Philip Kingston was not one of those. A bald, shrunken, eighty-year-old mogul whose family despised him, he had begun life with an inherited fortune which his expertise had continued to grow. He was not hurting. To hear him talk, however, you’d think he was two steps away from living in a cardboard box under the nearest bridge.
Another heartfelt sigh. The old man was Jeff’s cross to bear, retribution for a misspent youth.
“Yes, Phil, I hear you. I’ll be happy to do whatever you want, of course. But if you’ll just listen to my advice for—”
A squawk from the other end. Probably of protest.
“Yes, I do notice that the Dow has fallen a few thousand points. But I also think that, given a chance, it will recover. Things will improve. How long will it take? Well, that’s impossible to—”
After twenty minutes of exhaustive cajoling and soothing, and a promise to get over to the Kingston mansion promptly at 2:00 this afternoon—probably for more tongue-lashing and symbolic cudgeling—Jeff managed to escape.
“Vulture,” he muttered, as he hung up the receiver. With brow furrowed, underarms damp, and every muscle clenching and straining, he felt as if he’d just gone ten rounds in the prize ring against Muhammad Ali.
You’d think he’d be used to the wiles of that fire-breathing curmudgeon by now. But apparently not.
Jeff was still recovering from this conversation when Patty buzzed him again. “A new client on Line Two, interested in talking with you about his nonexistent savings.”
Just what he needed, someone else to complain about the current scary state of the economy. His title was Financial Advisor, not Merlin the Magician. No crystal ball here, fellas. No tarot cards or rune stones to read the future.
“Name?”
“It’s a Mr. McFarland. Angus McFarland.”
“Okay.” Another sigh, but inwardly this time. “Give me a minute, then put him on.”
Although what they were living through right now could be considered some of the most stressful times in recent history, up until the last six or eight months Jeff had made a darned good income for what he did.
Not a millionaire by any means—not yet, anyway; not by his own merit.
But enough to support being the landholder of a sumptuous residence near Harrison, New York, whose three Colonial-styled floors held elaborate furnishings, whose garages contained four luxurious vehicles to be used depending upon function and distance, whose library and wine cellar accommodated only the finest of both. Enough to support being the member of a local prestigious country club, whose services he was usually too busy to patronize, and a health club, which he was not. Enough to support being the owner of a small Bareboat Motor Yacht, tied up at a marina down off Long Island Sound. Enough to support being the possessor of an elegant wardrobe, measured and cut and sewn to order by one of London’s Savile Row tailor shops.
All right, all right. To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t attained all this grandeur by his own efforts, alone. Certainly not during the mere ten year climb since his senior year at Benton.
No, most of this was due to the vast inherited wealth brought into their much-anticipated marriage by his darling wife, Annajane Merrill Quinley.
“Patty, would you come in here a minute, please?” Upon the appearance of his trim, attractive secretary in the doorway, he handed over a folder filled with notes written down during this most recent consultation. “We’ve got ourselves another client. Set up a file for him, please, and get his personal info into the computer. I’ve got an appointment to see him tomorrow, at ten a.m.”
“Will do, boss. Are you going out to lunch today?”
“No. I’d better just have a sandwich here at my desk, because later on I’m being called into the presence of the almighty himself.”
Patty gave a sympathetic chuckle. “Oh. Phil Kingston, huh? Better take a couple bottles of Pepto along. In fact, maybe you should invest in a case of the stuff, for future emergencies.”
“Actually,” Jeff paused to consider, “maybe the old guy will kick the bucket soon, and I’ll be off the hook completely.”
“I don’t know. His two sons are bound to inherit the estate, and I hear they’re worse than their father.”
“Thanks for that; my joy knows no bounds. Listen, pick up a ham on rye from The Café, will you? Then go ahead and get out of here for an hour. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“That’s easy enough,” was her tongue-in-cheek parting shot, as she turned away. “Just handle all the phones and correspondence while you keep one finger plugged into the dike.”
Was he the luckiest son of a gun in the universe, or what? So many others were flailing, financially, barely keeping their heads above water. And here he was, not only surviving but thriving, his lifestyle one of ease and contentment and luxury; he worked at a job that he loved doing (usually); and the girls peppered around this office were young, lovely, buxom, and anxious to please.
Not that he had ever taken advantage of the fact. No, sir. But, like most males, he did appreciate the view. Especially low-cut ones.
From the “love ’em and leave ’em” mindset that had filled his Benton College days, and those for a while after, he had stuck completely to the straight and the narrow once married. Fooling around on his wife just wasn’t something he wanted to do. Neither the inclination, the desire, nor the foolhardiness. Discounting the fact that Annajane would slice off overhanging parts of his body with a dull razor blade if she ever found out, he had, oddly enough, actually acquired a sense of honor.
They had met shortly after his move to the Empire State, Jeff and his bride-to-be, at a fundraiser set up in some posh hotel. Something to do with children’s welfare, he remembered. Or their education. At the time, charitable organizations were not really his thing. But this was business; his company had purchased tickets for a round table of guests, and Jeff, as newest member of the team, was elected to serve.
Even from a distance, across the ballroom, he had been struck by Annajane’s beauty and poise. This was a girl to whom he definitely wanted to achieve an introduction. And so he had, moving in with his usual easy charm and practiced flash of dimples.
But this was no adoring college student to be swayed by such masculine appeal. With their exchange of names, her cool blue eyes had lightly raked him from top to bottom and back again with undeniable assessment. Had she found him wanting, in some way? Had the intensity of her scan pierced through his clothing to the silk boxers underneath? Awed, Jeff felt something akin to a small shiver pass over his spine.
“Hello, Jeff,” she said in low throaty tones. Her hand, in their joined clasp, lingered longer than necessary, boding well for the future. “This is a star-studded gathering, isn’t it? We hope to far surpass last year’s pledges.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. You’re on the Board?” he said stupidly. Which merely proved how little attention he had been paying to the whole affair.
She chuckled. “This, and a number of others whose causes I favor. Let me take you around and meet a few people, Jeff. Unless you have someone here who—”
“No. No, I’m stag tonight.”
And just as well. For that was the beginning.
Much later he would discover, once it was formally acknowledged by her crowd that they were a couple destined for the altar, that appearances are quite often deceiving. Because, beneath that reserved, remote Grace Kelly exterior lay a wealth of passion and fire. Of which he, Jefferson Richmond Quinley, would be the sole recipient.
Mazel Tov.
Yup. Decidedly the luckiest son of a gun in the universe.
Annajane possessed not only intelligence and elegance, but a sizable fortune, as well. Praises be to grandparents and other ancestors who had made their pile through whatever nefarious means, only to graciously die off and leave that accumulated abundance to their single surviving heir.
After a hasty and headlong courtship, a spectacular wedding that set even local jaded society on its ears, and a month-lo
ng honeymoon to Bali, Jeff and Annajane settled into married life. Tanned and fit, one of the area’s beautiful couples, they purchased their showcase of a mansion that had been constructed on a sprawling cul-de-sac named Queens outside Harrison, one of the richest towns in America.
“Cuddlesack?” Jeff had curiously repeated their realtor’s term, describing its location. “Why do you call it that?”
The agent had laughed and apologized. “One of the neighbor’s little girls coined the word. She couldn’t pronounce ‘cul-de-sac,’ and wouldn’t have understood it, anyway. So she came up with ‘cuddlesack.’ All of us in the area have just continued using it, because she was cute, and it’s cute.”
So for five years the Quinleys had happily occupied Whitehall, at Cuddlesack Queens, which so admirably suited their needs once every room had been renovated to within an inch of its life. That, too, was done easily enough, since his new bride owned her own decorating firm, in which, Annajane freely admitted, she “dabbled.”
Yup, Jeff thought once again, as he munched the lowly ham sandwich at his magnificent teakwood desk. The luckiest son of a gun in the universe.
*
A muscle-punishing workout at the racquet club after his session with Phil Kingston had done little to release accumulated tension. The old codger had all but accused him of stealing, of cooking the books, of somehow engineering the whole crash all by himself. Jeff had spent a brutal two hours at the Kingston mansion before finally allaying suspicions enough to drag his stressed-out body for some physical activity. Then the steam room. Then a long luxurious massage and shower.
“The man is totally fixated on his fortune,” he had complained to his wife, much much later.
“Well, of course he is, darling,” Annajane assured him. “What else does he have, after all?”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. They were finishing their usual fine dinner, one of his favorites: pear and arugula salad, filet of beef tenderloin with baby red potatoes and sauce Bordelaise, and fresh grilled asparagus. The maid had just cleared away the last course and returned to serve each a small plate of butterscotch banana bread before discreetly disappearing.
Taking up a forkful of dessert, Jeff sent a questioning look down the length of the damask covered table. “You sound distracted, AJ.” And he sounded petulant, which was not the intention.
“Distracted? Not at all.” Foregoing one of their cook’s specialties for the benefit of her figure, she sipped at a glass of ice water instead. “Well, maybe just a trifle. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Ah. You must mean the Renaissance Silent Auction.”
And, as quickly and as easily as that, the conversation veered from what had been happening during his day, to hers. As it often did. Idly, Jeff wondered if it were true of every financially lopsided marriage that the bulk of the attention would be lopsided, as well. Probably. He’d begun to grow used to it. But not accepting. Not yet. A tiny spindling of resentment had taken root, deep inside, still curled up like the leaf of a fern, awaiting developments.
The next day’s mood and all-around character proved to be vastly better, beginning with sunshine rather than the rain as forecast. After a restless night, Jeff had greeted this June morning’s showy blue sky with a lighter heart and lifted spirits. Let the battles begin!
He had cleared away some of yesterday’s detritus from his desk by the time the call came in, mid-morning. Files set up and put away, clients called and reassured, seminar dates scheduled into the common calendar. He was entertaining the notion of lunch at some upscale restaurant, to celebrate a lift in spirits, when Patty buzzed him on the intercom.
“Call for you,” she cheerily announced. “Possible new client. Of all people, it’s Just Livvie.”
Livvie. Livvie. That sounded familiar, for some reason; a name that stuck in the back of his mind from somewhere…
“Just Livvie?”
“Oh, you know, Jeff. The Hat Lady.”
“Hat Lady?” He was still drawing a blank.
“Uh-huh. Haven’t you seen any of the ads in—well, no, you probably wouldn’t be reading any of the women’s fashion magazines, would you?” Her warm chuckle came over the line. “Anyway, she got started with a line of hats—to die for, I might say. Enough to have hats make a comeback. And now, lately, she’s started branching out into handbags and shoes. Plans to eventually design her own clothing line, from what I’ve seen.”
“Just Livvie, huh? Okay, put her through.”
“Coming your way.”
“Hello, uh—Miss—uh—Livvie? This is Jeferson Quinley. How may I help you?”
The response was, amazingly, what sounded almost like a giggle. “My. So formal.”
Jeff pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked down at the mouthpiece, as if that might satisfy his curiosity. “I beg your pardon?”
Definitely a giggle, low-pitched and husky enough to raise the hairs on Jeff’s arm. “You truly don’t recognize me? I’m disappointed, Jeff. I’m deeply disappointed.”
His eyes widened on a flash of recognition. “Olivia? Olivia Bower?”
“One and the same. How are you, Jeff?”
“Well, I’ll be—I’m pretty much blown out of the water right now, I have to admit. Imagine your calling me—what, eight, nine years since—”
“Ten and a half,” she cut in smoothly. “But who’s counting? How have you been?”
“I’ve been fine, thanks. And yourself?”
For a few minutes they exchanged the usual pleasantries of two people whose paths have crossed again unexpectedly after some time apart, catching up on a purely perfunctory level. Finally, as the conversation slowed, Jeff asked about the reason for her call.
“As you may or may not know, Jeff, I have achieved some small fame in the fashion world.”
“I hadn’t,” he frankly admitted, “until my secretary enlightened me.”
“Yes. Well. Over the years I’ve managed to put together a respectable portfolio, managed by someone I thought was—well, whom I trusted. But with the current state of affairs, I’m beginning to question his judgment.”
Exactly what he’d been hearing for months from some of his own clients. He sighed. “Let me guess. He advised you to hold fast and do nothing for the moment.”
“No. Actually he thinks I should sell everything I have, right now, and invest in something else.” “Hmmm. Interesting. A rather—um—novel—approach.”
“My thought, as well. So I’m looking for a second opinion.”
“A second opinion, huh? Well, I can certainly give you that. You know where my office is? Good, then let’s set up an appointment and we—tomorrow? Sure, I have an opening at—oh, you’re free at 11:00? Uh—sure, that works for me.”
After he’d ended their talk and hung up the phone, Jeff swiveled his chair around to gaze out the great scenic window, leaned back, and laced both hands together behind his head.
Well, well, well, imagine that. Little Olivia Bower, after all these years. To tell the truth, he barely remembered her. Other than his unflattering mental picture of a less-than-lovely female who had, for some reason, attracted his attention during one brief interlude in his college career. He wondered if she were still overweight, if her hair were still messy, if her dark-rimmed glasses still tended to slip down her nose.
“Jeff, she’s here.” Patty stood paused in the office doorway, looking as proud of making the announcement as if she alone were responsible for soliciting this one. “Just Livvie, I mean.”
With a grin for his secretary’s apparent star-struck attitude, Jeff pushed aside his paperwork and rose. “Fine. Show her in, please.”
“Hello, Jeff,” came the voice that was beginning to resound once again in his memory. But the woman who floated in did not.
“Uh. Oliv—Olivia—?”
“The very same.”
Good God. The lady was a knockout! Jeff could only stand staring, stunned and shell-shocked, with his mouth hanging open like some pathetic rube.
From under the brim of her gray linen cloche, banded by cotton lace and decorated by a floppy blue-green pongee flower, her eyes laughed up at him as she reached out to shake his hand.
“You look kerflummoxed,” she teased.
And why would he not? This was not the plump, schlumpy, saggy girl of his randy youth; this was a slim, beautiful, cosmopolitan sophisticate, wearing a lightweight gray silk suit and draped aqua silk blouse, carrying a sleek turquoise tote, boasting cool silver earrings and tasteful diamond watch and towering stiletto pumps. The waft of some delightful and probably quite expensive fragrance completed the picture of absolute perfection that she presented.
“Uh. Wow. Just—wow,” he finally untangled his tongue to mutter. Then, belatedly, he stepped aside and indicated a chair by his desk.
“Thank you, Jeff.” Smoothly and serenely she settled in, crossing one sleek leg over the other in a motion that left just one peek of knee and thigh to tantalize.
“Well. Huh.”
Never had he been at such a loss for words, and he was struggling now to regain some sense of composure. Treat her like any other new client, his brain was advising. But other parts of his fascinated body were telling him something else entirely. Seated safely behind his desk, where those parts could be concealed, he folded both hands together in a business-like manner and tried a new approach.
“So, Just Livvie, tell me what you’ve been up to since we—uh—we were last—“ Whoa, given his selfish, uncaring treatment of her, better back away from that telling phrase… “since I last saw you all those years ago.”
Her smile still encompassed every scintilla of her lovely face but seemed not quite as open, nor as friendly. “Oh, it’s been a busy and fulfilling time. After I graduated from Harvey Benton, with a Bachelor’s Degree in Fashion and Retail Management, I left Illinois behind to follow up with graduate studies. Meanwhile, I was offered an internship at one of the very smallest of New York houses.”
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