The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  “And the Hope Project grew from there,” he said.

  “With a few thousand steps in between.”

  “I guess it really is the things that spark for us when we’re young,” he said. “My grandfather and I used to play Monopoly. He was absolutely cutthroat at the game, wouldn’t give an inch, even when I was just starting to learn the rules. But I ended up loving everything about it—the deals we’d make to swap properties, the strategy of building hotels on some squares and not on others.”

  “You don’t talk about your family very much. I’ve never even heard you mention your grandfather.”

  “He died ten years ago. I was only twenty-three. Sometimes I wonder what he’d think about me. About the person I’ve become.”

  Sloane heard the yearning in Ethan’s voice, the desire to be accepted. To be loved. “I think he’d be very proud,” she said.

  Ethan cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet. The movement caused Daisy to dance backward and forward. “We should get ready, if we’re going to get to the restaurant on time. I’ll walk this fierce beast before we go.”

  They made it to the restaurant with ten minutes to spare, and they had a charming evening with the board members. As they did three nights later, when they got together with Ethan’s med school roommates and their wives. And Ethan’s business school friends a few nights after that.

  Sloane was consistently astonished that Ethan knew so many people. He shrugged it off, as easily as he shrugged off his enormous fortune, the tremendous success of Hartwell Genetics. He’d lived lots of lives, he said, first as Margaret’s grandson, then as a doctor, then as a successful entrepreneur. There were a lot of social circles to intersect.

  A lot of dinner parties to attend.

  Sloane needed to put Ethan’s credit card back in circulation. At five months and counting, she was truly beginning to show. She felt marvelous, full of energy, as if she were only now coming fully awake after those first few months of nausea and discomfort. She suspected that, down the road, she’d be awkward and uncomfortable, but for now, she was thrilled by the ease of her pregnancy, by the simple presence of her ever-growing daughter.

  Her increased energy let her finally finish the Hope Project. In fact, she was just saving the final computer file, when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the unfamiliar number, surprised that anyone was tracking her down that way. Suspecting that Ethan might be trying to reach her from an unknown line, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Davenport?”

  “Yes. Who is this please?”

  “My name is Lionel Hampton. I’m afraid we haven’t met before, but Margaret Hartwell suggested that I give you a call.”

  Sloane’s heart leaped into her throat. Lionel Hampton. The executive director of the American Foundation for the Advancement of the Arts. Her ex-boss’s boss’s boss. “Mr. Hampton,” she said, hoping that she hadn’t let too many seconds tick away as she battled her surprise.

  “Is this a good time for us to talk?”

  Sloane glanced at her computer screen, at the culmination of five years of work, all wrapped up in the Hope Project. “Yes,” she said, and then she realized that she’d made her statement sound like a question. She cleared her throat. “How can I help you, Mr. Hampton?”

  “I had lunch with my dear friend Margaret this afternoon. She informed me that you and Ethan Hartwell are to be married next month. Please accept my very best wishes.”

  “Of course,” Sloane said, feeling her forehead crease as she frowned. What had Margaret done?

  “I don’t have to tell you that Margaret is one of your biggest fans.” Sloane wasn’t about to say otherwise, even if the news was something of a surprise. Mr. Hampton went on, as if Sloane had agreed wholeheartedly. “I was just telling Margaret that we are trying to expand our mission here at AFAA, that we want to have more of an impact on the world beyond the traditional four corners of cultural stewardship. As soon as Margaret mentioned your art therapy project for at-risk foster children, I knew that we had a perfect match.”

  “A perfect match?” Sloane wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, if she was hearing things.

  Mr. Hampton cleared his throat. “With Margaret’s generous assistance, AFAA is about to create a new center, a division that will specialize in advancing the arts curriculum for children. Margaret speaks very, very highly of you, Ms. Davenport. I would love to offer you a position as the director of our new program.”

  Just like that. Margaret wrote a check, pulled some strings and Sloane landed the job of her dreams. Months of résumés, frantic nights wondering whether she would ever find another job, all erased by her wealthy future grandmother-in-law’s largesse.

  Even if Sloane could accept such a gift, there was one substantial problem. “Mr. Hampton, are you aware of the fact that I worked for AFAA? That I was dismissed from my position back in March?”

  “Oh, yes. That.” A prim sound rattled over the line, a cross between a cleared throat and a cough. “I understand that there was some confusion about our Spring Auction, and that one of our managers may have acted a little precipitously…?.”

  Sloane shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I was fired out of hand, for something that had nothing to do with my performance.”

  “And I wish that I’d been made aware of the circumstances at the time. Ms. Davenport, I do hope that you can set aside any negative feelings that you might have about our organization. To that end, I’d love to meet you for lunch, say next Monday? We could discuss this matter further, along with the possibilities of our exciting new center. I do hope that you’ll say yes.”

  Sloane considered her options. She could refuse to meet with the man. She could send him back to Margaret in defeat, mostly likely returning a large check.

  Or she could meet with him. She could talk to him about his new center. She could explain, in her own words, just what her project was about and what she knew she could accomplish.

  Sure, they might not be able to get past her prior experience at AFAA. But she’d be a fool not to try. Wouldn’t she?

  “Thank you, Mr. Hampton. I’d love to discuss this matter further.”

  She heard the gratitude in his voice as he specified a restaurant, as he thanked her for agreeing to consider the possibility, as he offered her his very best wishes for a wonderful weekend. Sloane stared at the phone for a long time after she hung up from the call.

  So. This must be what it was like, to have the power and prestige of the Hartwell name behind her. This was what she could anticipate for the rest of her life, as Ethan’s wife. This was the way that doors would open for their daughter.

  As if in response, the baby chose that moment to kick against her insides. Sloane smiled. She couldn’t imagine what her meeting with Mr. Hampton would be like. She could hardly give him the details about why she’d been dismissed from AFAA. Of course, if the man had done his homework, then it wouldn’t be necessary to give him any information at all. And if Margaret’s check had already cleared the bank, the entire matter would be moot. The only thing that Sloane needed to do was thank her future grandmother-in-law.

  Three days later, she had the opportunity, at the engagement party Margaret was hosting for Ethan and Sloane.

  Sloane took greater care than usual dressing for the party, feeling like a debutante, poised on the edge of her formal introduction to polite society. Sitting beside Ethan in the back of the Town Car, she stared out the window as the streets of D.C. rushed by. She ran over names and faces in her mind, hoping that she didn’t stumble over any important introductions.

  Ethan laughed when she asked him to fill her in, one more time, on the names of the Hartwell Genetics board members. “Relax. It’s a cocktail party. We’ll have a couple of drinks, and then we’ll leave.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She sighed. “You actually get to drink something with alcohol. Just one glass of wine…that would make this so much easier.”

&
nbsp; “What if you had something to look forward to?”

  His arch tone was enough to bring a blush to her cheeks. Good. The color brought out the sparkle in her eyes. “Like what?” she asked, faking a tone of perfect innocence. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She laughed as he shifted beside her, adjusting his suddenly uncomfortable summer-weight trousers.

  God, she was beautiful tonight. The forest-green of her dress set off her eyes, complemented the jet-black hair that she wore down, perfectly straight, a challenge to all those women who thought that primping and preening would make them more attractive. Her body was responding to the baby’s needs; every curve that had initially sparked his attention was more voluptuous than ever.

  He considered ordering the driver to take a detour. After all, what would his grandmother do if they were late? She couldn’t very well interrogate him in public, could she?

  Ethan shook his head. Grandmother could do exactly that. And she would, too.

  No. Better to go to the party. Hear a few short speeches in honor of himself and the woman who was the mother of his child. Eat some incredibly overpriced appetizers. Drink some of the world’s finest alcohol. And then come home, to see what he could do about raising another smile on Sloane’s lips.

  Ethan’s obvious appreciation of her appearance made Sloane a little less apprehensive as the car pulled into the sweeping circular driveway of the Waverly condominium. A doorman helped her out of the backseat as Ethan gave brisk instructions to the driver.

  As they stood in the elevator, Ethan took her hand, twining his fingers with hers. He squeezed once, meeting her eyes in the mirrored door, and she smiled back at him, cursing herself for feeling nervous about a simple party.

  Every building in Washington was subject to a height restriction. There were only twelve stories to travel in the privacy of the elevator car. All too soon, the door opened. All too soon, they were ushered into a stunning apartment. All too soon, Sloane was swept up in the chaos of a party in full swing.

  It seemed as if a dozen men waited to shake Ethan’s hand, to offer him their hearty congratulations. She pasted a smile on her lips as he was pulled away from her. Before she could begin the hard work of finding someone to chat with, Margaret glided across the room.

  The older woman wore a dramatic pink suit with wide lapels and a cinched waist. Sloane couldn’t imagine anyone else wearing the outfit. She also couldn’t imagine anyone questioning Margaret’s choice—not with the triple strand of pearls that hung halfway down her chest, an authoritative reminder of Margaret’s wealth.

  Sloane was surprised that Margaret folded her into an embrace. She could smell baby powder on the older woman, along with just a hint of lilac. Margaret spoke first. “You look lovely this evening, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Sloane said, a little surprised by the warmth of the greeting. “It’s so kind of you to throw a party in our honor.”

  “You’re feeling well?” Margaret glanced at Sloane’s waist, her smile indulgent.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  Margaret switched her attention to Sloane’s face. The older woman’s gaze was intense, as if she were suddenly communicating in some secret language. “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done for Ethan. He’s a changed man since he met you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “I do,” Margaret said firmly. “I can see it in his face. In the way he walks down the hallway at work. He’s more relaxed, more confident than I’ve ever seen him before.”

  Sloane could hardly imagine Ethan being any thing other than confident. Nevertheless, grand mothers viewed their grandsons through different lenses than did the rest of the world. And Sloane certainly wasn’t going to argue with her hostess.

  “Oh, bother,” Margaret said. “The senator is waving me over. I really should be a proper hostess.”

  “Please,” Sloane said. “Don’t let me keep you.” She watched, a little awestruck, as Margaret floated across the room to shake hands with one of the most influential men in Washington.

  Only then did Sloane remember that she hadn’t mentioned Lionel Hampton, hadn’t thanked Margaret for her donation to AFAA. She gritted her teeth in exasperation. Well, there’d be another opportunity at some point in the evening.

  Sloane looked around the room. This was a different world, far removed from the foster homes and uncertainty she’d known as a child. How could anyone growing up in this not be confident? Sloane saw Ethan standing near the grand piano, surrounded by a circle of dark-suited men. She recognized the junior senator from New York, and a Supreme Court justice, both offering their hearty congratulations.

  “So much power, all in one living room.”

  Sloane started at the voice. She turned around to see Zach, a friendly smile brightening the lawyer’s face. He held a highball glass, filled with some amber liquid and ice. His suit looked a little rumpled, and there was a spot on his tie. Sloane caught herself liking the easygoing man more than ever. She said, “Do you ever feel like you’re caught up in a masquerade, and any minute now someone is going to rip off your mask?”

  “Every day,” Zach said, taking a sip from the glass in his hand. “Every single day.”

  “But you’ve been coming to this sort of thing for years! Don’t you get used to it?”

  Zach shrugged. “In a way. Ethan used to invite me when we were kids. Margaret always let him have one friend along, so that he wouldn’t get too lonely among all the grown-ups.”

  “From what I hear, Margaret was probably hoping that your good behavior would rub off on him.”

  “It didn’t work out that way. I just learned bigger and better ways to get into trouble.”

  Sloane answered dryly, “I can see how that would happen.”

  Zach laughed at her tone. “You can see why Margaret worked so hard to get Ethan to settle down. She just wanted to host one single cocktail party where he didn’t cause a scandal. After all those years, I could hardly believe it, when she finally found the magic key.”

  “Magic key?”

  Zach drank again. “You know, the whole ultimatum thing.” He curled his fingers into quotation marks, as if he were reciting something Margaret had said. “A wedding by her birthday, or she was stepping down from the Board and giving everything to AFAA. I never thought it would work, but she proved me wrong. It made all those weeks of writing the stock transfer agreement worth it.”

  Margaret’s birthday.

  Everything to AFAA.

  No wonder Ethan had pushed for a wedding before the baby was born.

  Sloane felt the blood rush from her face. She made some halfhearted excuse to Zach, something that might actually have sounded like a joke, and then she stumbled off to the edge of the room. She needed to sit down. Needed to catch her breath. Needed to make sense out of the nightmare words Zach had just cast off so blithely.

  Before Sloane could escape, though, Margaret was at the front of the room, summoning her guests to silence. Ethan broke away from his coterie of friends, crossing to Sloane with an easy smile. His fingers were light on her elbow as he said, “Time to sing for our supper.”

  Ethan was astonished at how pale Sloane had become. Maybe he’d been wrong to bring her here, wrong to let Grandmother plan this ridiculous party. It was so tiring to be on display, to meet and greet business acquaintances and friends. He should have put his foot down. He should have insisted that they forget about the party, about letting Margaret show them off to everyone.

  Too late now.

  He settled one hand across the small of Sloane’s back. She shied away from him, though, as if she were burned by his touch. As if she resented his dragging her here. He scowled toward his grandmother, annoyed to see that she had finally succeeded in breaking through the cocktail party chatter. All eyes were on Margaret Hartwell.

  And her eyes were on him. On him and Sloane. He leaned close and whispered, “Are you all right?”

  For answer, Sloane merely p
ulled her arm away from him. She followed him to the front of the room, though, and he had to be content with standing next to her, fighting the urge to give her his arm to lean on, to make their excuses and get them out of the damned room altogether.

  Apparently unaware of Sloane’s distress, his grandmother said, “Friends! I thank you all for joining me this evening, to celebrate an event I never thought I’d live to see.”

  Ethan heard the good-natured laughter of the guests, heightened by the drinks they’d already enjoyed. His grandmother went on, spinning out a story about how Ethan had been a wild little boy, how he had always refused to mind her, how he had run away and hidden from her in the National Museum of Natural History. She made people laugh, recounting Ethan’s first experience in the Hartwell Genetics boardroom, when he had refused to give in to a strident board member, matching age and money with his own unique brand of stubbornness.

  Grandmother’s voice grew suspiciously thick, though, as she lifted her glass in the air. “I see that my grandson was only conditioning me to accept his headstrong ways, preparing me to rejoice in the finest decision of his adult life. My darling Ethan has chosen to bring Sloane Davenport into our family. Ethan, Sloane, may you have many joyful years together!”

  “Hear, hear!” cried the guests, and Ethan inclined his head as dozens of glasses were raised in his—in their—honor.

  Knowing what was expected of him, he leaned down to kiss his grandmother’s cheek, murmuring, “Thank you.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she settled a dry hand along his jaw. Her lips trembled with a surprising show of emotion. He had to admit, though, that she looked happier than she had in years. Happier, and healthier—as if she could live another eighty years.

  Ethan smiled at the crowd as he slipped his arm around Sloane’s waist. She felt stiff as a board next to him. Poor thing. She hadn’t been in this spotlight before, hadn’t been the center of attention for dozens of well-wishers. He wished that he could say something private to her, that he could whisk her away. Just a few more moments, though, a few more polite words. Then they would be done with the formal part of the evening. He’d be able to get them out of the room in half an hour, tops.