Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Read Free

two”
    “Granted. But it still signifies Marjorie’s acceptance of Jameson’s
marriage proposal.”
    “Are you telling me that you’ve never heard of a couple breaking off an engagement? Even after the ring has been bought?” She
picked up a collapsible lawn chair from its place beside the table
and dragged it behind the display area.
    “Of course, I have,” he replied, gallantly snatching the chair from
the woman’s tremorous hands and propping it open. “However, in
every instance, the breakup occurred because one of the parties involved was dissatisfied with the other. As much as I hate to admit it,
neither Marjorie nor Jameson appears to be dissatisfied.”
    “Thank you.” Mrs. Patterson lowered herself into the seat. “Oh,
I think Marjorie has her doubts.”
    “She didn’t strike me as having cold feet. In fact she seemed
rather keen on the whole idea.”
    “Hmmm,” she sounded in agreement. “Too keen, if you ask me.
Don’t forget, I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I helped to
raise her when her mother left. I know she wants a nice big wedding
just like most girls her age. But this-well, it’s as though she wants
to get the whole thing over with before she changes her mind. That’s
where you come in, Creighton. It’s up to you to change her mind.”
    “And when I’m through with that, what’s my next trick? Changing water into wine?”
    “Oh, how you exaggerate.” Mrs. Patterson waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not asking you to perform a miracle. Simply tell
Marjorie that you’re in love with her.”

    Creighton tugged uncomfortably at his shirt collar. “In love with
her? Where did you get the idea that I’m in love with her?”
    “Creighton Ashcroft!” she scolded. “You may only have lived here
for three months, but I know you almost as well as I know Marjorie.
Are you going to stand there and tell me that you don’t have feelings
for Marjorie?”
    “Naturally, I care about her,” he allowed. “She’s a dear friend.”
    “Ha! `Dear friend’, my foot. Why, the first day you saw her, you
thought she was a fine piece of crackling.”
    He burst out laughing. “Mrs. Patterson! Where did you hear that
expression?”
    “I get around, you know,” she replied smugly. “I may be old, but
I’m not dead.”
    Creighton caught his breath and relented. “Fine, I love her. Alright? There, I’ve said it: I love her. I care for her more than I’ve ever
cared for anyone. That’s why I’m not going to undermine her happiness. And if marrying Robert Jameson is what makes her happy,
then so be it.”
    “Very noble. But what about you?”
    “What about me?”
    “If Marjorie and Detective Jameson marry, what will you do
with the rest of your life? Lock yourself in that mansion of yours
and wither away, a lonely, bitter old man?”
    He chuckled at her vivid description. “Mrs. Patterson, have you
been reading Dickens again?”
    She glared at him. “Laugh all you want, but it’s a question you
need to ask yourself. What will you do if Marjorie goes through with
the wedding?”

    Creighton breathed heavily. He didn’t want to think of life if
Marjorie married Jameson; so much of his future rested upon the
belief that she would someday learn to love him. This morning’s
news had shattered that belief. “I’ll probably get married … someday.”
    “To whom? Sharon?”
    The Englishman gazed halfway across the fairgrounds to the
bake-off booth, where the rotund figure of Sharon Schutt stood
sampling, with gusto, a wedge of blueberry pie. She looked up from
her plate and, upon seeing Creighton, smiled broadly, revealing a
row of blue-stained teeth. Creighton gave a tepid wave and quickly
swiveled back in Mrs. Patterson’s direction. “Good heavens, I hope
not.”
    “I wouldn’t write off the idea so quickly,” Mrs. Patterson warned.
“Stranger things have happened.”
    She was right; truth was, very often, stranger than