her head. Golden-red curls promptly escaped in every direction. She tried taming a few of them, then gave it up as a lost cause. “So, I look like Little Orphan Annie. I’m going to refinish a washstand, not try out for Miss Ohio.”

When she ran down the stairs and skidded to a halt in the kitchen a few minutes later, her mother was holding Tate’s jacket out in front of her as though it were a live snake.

“This is not your father’s,” she said emphatically.

Victoria couldn’t help grinning at her puzzled expression. “Nope,” she said, opening the door of the refrigerator and sticking her head inside to scout around for some yogurt to take along for lunch.

“Victoria!”

She peeked around the side of the door. “Yes, Mother?”

“Whose jacket is this?”

Somehow Victoria did not want to explain about the IRS audit or about Tate. Her mother would want to hire an entire office of attorneys to defend her, and she wasn’t quite up to fighting with her about it. “A friend’s,” she replied vaguely, sticking her head back in the refrigerator. She wasn’t sure how long she could spend deciding between black cherry and lemon yogurt, but she was hoping it would be enough time to chill her mother’s questions.

“What friend?”

She sighed. Obviously, her mother did not intend to drop the topic until her curiosity had been fully satisfied. Victoria gave up the idea of hiding and slammed the refrigerator door. Her nose had been getting cold anyway. “A man, Mother.”

“I can tell it’s a man, young lady. What are you trying to hide? Are you involved with someone? Is it serious? Why haven’t your father and I met him?”

“Mother, I only met him myself yesterday.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “You only met this man yesterday, and he’s already leaving clothes lying around your house?”

“It is not what it seems.”

Katherine Marshall looked at her skeptically. “Are you quite sure?”

“Now you sound disappointed, Mother. Are you that anxious to be rid of me?”

“I am not anxious to be rid of you. I would like to see you settle down with some nice, sensible young man who could take care of you.”

The description certainly fit Tate, but Victoria was not about to get her mother’s hopes up. Given the slightest provocation, her mother was capable of planning maneuvers that would terrify and subdue an entire company of marines, much less a lone IRS agent. “I do not need someone to take care of me. I have a home—”

“Such as it is.”

Victoria shot her a reproachful glance. “I have a business—”

“Which you run like a front yard lemonade stand.”

“And I have my friends—”

“Who are all nuttier than you are.”

“Mother, I’m so glad you are on my side.”

Katherine Marshall beamed at her, ignoring her sarcastic tone. “You should be dear. But I won’t be around forever, and I’d like to know there’s someone who’ll look after you and keep you out of mischief when I’m gone.”

“You’re healthier than I am, so I don’t think that’s something we need to worry about today. Now could we drop this subject and get over to the shop? You may be missing a sale.”

“Oh, dear. Of course, you’re right.” She put the jacket back on the chair. “But Victoria, I want you to promise me that you’ll bring this young man of yours over to meet your father and me.”

“Mother, I solemnly swear that if this man ever becomes my young man, you and Dad will be the first to hear. Just so you know, though, you will not have the power of a veto.” Not that that was likely, she thought dryly.

When they pulled into the driveway at the shop a few minutes later, the young man in question was pacing around the barn much to her amazement and dismay. His very neat and very flattering navy pin-striped suit looked totally out of place in the rural setting. Victoria wondered curiously if he even owned a pair of blue jeans. Then she caught sight of the mud caked on his expensive leather shoes and winced. If Tate planned to keep up these visits, he obviously needed to get a new, more practical wardrobe before he destroyed the one he had.

“Is that the young man?” Katherine Marshall hissed, as her daughter opened the car door and got out. Victoria rolled her eyes heavenward. These were not the circumstances she’d had in mind for a second meeting with Tate McAndrews.

“Do you always show up for work an hour late?” he was demanding irritably, a scowl on his handsome face.

“I have an ‘in’ with the owner,” she responded tartly, as she unlocked the door and stalked inside.

“That is no way to—”

“Run a business,” Katherine Marshall chimed in. “I’ve been telling her that very thing myself. Hello. I’m Victoria’s mother.”

She held out her hand and waited expectantly. Tate took it, then looked in amazement from this trim, tidy woman with the firm handshake and no-nonsense style to Victoria in another one of her outrageous getups. He’d never have believed it. This woman seemed perfectly…normal. She would never keep her bills in shopping bags.

“Tate McAndrews,” he told her. “I’m from—”

“Tate is a friend from Cincinnati,” Victoria interrupted quickly, shooting him a warning glance. “I’m surprised to see you again so soon.”

“I needed to talk to you about—”

“Dinner.”

“Oh, is Victoria making you dinner tonight, Tate?” Katherine Marshall asked cheerfully. “How lovely. Why don’t the two of you drop by the house for dessert?”

“Mother!”

“We’d love to, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Victoria snapped at him, marching into the back room with Tate trailing after her.

“What’s wrong with you? I was just trying to be polite.”

“Don’t you realize that if we go over there for dessert tonight, my mother will have the church reserved by next weekend? She already thinks we’re involved,” she told him, her brows lifting significantly. “That’s in capital letters, by the way.”

“Involved?” Tate repeated, his expression completely baffled. “You mean…?” His eyes widened as the implication finally registered. “Why on earth would she think that?”