The Man She Married. Muriel Jensen

of finished and half-finished projects, two overstuffed chairs for collapsing into, shelves with bolts of fabric, drawers with trim, buttons, notions.

      On the wall above her desk, a bulletin board was covered with fabric swatches, design ideas, fast-food coupons and the occasional business card.

      It occurred to her that she finally had this place because Gideon had sent her half the proceeds of the sale of their condo.

      But she didn’t want to think about him right now, and was happy to be distracted by the ringing telephone.

      She picked it up, hoping it wasn’t a client already wondering when her order would be filled.

      “Hello,” she said with false cheer.

      “Hi, darling! I never sent your wedding present and I’m coming to make it up to you!”

      Prue was surprised by the vaguely familiar female voice and the odd, completely out-of-sync remark.

      “Ah…” she began hesitantly.

      “It’s Aunt Georgette, darling!” the theatrical voice clarified. “Remember me? We only met once, but I’m generally considered to be pretty unforgettable.”

      Prue had to laugh, remembering the tall, attractive woman in head-to-toe Gucci she’d met in New York at the engagement party Gideon’s parents had given them.

      “What a lovely surprise.” Prue remembered finding her funny and sincere. But she couldn’t imagine why the woman was calling her. Last she’d heard, Georgette lived in Europe with a new husband, who’d since passed away.

      “I’ll tell you why I’m calling,” Georgette said, launching into a story about receiving a fax of the Globe story about Prue’s fashion show, and how she wanted to prepare an advertising campaign for her through the firm she’d inherited from her husband. “I’m so sorry I missed your wedding, but I’d like to make up for it now. What do you say?”

      Prue was flattered, astonished, and very aware of just what such exposure could do for the future of Prudent Designs.

      “Well, I’d love that, of course,” she said, then felt honesty required that she tell her just what had happened since the wedding she’d missed. “But I think you should know, Aunt Georgette, that Gideon and I—”

      “Were getting a divorce,” Georgette interrupted. “Gideon told me. But since you’ve patched things up, you’re still deserving of a wedding present.”

      Prue repeated dumbly, “Patched things up?”

      “Gideon explained about the misunderstanding, but I’m so happy you had the good sense to hear him out and trust that he’d never do such a thing to you.”

      Prue was trying hard to grasp what Georgette was telling her, but her brain just wouldn’t make sense of it.

      “When I decided to offer this little gift, I called Maggie.” Maggie Hale was Gideon’s mother. “She told me Gideon had followed you to Maple Hill. He must really love you to leave New York for a tiny town on the edge of the Berkshires to put your marriage back together.”

      Prue opened her mouth but could think of nothing coherent to say with it. A male voice in the background shouted Georgette’s name.

      “Got to go,” she said quickly. “I have a few things to clear up before I leave. Oh, incidentally, when I first got this idea, I thought we’d have to hire a male model to be in the shots with you, but now that you and Gideon are reconciled, I can’t imagine a more photogenic couple. What do you think?”

      “I…I…”

      “Good. And it’d simplify things for me if I could just bunk with the two of you while I’m there. I’ll book a hotel, motel, whatever you’ve got there for the photographer.”

      “Ah…”

      “I’ll be there in three days.”

      Prue’s mind tumbled over and over itself trying to make sense of what was happening. Then necessity made her grasp the important issue. A very influential woman in fashion was going to create an advertising program for Prudent Designs. At the moment, that was all she needed to know.

      “We’ll see you then.”

      “Good. I’ll call Gideon with details of my arrival.”

      The moment she hung up the phone, Prue realized what she’d done.

      She’d gotten herself an ad campaign! And into a tangled mess.

      She called Berkshire Cab. “Paris, you’ve got to take me to Gideon’s!”

      Paris’s voice exuded hope. “Really?”

      “Yes,” she said. “I’m going to kill him. You know where this A-frame is?”

      Paris sighed. “Yes, I do. He bought a new truck this afternoon. I dropped him at the car lot, then tooled by later to see what he’d decided on. It’s beautiful!”

      “Can you pick me up?”

      “Do I have to search you for weapons?”

      “Paris…”

      “I’ll be right there.”

      THE A-FRAME WAS on the wilder, less populated side of the lake. It had a full front porch and big double-glass doors. On either side of the doors was a large pot of flowering cabbage, and the boxes under large square windows were filled with yellow mums.

      Parked near the porch steps was a red pickup. Prue remembered that Paris had told her he’d bought a truck, but it hadn’t registered at the time. As long as she’d known him, he’d driven a sports car.

      Then the doors opened and he appeared with a Berkshire Cab coffee mug in his hand. Paris had had the blue-and-white mugs printed when she’d first started the company, offering them to anyone who took a trip of twenty miles or more. It was easy, Prue thought, to see whose side she was on.

      He wore jeans and a gray Whitcomb’s Wonders sweatshirt with red lettering. The jeans were as out of character for him as the truck, though he looked wonderful in them—long-legged, lean-hipped and dangerously informal. She didn’t like the fact that her pulse accelerated ever so slightly.

      Prue paid Paris for the ride.

      Paris tried to push the money away. “What are you doing?” she asked with a frown. “I never charge you…”

      “Well, that’s going to stop,” Prue insisted. “He told his aunt we were back together!”

      “What aunt?”

      “Georgette. The one who lives in London.”

      Paris nodded slowly, as though trying to figure out how one thing related to the other. “Why does that mean you have to pay me for the ride?”

      Prue knew it had nothing to do with that. It was because the cup and the sweatshirt were examples of how he’d been accepted by everyone, and it made her want to do something mean.

      “It isn’t the mug, is it?” Paris asked suddenly. “Because it was just a friendly gesture—not a slight against you, just something for him. And if you’re offended, you should know that there’s a small set of Fiestaware Mom sent over for him when I picked him up at the dealer’s. So you can hate all of us.”

      “I don’t hate you,” Prue said, chin raised in affronted dignity as she unlocked her door. “I just think it’s interesting that you’re all helping him, when he’s making my life so difficult.”

      “I don’t understand about his aunt.”

      “She’s coming to visit,” Prue explained, “and she says he told her we’ve patched things up. So she’s expecting us to be together when she arrives.”

      “Well, why didn’t you just correct her?”

      Prue