Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)(10)

He snorted and sat back down at the table, picking up his pen. "I don't intend to argue with you all afternoon."

"Fine." She tucked the oven mitts under her arm. "Now promise me you'll eat dinner."

He glared at her and shook his head.

Macy sank into the chair across from him with a deep sigh.

"By the way, what's the name of that singer your grandmother liked? It's seven letters."

"Barry Manilow?"

"Yeah, that's the one." He filled in the squares, then immediately started working on the area around that answer.

Macy exhaled again, just to remind him she was still there.

"What are you doing now?" he grumbled, briefly glancing in her direction.

"I'm staying here until you promise me you're going to test my new recipe."

"Well, you'll have a long wait. I haven't been hungry in five years."

"I've got time," she lied.

"Thought you had a job today."

"I do."

"You're going to be late."

"In that case, they might not ask me to work for them again." Actually, that was more of a guarantee. In Sharman's world, as he'd repeatedly pointed out, time was money.

Harvey snorted once more. "I suppose you're going to blame me if you lose this job."

"I'll probably lose everything," she said dramatically.

"You could always sell your art. That is, if you ever finished a project."

Macy shrugged. "Not much of a market for it in this economy."

He muttered something under his breath. "If I agreed-- and I do mean if--would I have to eat the whole thing in one sitting?"

"Don't be silly."

"You're the silly one," he said. "Don't know why you can't leave an old man alone."

"But, Harvey, you're my best friend."

"Me and all those cats you're constantly feeding. What you need is a dog."

"I prefer cats." It was really the other way around; the cats seemed to prefer her. She had Snowball, Peace and Lovie, who were her inside friends, and there were an additional four or five who showed up at irregular intervals, expecting a handout. They'd sort of adopted her. She'd never gone looking for pets; they just seemed to find her.

"Get," Harvey said, waving both hands at her. "Go on. Get out of here."

"Sorry, can't do it until you give me your word."

"You're as bad as your grandmother."

"Worse," she returned. "Or so you've told me dozens of times."

"Okay, worse. No need to quibble about it. I'll have you know this was a nice, peaceful neighborhood until your grandmother moved in. Just my luck that she willed you the place. Between the two of you, I haven't had a moment's rest in over forty years."

"You love me." He'd deny it to his dying day, but Macy knew otherwise. He'd loved her grandmother, too--more than he'd ever admit.

"No, I don't," he stated emphatically. "I tolerate you. Your grandmother turned out to be a good friend, but you need someone to keep an eye on you and it's not going to be me."

"We need each other," she said and meant it. Harvey was her last link to her beloved grandmother. Lotty Roth had adored Macy and her curly red hair and her quirky personality. Macy had always been...different. While other children got involved in sports and music and dance, Macy had been what her grandmother referred to as a free spirit. She'd never had any interest in organized activities, and her artistic abilities were developed on her own. She'd rather stand in front of a painting at a museum or a gallery, absorbing its beauty and skill, than analyze the artist's techniques in a classroom.

She could remember once, in sixth grade, being called upon to answer a history question about the Civil War. She'd stood quietly next to her desk, and the teacher had repeated the question. Macy knew the answer, but she'd been thinking about something else that seemed far more important at the time--her plans to draw one of her cats and how much fun it would be once she got out of class to sit down with Princess and a pencil and pad. When her teacher demanded an answer, Macy started talking about Princess and her antics, and soon everyone was laughing-- except Mrs. Moser, who'd sent her to the principal's office for disrupting the class. As her father used to ruefully say, Macy was a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.

Her grandmother had been her one ally when it seemed Macy didn't have a friend in the world. Grandma Lotty's home was her refuge. Like Macy, Lotty Roth had possessed an artist's soul, and that was something they'd had in common. They'd seen the world in a similar way, from their passionate love of animals to their delight in unconventional people and places. When her grandmother died two years earlier, to everyone's surprise she'd left Macy her house.

Macy had loved this old home with its gingerbread trim and immediately painted it yellow with bright red shutters. The white picket fence was still white but only because she'd run out of paint. Harvey frequently complained that the house looked as if someone from Candy Land had moved in next door.

"You're gonna be late," Harvey said now.

"Guess so," she said with an exaggerated yawn.