Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (14 page)

Childhood indiscretions were quaint, but now I dabbled in a criminal offense.

My finger eased off the button, and I closed my eyes. If I didn't see myself do something bad, neither could anyone else.

"Good morning. Cobb residence," a woman with a clipped English accent said.

"Mr. Cobb please," Ben said.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Mr. Cobb."

"His son?"

"The same."

"One moment."

A Beethoven symphony or a Mozart concerto started to play as we sat on hold.

"Son, you've found competent help. Alexia took my message, and you received it. Well done."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Your little spies must be working overtime. They have me engaged and giving away my mother's money. Tell your friends to stay out of my business. This is the same advice I'm giving you."

A pregnant pause. I held my breath in the den with two hungry lions.

"Are you done?" his father asked.

"Did you hear what I said?" Ben asked.

"Of course, son. It's basically the same opening monologue you always give. You need some new material. I saw the newspaper picture. The weasel Grant told me he met your fiancée. Said she was lovely. Added you were most attentive. Wondered if you had set the date. I said you were planning a small intimate wedding next month. Now who the hell is she?"

"My assistant of three weeks. You didn't need to sound like one of the horsemen of the apocalypse with her. We went to dinner and saw Grant. He assumed the rest and jumped to spread the gossip. Obviously looking to score points with you. Why?" Ben asked.

"Because, except for you, most people I know value my opinion and advice. He's sniffing for business as always. Heard his second wife is blowing through his late wife's money, and his kids are threatening to sue him over it."

"Another big happy family. Didn't he give Mom the creeps?"

"Yes, she saved his life when she beaned him with the wine bottle. Every man I ever met thought Helen was beautiful. I couldn't kill all of them, the police would notice. Now about the meeting."

"I don't want you to be at my meeting. People always defer to you when you're in a room. This is my call. I'm in charge of her estate, remember?"

Another awkward pause. The endless game of who loved Helen more, her husband or her son. I was surprised she didn't stick her head in the oven and call it even.

"Ben, your mother and I never quarreled over her money. I'm sure she didn't plan to die at forty-three. I had her change the will because I thought I would die first. You were the most logical successor. Don't try to use it against me, boy. There wouldn't be an estate to fight over if I didn't encourage her to write, draw, and sell. She loved me first and foremost, son. Don't even try to deny it."

"Did you love her?"

Ben challenged his father to a duel. I almost heard the slap of the glove.

"More than you'll ever know. You've never been in love, Ben. It's all-consuming and maddening. It never lets go. Why do you think I've never remarried?"

"No woman would have you."

"I could say the same about you. You're thirty-five and never been touched. Son, both of us can be cold men. Your mother was our only warmth. We demanded too much from her. She couldn't keep both of us happy. I didn't kill her Ben, and neither did you. Try to temper the anger, and let your pretty assistant seep in."

"Leave Alexia out of this. I don't want you bothering her again."

Everything his dad said waved a red flag in front of my bull.

"Good, Alexia's already making an impression. She sounded protective on the phone. That's a good combination. Don't blow it by next week. I look forward to meeting her."

"You can come to Chicago, but you won't attend any meetings. Do you understand? I doubt Alexia wants to see you. You scared her."

True that.

"Do you scare her too?" his father asked.

"Probably, don't women love men with rampant mood swings?" Ben asked.

"Only the best women. Tell me about Alexia."

"She's kind, considerate, and loving. She posed for me and took my breath away. And I still don't want you at the meeting."

"Bring her to dinner and don't interrupt me when I speak to her. I also want a complete set of unedited notes from the meeting and will fax my comments to you. Agreed?"

"All right. Send me your itinerary, and we'll work dinner in. Are you staying at the Whittaker?"

"Yes, I'll have Gavin send you the details."

"We do better on the phone than in person."

"Face to face, we do get irritated. Bring Alexia to dinner."

No. Can I plan to be ill or faint or travelling abroad or a dude?

"I'll probably have to drag her there."

"Tell her I'll leave my fangs at home."

"See you next week."

"Good."

I waited for the dial tone and eased the phone back on the hook. Exhausted and sweaty, I felt like I ran a marathon. I started typing and heard a soft knock.

"Alexia, may I come in?" he asked.

"Of course." Bright and cheery me hid the dull and leery me.

He maneuvered around my desk, settled his hands on the armrests of the chair, and leaned over. He was gorgeous upside down too.

"How did I do?" He kissed my nose.

"How did you do what?" I asked with all innocence and light.

"With my Dad. Did I cave or hold my ground? I heard you gasp twice."

Busted. Better to confess and get to the penance part.

"I'm sorry I intruded."

"You have to work on your covert skills. I heard the phone click, your breathing, and papers rustle. According to the press, I'm a recluse because I won't talk to them or allow anyone into my studio. Thankfully, one sent a gorgeous spy into my midst."

"Luckily, I've sworn off digging for dirt. There's nothing in it but damage all around."

He straightened up and spun my chair toward him. Putting his hand out to me, I took it and stood up. He sat and pulled me down onto his lap.

"I agreed to include him in my plans for once without the threat of a lawsuit. I own my mother's name, but both of us share in all royalties. My mom wrote her books for my amusement. I'm the model in some of them."

"That's you? You must have been adorable."

"Past tense?"

"Now, you're needy and cute."

Did the same attributes apply to me?

"Gee, thanks. My mom nurtured my talent, bought supplies, and cleared a space on her drawing table for me. From the beginning, my dad and I were in constant competition for her attention. The years of tug of war took their toll on her. She went to the doctor, complaining of headaches and nausea. He told her menopause does strange things to women."

He closed his eyes and bit his lip.

"Two weeks after listening to her men fight over the phone, she died in her sleep of a massive heart attack. I lived in Paris at the time. Dad left a message with my landlady. 'Mother. Dead. Come home.'
"

Guilt, loss, and shame mingled in his words. Her death shattered and haunted him.

"After the cemetery, the two of us were left with each other and our thoughts. I needed someone to blame for my loss. My father fit the bill. Dad needed to regain control. I became the perfect choice. The bickering started and has never stopped." He ran a hand over his eyes, looking weary. "To Dad, the main sticking point is my refusal to market Mom's works. Dad loved his wife, but money is his mistress. Both of us are set for life. Why exploit Mom? The books were written for me. They are mine to do with what I please in perpetuity. She kept our businesses tied together giving me her interests in his investments."

"You should write a book about your family. It has everything, art, money, power, death. Throw in some plastic surgery, a car chase or two, and you would have a blockbuster."

"My dad likes people who peddle their pride for money."

"He wouldn't like reading about himself, especially if you were the author. You have to make peace with your father. Don't let him leave here without some resolution."

"It's not that easy."

"Only because you've both made it hard. I'm going to go downstairs and debrief myself. Search your heart and find the shreds your mom left. Those are the ties that bind you to your dad."

I slid off his lap, kissed the top of his head, and darted out of the apartment. Down the stairs, my head hurt with visions of books and bags of cash.

Both felt they were mind readers and knew what Helen would choose to do with her good name. Her books were out of print and the fight was over republishing them. Ben said no and his dad pushed yes. The problem was both Cobb men had valid points. Ben wanted to limit the publicity and the merchandising. He didn't want her books selling cheesy garbage to children.

His father, on the other hand, heard the customers beating on the door. They remembered the books and wanted them for their children and grandchildren. Nowadays, promotions included matching bed sheets, pens, T-shirts, and all possible configurations to go with it. The Cobbs sat on an established name, and an empire beckoned. Instead of being shrewd seasoned businessmen, they fought over who Helen loved best. Stupid selfish men.

I fell into bed exhausted. This must be how Helen felt every day after dealing with both of them. I dreamed about the books I loved and how I missed them. Was I on Team Dad or Team Ben?

In the early evening, I trudged back upstairs, bleary-eyed. My stacks were rearranged. He must have done more work after I left. I sat at the desk and reviewed the papers. Notes were written on a pad of paper.
Dad, Whittaker, Gavin sending itinerary, bring
Alexia
in Ben's crisp handwriting.

My hand cringed as I touched the notepad. The phone rang, and I let out a small scream. Remembering his advice, I let the machine get it.

"Good girl. You follow directions very well," Ben said.

"Hello, Ben," I said.

"Did you sleep?"

"Sorta. I did a lot of thinking. I'm glad you'll see your Dad next week, but I don't think it would be appropriate for me to join you. You have business to discuss and private matters to sort out. I would be in the way." And shaking like a leaf and critiquing the meal.

"I'm told he's charming. Mostly by him."

"He surprised me with news of our pending nuptials."

"I'll clear it up. Don't worry. He wants to meet you."

"Where does he live in Florida?"

"Key West. He sees himself as Ernest Hemingway, sportsman, friend of the people, ladies' man."

"The apple didn't fall far from the tree," I said.

"Are you saying I'm rotten to the core?"

"Nope, I'm staying out of your grudge match. What do you intend to do about your mother's business?"

"I'll tell you later when we're alone because I think the phone is tapped," he whispered.

"You're paranoid."

"How much do you think Helen Nance Cobb's estate is worth? Ballpark guess. Off the top of your head," he said.

"You mean the books and any other related items?" I'd blow my budget on everything offered.

"Yes, the whole enchilada."

I thought of an outrageous amount and doubled it.

"Four hundred million," I said.

"My mom's an international entity," he howled.

"Five hundred million."

"Foreign and domestic projected sales from her books and modest incidentals are seven hundred and fifty million to a possible billion in the first three years."

I whistled. If the books came back in print, I knew I would kick, scratch, and gouge to get my hands on all twenty-six books. No matter the price. Multiply me by a couple million others, and serious money added up.

"I'm sure your estimates are right. What would you do with the money?" I asked.

"Another serious matter. What would you do?"

You do, who do, voodoo. The money would own me. There was only one viable solution.

"Give it away," I said.

"What?"

"You have money enough to last you ten lifetimes. I would set up a foundation for good works, help needy children, or promote literacy."

Silence greeted my idea. I didn't want to sound naïve, but now I felt foolish.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand all the legalities of something this monumental. I thought about your mother. My guess is she never wrote for the money."

"I want you to plan to have dinner with me and my Dad."

Apparently, he had ignored my suggestion and moved on to another contentious topic.

"As your assistant or something else?" I asked to show I could be flippant too.

"Excuse me?"

"How will you introduce me?

"Alexia Hale meet Benjamin Emanuel Cobb III."

I was hurt more than I cared to admit.

"I better get back to work." I shuffled papers.

"Are you done with me?"

This guy liked to have the last word. He ended conversations, not the other way around.

"Yes, I have a lot to do."

I had to call my sisters and ask for advice on how to avoid meeting the parent.

"How about dinner?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

"Alexia." He stretched my name to eight syllables. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I tried to hold my temper. "You need a why. If you apologize, you have to have a reason. You knocked over my grocery cart, stepped on my foot, or hit me with a bus. Not a blanket 'I'm sorry' and leave me to fill in the blanks."

"I'm rusty when it comes to apologies. How about I'm sorry for all my human failings and promise to do better?"

"It's a start, and I'll think about dinner with your dad."

"Thanks, I plan on introducing you to him as the love of my life. Let me know if you have any questions." He hung up.

I didn't mark the time I sat dazed. When the fog lifted from my brain, I smiled and decided he was mine too.

*   *   *

The week crawled by until it was finally Saturday.

"How about a date? We could go to a museum or the zoo. Have lunch and do anything else you want." He offered an olive branch before the fateful meal.

"Sounds good. How about the Art Institute? You can explain the paintings you have there."