“He’d look a lot better if he spent more time in the weight room and less time selling used cars on TV. But Dan likes him.”
Dan Calebow was the Stars’ president and Phoebe’s husband. They’d met when Phoebe had inherited the Stars from her father. At the time, Dan had been the head coach and Phoebe had known nothing about football, something that was hard to believe now. Their early battles were nearly as legendary as their ensuing love story. Last year one of the cable channels had made a cheesy movie about them, and Dan was still getting ribbed because he’d been portrayed by a former boy band singer.
“I want a three-year contract,” Phoebe said, getting down to the business of Caleb Crenshaw.
“Yeah, I’d want one, too, if I were you, but Caleb’s only signing for two years.”
“Three. It’s not negotiable.” She stated her case without consulting notes, reeling off complex statistics in her breathy, sex-kitten’s voice. They both had excellent memories, and he didn’t write anything down, either.
“You know I can’t advise Caleb to take that offer.” He propped his foot on the bench next to her. “By the third year, he’ll be worth millions more than you’ll be paying him.” Which was exactly why she wanted the three-year deal.
“Only if he stays healthy,” she retorted, as he’d known she would. “I’m the one taking all the risk. If he blows out his knee that third year, I’ll still have to pay him.” She went on from there, emphasizing her altruism and the unending gratitude a player should feel for simply being allowed to wear the uniform of football legends like Bobby Tom Denton, Cal Bonner, Darnell Pruitt, and, yes, Kevin Tucker.
Heath threatened a holdout, even though he had no intention of carrying it through. What he’d once seen as a canny bargaining tool he now regarded as a desperate measure guaranteed to do more harm than good.
Phoebe bore down, hitting him with more breathy statistics, peppered with allusions to ungrateful players and blood-sucking agents.
He countered with statistics of his own, all of them pointing toward the fact that tightwad owners ended up with resentful players and a losing season.
In the end, they arrived at the place they’d both pretty much known they’d reach. Phoebe got her three-year contract, and Caleb Crenshaw got a one-and-a-half-million-dollar signing bonus for the insult. Win. Win. Except it was an agreement they could have reached three months ago if Phoebe hadn’t gone out of her way to make things as hard for him as she could.
“Hey, Heath.”
He turned to see Molly Somerville Tucker approaching. Kevin’s wife couldn’t have been more different from the standard-issue knockout blond NFL spouse. Her body was trim and compact, but hardly memorable. Except for a pair of blue-gray eyes that tilted up at the corners, she and Phoebe bore little physical resemblance. He definitely liked Molly a lot more than he liked her sister. Kevin’s wife was smart, funny, and easy to talk to. In some ways, she reminded him of Annabelle, although Annabelle was smaller, and her shock of russet curls bore no resemblance to Molly’s straight brown bob. Still, they were both feisty smart-asses, and he wasn’t letting down his guard in front of either of them.
Molly had a baby in her arms, one Daniel John Tucker, aged nine months. She held a curly-haired little girl by the opposite hand. Heath was glad to see Molly, neutral about seeing the baby boy, and less than pleased to be in the presence of the three-year-old girl. Thankfully, Victoria Phoebe Tucker had a more important target in sight.
“Aunt Phoebe!” She dropped her mother’s hand and made her way toward the Stars’ owner as fast as her small feet, clad in bright red rubber boots, could carry her. The boots looked weird with her purple polka-dot shorts and top. It also hadn’t rained in two weeks, but he had personal experience with Pippi Tucker’s single-mindedness, and he didn’t blame Molly for choosing her battles.
In a case of like attracting like, Phoebe hopped up from the bench to greet the little curly-haired larcenist. “Hey, punkin’.”
“Guess what, Aunt Phoebe…”
Heath tuned the kid out as Molly came over to him. She touched the side of his neck. “I don’t see any puncture marks, so your meeting must have gone well.”
“I’m still alive.”
She shifted the baby from one arm to the other. “So have you found Mrs. Champion yet? Annabelle’s got this weird—and totally unnecessary—thing going about confidentiality.”
He smiled. “I’m still looking.” He grabbed the baby’s drooly fist as a distraction. “Hey, pal, how’s that throwing arm coming along?”
He wasn’t great with kids, and the little boy buried his face in his mother’s shoulder.
“No football,” Molly said. “This one’s going to be a writer like me. Aren’t you, Danny?” Molly kissed the top of the baby’s head, then frowned. “Have you talked to Annabelle today?”
“No, why?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Phoebe smile fondly at Pippi. He wished just once she’d give him a smile half that genuine.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of her all day,” Molly said, “but her phones aren’t working. If she happens to call you, tell her I want to talk to her about the grand soirée tomorrow afternoon.”
“One o’clock.” Phoebe spoke over the top of Pippi’s curly blond head. “Does she know we changed the time?”
Heath went very still. A party? This was exactly the chance he’d been waiting for.
“I wish I could remember,” Molly said. “But I’m on deadline, and I’ve been distracted.”
The Tuckers and Calebows got together all the time, but Heath never received an invitation, no matter how many times he explained to Kevin that he needed one. Heath wanted a chance to be with Phoebe when they weren’t doing battle, and an informal social gathering was the perfect opportunity. Maybe if they weren’t wrangling over a contract, she’d see he was generally a decent guy. Over the years, he’d tried to set up a dozen lunches and dinners, but she always ducked, generally with cracks about food poisoning. Now Molly was throwing a party, and she’d invited Annabelle. The person she hadn’t invited was him.
Maybe it was a female-only affair. Or maybe not.
There was only one way to find out.
Chapter Seven
That woman doesn’t know a damn thing about running a business,” Heath grumbled as Bodie shot through an I-Pass lane at the York Road toll plaza heading east for the Eisenhower Expressway. “Neither of her numbers are working. We’ll have to find her.”
“Suits me,” Bodie said. “I’ve got plenty of time before my date tonight.”
Heath placed a call to his office, got Annabelle’s Wicker Park address, and forty-five minutes later, they drew up in front of a tiny blue-and-lavender gingerbread house stuck between two very expensive-looking town houses. “Looks like Bo Peep’s love nest,” he said as Bodie pulled to the curb.
“The front door’s open, so she’s home.” Bodie peered toward the house. “I’m going to run up to Earwax and grab some coffee while you fight with her. You want me to bring you back something?”
Heath shook his head. Earwax was a funky Milwaukee Avenue coffeehouse that had become a Wicker Park institution. Bodie, with his shaved head and tattoos, fit right in there, but then so did everybody else. Bodie drove off, and Heath made his way through an old iron gate leading to a doormat-size lawn containing neatly mowed crabgrass. He heard Annabelle’s voice even before he reached the door.
“I’m doing my best, Mr. Bronicki.”
“That last one was too old,” a wheezy voice replied.
“She’s nearly ten years younger than you are.”
“Seventy-one. That’s too old.”
Stopping at the open door, Heath saw Annabelle standing in the middle of a cheery blue-and-yellow room that seemed to serve as her reception area. She wore a short white T-shirt, a pair of low-slung jeans, and rainbow flip-flops. She’d caught her hair up on top of her head in a curly little whale spout that made her look like Pebbles Flintstone, except with a be
tter body.
A bald, elderly man with bushy eyebrows glowered down at her. “I told you I wanted a lady in her thirties.”
“Mr. Bronicki, most women in their thirties are looking for a man who’s a little closer to their own age.”
“That shows what you know. Women like older men. They know that’s where the money is.”
Heath smiled, enjoying himself for the first time all day. As he stepped over the threshold, Annabelle spotted him. Her honey-colored eyes widened as if a big bad dinosaur had shown up at the door of the Flintstones’ cave. “Heath? What are you doing here?”
“You don’t seem to be answering your phone.”
“That’s because she’s been trying to dodge me,” the elderly man interjected.
Annabelle’s whale spout hairdo twitched indignantly. “I wasn’t trying to dodge you. Look, Mr. Bronicki, I need to talk with Mr. Champion. You and I can discuss this some other time.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Mr. Bronicki crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re just trying to weasel out of that contract.”
Heath made an open-handed, accommodating gesture. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just stand here and watch.”
She shot him an exasperated look. He drew in the corners of his mouth and moved closer to the couch, which improved his view of her clingy white T-shirt. His eyes drifted down a trim pair of legs to her feet and then her toes, which were painted a sparkly grape with white polka dots. Pebbles had her own sense of style.
She returned her attention to her elderly visitor. “I don’t weasel,” she said hotly. “Mrs. Valerio happens to be a lovely woman, and you two have a lot in common.”
“She’s too old,” the man shot back. “Satisfaction guaranteed, remember? That’s what the contract said, and my nephew’s a lawyer.”
“So you’ve mentioned before.”
“A good one, too. He went to a real good law school.”
The steely glint that appeared in Annabelle’s eyes didn’t bode well for poor Mr. Bronicki. “As good as Harvard?” she said triumphantly. “Because that’s where Mr. Champion went to school, and”—she zeroed in on him—“he’s my lawyer.”
Heath lifted an eyebrow.
The old man studied him suspiciously, and Annabelle’s cheeks plumped in a kitten-ate-the-cream smile. “Mr. Bronicki, this is Heath Champion, otherwise known as the Python, but don’t let that worry you. He hardly ever sends seniors to prison. Heath, Mr. Bronicki is one of my grandmother’s former clients.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Bronicki blinked but quickly recovered. “If you’re her lawyer, maybe you’d better tell her how a contract works.”
Annabelle bristled all over again. “Mr. Bronicki is under the impression that a contract he signed with my grandmother in 1986 is still valid and that I should honor it.”
“It said satisfaction guaranteed,” Mr. Bronicki retorted. “And I wasn’t satisfied.”
“You were married to Mrs. Bronicki for fifteen years!” Annabelle exclaimed. “I’d say you got your two hundred dollars’ worth.”
“I told you. She went loony on me. Now I want another one.”
Heath didn’t know which was more amusing, Mr. Bronicki’s jiggling eyebrows, or the indignant twitching of Pebbles’s whale spout. “I’m not running a supermarket!” She spun on Heath. “Tell him!”
Ah, well. All good things had to come to an end. He went into lawyer mode. “Mr. Bronicki, apparently your contract was with Ms. Granger’s grandmother. And since the original terms seemed to have been fulfilled, I’m afraid you don’t have grounds for complaint.”
“What do you mean I don’t have grounds? I got grounds, all right.” Eyebrows hopping, he started hammering Annabelle with one grievance after another, none of which had anything to do with her. The more he ranted, the more Heath’s amusement faded. He didn’t like anybody but himself browbeating her.
“That’s enough,” he finally said.
The old guy must have realized Heath meant business because he stopped in midsentence. Heath moved closer, putting himself between Bronicki and Annabelle. “If you think you have a case, talk to your nephew. And while you’re talking to him, ask him to fill you in on the laws against harassment.”
The bushy eyebrows drooped like dying caterpillars, and the old guy’s aggression instantly dissolved. “I never harassed nobody.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me,” Heath said.
“I didn’t mean to harass her.” He wilted even more. “I was just trying to make a point.”
“You’ve made it,” Heath replied. “Now maybe you’d better leave.”
His shoulders dipped, his head dropped. “Sorry, Annabelle.” He made his way out the door.
A loose lock of Annabelle’s hair whipped her cheek as she spun on Heath. “You didn’t have to be so mean!”
“Mean?”
She hurried out on the porch, her flip-flops slapping the wooden boards. “Mr. Bronicki! Mr. Bronicki, stop! If you don’t ask Mrs. Valerio out again, you’re going to hurt her feelings. I know you don’t want to do that.”
His reply was subdued. “You’re just trying to make me do what you want.”
The flip-flops thumped more softly down the steps, and her voice grew wheedling. “Would that be so bad? Pretty please. She’s a nice lady, and she likes you so much. Ask her out again. As a favor to me.”
There was a long pause.
“All right,” he replied with some of his former spunk. “But I’m not asking her out for Saturday night. That’s when Iron Chef’s on.”
“Fair enough.”
Annabelle returned, a satisfied smile on her face. Heath regarded her with amusement. “I sure hope I never have to go head to head with you in the wrestling ring.”
A furrow formed along the bridge of her small nose. “You were mean. He’s lonesome, and arguing with me gives him something to look forward to.” She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“Your phones aren’t working.”
“Sure they are.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, jeez…”
“Forgot to pay your bill?”
“Just for my cell. I know my other phone’s working.” She disappeared through the archway. He followed her into her office. Quality art posters filled the long wall behind her computer desk. He recognized a Chagall and one of Jasper Johns’s white-on-white American flags.
She lifted the receiver and, when she didn’t hear a dial tone, looked mystified. Heath picked up the cord dangling next to the ancient black answering machine. “It works better when it’s plugged in.”
Annabelle shoved it back in. “I was trying to fix it last night.”
“Good job. You’ve never heard of voice mail?”
“This is cheaper.”
“When it comes to keeping in touch with your clients, never cut corners.”
“You’re right. I know better.”
The fact that she didn’t try to argue took him aback. Most people went on the defensive when they screwed up.
“I don’t make a habit of not paying my bills,” she said. “I think what happened with my cell was subconscious. We’re not getting along.”
“Maybe counseling would help.”
“In what universe did I ever think it was a good idea to let my mother find me whenever she wanted?” She sank down in the chair, her expression an entertaining combination of indignation and woe. “Tell me you’re not here because you canceled your date with Rachel tonight.”
“No. We’re on.”
“Then what’s up?”
“A goodwill mission. I saw Molly today at Stars headquarters, and she asked me to remind you about tomorrow. One o’clock.”
“The party…I almost forgot.” She cocked her head, suspicion back in those melted butterscotch eyes. “You drove all the way up here just to remind me about Phoebe’s party?”
“Phoebe’s party? I thought it was Molly’s.”
“No.”
Thi
s was even better. He picked up the small, pink Beanie Baby rabbit she kept on her computer monitor and examined it. “Do you go to a lot of parties at the Calebows?”
“A few,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“I was thinking about tagging along.” He turned the rabbit bottoms up and checked out its tail. “Or do you already have a date?”
“No, it’s not—” She sank back into her desk chair, her eyes widening. “Wow. This is truly pathetic. You’re using me to get to Phoebe. You can’t get an invitation to her parties on your own, and now you’re using me.”
“Pretty much.” He returned the rabbit to its perch.
“You’re not even embarrassed.”
“It’s hard to embarrass an agent.”
“I don’t get it. Phoebe and Dan invite everybody to their parties.”
“She and I are going through a bumpy period, that’s all. I need to smooth things out.”
“And you think you can do that at a party?”
“I figure she’ll be more relaxed in a social situation.”
“How long has this bumpy period been going on?”
“About seven years.”
“Ouch.”
He studied the Jasper Johns poster. “I was overly aggressive when I started out, and I made her look bad. I’ve apologized, but she can’t seem to get past it.”
“I’m not sure this is the best way to fix your problem with her.”
“Look, Annabelle, do you want to help me or not?”
“It’s just that—”
“Right,” he said abruptly. “I keep forgetting we have different philosophies about running a business. I like to please my clients, and you don’t care. But then maybe you enjoy limiting yourself to senior citizens.”
She shot up from her chair, whale spout quivering. “Fine. You want to go to the party with me tomorrow, go ahead.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at noon. What’s the dress code?”
“I’m so tempted to tell you black tie.”
“Casual then.” Through the window, he spotted Bodie pulling up to the curb. He propped a hip on the corner of her desk. “Let’s not mention to Phoebe that I asked you to bring me along. Just tell her you think I’ve been working too hard, and I need a little relaxation before I meet any more of those women you have lined up.”
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