It seemed that the West had its share of splintered and restructured families.

Though the two girls did not attend one another's churches, they did develop a friendship. It was nice to have a real friend in the city, Christine decided, even though she rarely saw Jayne other than at work. Still, their lunch hours were shared, along with many thoughts and feelings about life.

For Christine the long evenings were spent mostly with books. If there was one thing about the city that she approved of, it was the library. Christine made good use of it. Each Wednesday after work and again on Saturday morning, she made the trek to the big square building and exchanged her stack. Then she spent her evenings curled up in her small boardinghouse room, poring over the pages. It was her only escape to a bigger, more interesting world. There are no prison walls if one has books, she had read someplace. But even so, her days and nights often were lonely.

She had learned to like Mr. Kingsley in spite of his gruff-ness and his growl. She was convinced that under the rough exterior there was a heart that truly beat in tune with human kindness. The challenge was to find some way to unearth it. The big man seemed to treat her with favor. This did not sit well with Miss Stout, who, in Christine's opinion, nursed a secret, longtime crush on the boss.

Mr. Kingsley did not seem to notice Miss Stout's devotion, so the poor woman was viewed as merely efficient office help. Christine could not help but feel Miss Stout would have made a very good Mrs. Kingsley. Her primness and rigidity might have brought some order to the boss's rather chaotic life. On the other hand, his casual attitude and brashness might have loosened up the matron a bit. Christine was not the only one who had noticed more than passing interest on the part of his receptionist.

"Someone needs to do something," Christine mused one evening as she walked home after work. She was later than usual. Mr. Kingsley had called her into his office to discuss a typing project, and Miss Stout had hovered near the door on the pretext that she was anxious to close up shop and go home herself.

If I had my own place, Christine reasoned, I would invite them both for supper.

Well, she didn't have more than a single room, so there wasn't much she could do. Then a new thought hit her. Mr. Kingsley does. She had no idea where he lived or what it was like-but she'd find out. Perhaps with a bit of maneuvering, he would allow her to cook supper in his kitchen and invite the lady from the front desk. It was worth a try. She decided that she'd take the risk and ask.

The very next morning, she mustered up the courage to knock on Mr. Kingsley's door. "I was just thinking as I was going home last night," she began, "I would love to invite you and ... and Miss Stout for supper. You've both been ... so kind to me." She stopped for breath. He had raised his head, and she thought she saw a glimmer of interest under the bushy brows.

"I have only a small room. No ... no cooking facilities." She thought she could detect a look of disappointment. "But I ... wondered if you'd mind if I ... if we used your home ... for the meal. I'd purchase the ingredients and ..." She drew to a stop. "Of course if it's an imposition-"

"No. No imposition. I've a kitchen. I never eat there. Always grab something at one place or another. Don't even know what's there. Cleaning lady is the only one who goes in there, and I've no idea what she does when she's there. But if you want to check it out, that'd be just fine. Yes, yes. Just fine. Haven't had a home-cooked meal since I don't know when. You can cook too?"

Christine wasn't sure what he meant by "too," but she nodded her head.

"That's great. Just great," he blustered on, rubbing his hands. "When would you like to do this?"

"Whenever it fits your schedule-and Miss Stout's."

"My schedule. My schedule isn't hard to fit-where meals are concerned. I've no idea about Miss Stout's calendar." He hesitated and rolled his pencil between two beefy fingers. "You sure you want Miss Stout? Isn't she a bit sour?"

"Oh yes-no. I mean-she's been very kind to me. I thought I could say a ... a thank-you this way."

He nodded then, and Christine felt her heart skip. It seemed like her plan would work out. He gave her a lopsided. grin and waved her out. "Check with Miss Stout," he said. "Any evening will suit me."

And so things were arranged, and on the following Friday night Christine found herself searching out 716 East Summit Avenue. She had taken the trolley-which was no small feat considering the grocery bags she carried with her.

Mr. Kingsley had given her the address and a general idea of where it was located, but when she found it she felt there must be some mistake. She stood on the sidewalk staring at an enormous house. Surely it was not a single-family dwelling. Christine's eyes roamed over the impressive structure in disbelief. Checking the address again, she finally made her way along the walk to the back door.

Letting herself in with the key her boss had provided, she discovered the inside was even more breathtaking. Christine had never been in such a house before. Even the Calgary home of Uncle Jon and Aunt Mary could not compare with this one. There were crystal chandeliers, a winding oak staircase, heavy furniture polished to a deep shine, glistening mirrors, and carpets so thick they felt like forest moss. Christine slowly let out her breath.

But she hadn't come to stare, she reminded herself. She found the massive kitchen and began searching through cupboards for proper utensils. She had planned chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes and gravy, buttered carrots and creamed turnips. Dessert would be a berry pie. It was not a fancy meal, but with any luck at all, it would be a tasty one. Unless, of course, she had selected a menu not to Mr. Kingsley's liking. Well, anyway, this was food she knew how to prepare, and she'd just hope for the best.

Christine's initial nervousness mostly disappeared as she immersed herself in the familiar routine. She almost chuckled aloud as she thought, If Mama could see me now ...

By the time Miss Stout rang the front doorbell, the aromas from the kitchen were penetrating the entire house. The china from the large breakfront was now arranged on the table in the big dining room. Christine thought it looked rather elegant. Much different from the Delaney supper table in the North.

Miss Stout came in rather stiffly, but she looked surprisingly chic in a new floral dress. Her eyes studied everything about her. Christine assumed this was the first time the woman had been in the house.

"I'm sure Mr. Kingsley would want you to make yourself at home," smiled Christine. "Everything is ready. I'll just need to dish up when he arrives."

"He's not here?" Her disappointment was obvious.

"I'm sure he will be soon. He told me he had a bit of work to finish up."

"That man. He works far too hard," murmured Miss Stout.

"I guess he feels he may as well work as to come home to this big empty house," observed Christine. She excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the supper.

It was not long until she heard voices in the living room and smiled softly. Mr. Kingsley was home. He would finally notice Miss Stout as something other than an office fixture. She heard Miss Stout's nervous, high-pitched titter. I'll just give them a few more minutes before I serve the food, thought Christine. Her plan seemed to be working very well.

By the time she entered the living room to invite her two guests for supper, Mr. Kingsley seemed to be quite at ease. He sat near the open fire in a huge, well-used chair, legs crossed, fingers thumping out a little rhythm on the arm of the chair. He was even smiling.

"I hate to interrupt," began Christine, "but supper is served."

Mr. Kingsley was immediately on his feet. "I didn't know how much longer I could stand it," he said in his boisterous manner. "Those fumes-"

"Fumes," giggled Miss Stout. "Really, Mr. Kingsley. One does not speak of delicious food aromas as fumes." She giggled again.

He took no offense, and together they moved to the dining room in a jovial mood.

Christine saw them seated, then proceeded to serve up the dishes. She took her own meal in the kitchen, though she ate little because of her tension. Did they like the food? Were they getting on well?

Christine received high praise for the meal, almost to the point she felt embarrassed. She was glad when the last crumb of pie was eaten and her guests pushed back from the table.

"Never had a better meal," said Mr. Kingsley, wiping his mouth on the napkin. "Had forgotten what home-cooked food tasted like." He smacked his lips and tossed his napkin beside his plate.

"Why don't you have your coffee by the fire while I clean up?" suggested Christine.

"Oh, I must help," offered Miss Stout.

"I'll manage just fine," Christine quickly said, and Miss Stout did seem relieved. "It's all a part of the thank-you for your kindness."

Miss Stout beamed. "Well ... if you insist. That's most kind." She gave Mr. Kingsley another big smile.

"We'll have that coffee," Mr. Kingsley said to Christine. "But you join us. The cleaning lady can take care of things."

"Oh no. I'd never cook a meal, make a mess, and leave it to someone else. It'll only take me a few minutes." She poured the coffee and withdrew, humming to herself as she went.

This was going even better than she had dared hope. Mr. Kingsley had been most amiable at the supper table, and Miss Stout had fairly glowed. Surely with a bit of prompting the two lonely people would realize that they could add much to one another's world.

CHAPTER Five.

"Cupid's arrows don't always shoot straight. " Her father's words came back to Christine the next morning as she entered the office. Miss Stout sat at her desk, her lips pursed as dourly as ever. But there was a new twinkle in her eyes and a new lacy handkerchief pinned to her normally unadorned navy suit. Christine knew her father's words meant that one should not attempt to play Cupid. Yet she could not keep from feeling a bit victorious as she hung up her coat and gave the receptionist a good-morning smile.

"Mr. Kingsley wants to see you," announced Miss Stout. "He said to send you in the moment you arrived." The twinkle in her eyes deepened. Christine nodded and went for her steno pad.

"Oh, I don't think you'll need that," said Miss Stout lightly.

Christine's brow knit in puzzlement.

"I think it might be something ... on a more personal basis," the woman explained, looking flushed.

Christine clung to the steno pad and moved slowly toward the door. She had not felt such nerves since the first time she had stepped inside the big room.

She rapped lightly. "It's open" came the gruff invitation. She proceeded in, the pad clutched in two hands.

"Miss Stout said-" But she got no further.

"Sit down. Sit down," he said loudly, waving the stub of a pencil he held between two fingers. A broad grin spread across his face.

She was not used to being greeted by her boss in such fashion. She sat in the chair he had indicated, pencil and pad poised.

"That was a great supper last night. A great supper."

Christine managed a nod in acknowledgment of his compliment.

"I thought about it all night. Well-most all night." He chuckled deep in his throat. Christine had not heard him attempt to laugh. "It's a long time since I've had a meal like that. Boyd-he must have missed them too. Says the cafeteria food at the university isn't any improvement over the local greasy spoon." He laughed again. Christine decided she preferred his gruff, all-business attitude to this jovial, overly familiar one.

He leaned back and looked at her, his chair squeaking beneath his weight. He grinned again and toyed with the pencil in his fingers.

"Well-I finally got it all figured out. You're in a little boardinghouse room. Right?"

Christine, perplexed, nodded slowly.

"And I've got this great big house."

She had no idea where this conversation was heading. She simply stared back at him.

"And you're a good cook. Great cook."

She sat, mute, her cheeks warming with embarrassment.

"And I've been living on bacon fat and strong coffee."

He waited expectantly. She had no idea what to say. What to think.

He leaned forward again, the chair groaning in protest.

"Don't you see? It's a perfect match."

Christine shook her head. "I'm ... I'm afraid I don't ... I'm not following you, sir."

"Hey-I thought we got rid of that 'sir' stuff long ago," he chided. "Makes me feel as old as Methuselah." He shifted again and looked over at her. "It's simple. Don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. You move in with me."

Christine was beyond shock. She was sure she had misunderstood.

His beefy hand slapped down on his desk. "As cook," he said.

"But-"

His words spilled over her attempt to protest. "I've got all this room. You're paying room and board. You can take a room upstairs. Any room. You can have your pick of the bunch. There were five of 'em up there last time I counted. 'Course one is Boyd's. But you can have any others you want. You get your room and board in exchange for fixing my suppers."

Christine felt as if her body had turned to ice. What on earth- "I'll pay the bills," he hurried on, as though to assure her that the arrangement would indeed be to her benefit. "All the bills."

"I ... I don't ..." she faltered. "It's ..."

"It makes complete sense," he argued, sounding frustrated at her hesitance. "Why should you be shelling out money? Why should I be living on bacon and eggs? It's a perfect solution."

Christine was relieved she was sitting down. She tried to think. What could she say and not jeopardize her job? She had just been invited to share one of the most beautiful and auspicious dwellings in the entire city of Edmonton. But the circumstances ... She was sure her mother and father would say, "Absolutely not!"

"I'll ... I'll have to think about it." She clamped her lips on the "sir" that nearly slipped out. "What's to think about? I can send Jesse round to pick up your things this evening. We can get right to it."

"But ... how will folks ... what will they think?"

He waved the pencil. "Who cares what they think?"

"I care ... sir."

The man's face grew serious, as though he was actually trying to look at this through Christine's eyes. He studied her carefully for a few minutes. "Okay," he said at last, leaning forward and tapping his pencil on the wooden desk. "I see I went too fast. Let's go over this again."

He leaned back.

"I thought you liked to cook."

Christine nodded. She did enjoy the kitchen.

"You're paying for your little room."

She nodded again.

"But you don't like big houses?"

"Your house is ..." Christine could not think of how to describe such an awesome dwelling. "It's lovely," she finally said lamely.

"So it's not the house?"

"Not at all, I just-"

"Is it me?"

"Sir, young women simply do not move in ... move in with bachelor men," she managed, her tone growing more determined with each word.