Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (23 page)

"You can't rush the stone."

"So I've heard."

"I must be going. I have an early flight tomorrow and classes all day."

It suddenly dawned on me.

"You're Gerald White the sculptor. I saw your work in the Art Institute. The marble angels are dazzling. You're extremely talented," I said, setting down my plate to shake his hand.

"Thank you, Alexia. How charming of you to have heard of me."

"It's an honor to meet you. Have a safe trip home to Boston."

"Ben, I can't thank you enough for adding your name and work to the fundraiser," Jerry said as he hugged him.

Gerald White's son was ill. Ben endured the publicity and scrutiny as a labor of love. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. Touched and proud at the same time.

"
Adieu
, fair Alexia," Jerry said.

"My best to you and your family," I said.

"Thank you, dear," he said as he squeezed my hand.

"Let me know if I can help," Ben said.

Jerry nodded and left.

"I'm glad you recognized him. Jerry deserves fame, but never sought it. He works in a small workshop behind his house. He has taught drawing and painting at the same no name college for thirty years. He rarely sells either, but museums clamor for his subtle stone works."

"They're striking," I said.

"The faces are intricate and the hands are legendary. Jerry, like Michelangelo, reveres the stone and lets the works burst forth. He once explained, 'You must wait for the soul to form and only then disturb the surface.' Jerry refers to his creations as his muses. Each one urges him to do more. I finally understand because my muse has taken on an earthly form."

He took me in his arms and kissed me. I wasn't a Greek goddess but felt worshipped.

"Thank you."

I should say more: something poetic or memorable. Instead I wanted him bad.

"Can we go home before I pin you to the wall and…?" I whispered the rest.

We were down the stairs faster than if we had been thrown. Ben held my hand as we sped by everyone. Harold stood by the door, beaming with pride.

"Harold, I'll send a crew to pick up the paintings tomorrow," Ben said, dragging me behind him.

"I intend to spend the night here to insure their safety," Harold said as he put out his hand to Ben.

"Fine. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Ben, I can't begin to thank you for the chance and the exposure. I've gotten calls from all over the world. It's been the highlight of my life."

Now both Harold's hands encased Ben's forearm.

"That's sad," Ben said as he freed his arm.

"Delighted to meet your uncle, too, Miss Hale."

Who told him my name? I should have been listed as Mark's guest. I gasped and Ben ushered Harold and me over to the back door.

"Describe the guy pretending to be her relative," Ben said in his patented growl.

"Man in his sixties, short in stature, glasses, balding. Said he was Richard Hale, Alexia's uncle. He walked in with your group."

"Sounds like every other guy here. Get the security team in to review the tapes. Either he's trying to steal a painting or to purposefully upset Alexia. Both are unacceptable," Ben said.

"I'll contact the authorities," Harold said.

"No police until we have an ID. Right now, all we have on him is he crashed the party. And this is the second time he's posed as her uncle."

Ben took my hand and led me outside to the alley.

"Don't worry. Just somebody looking for free food," Ben said.

"He was at my apartment too. Remember Mr. Isler said he met my uncle."

"Alexia, people will say anything for access. Please forget about it. I'll handle it."

Mark opened the car door for me.

"Did Eleanor go home or to another party?" I asked.

"The Reign Bar, she said she didn't want to waste having her hair and nails done on relatives," Mark said.

"My other sister owns the bar, but she and Eleanor pretend they don't know each other. Then Eleanor reports back to Irene anything she overhears the customers say."

"Is she paid to be a spy?" Ben asked.

"With free drinks and fawning males."

I slipped off my shoes in the limo and leaned against Ben's shoulder.

"Harold will triple his commission rates tomorrow," he said, putting his arm around me. "You were a sensation. I watched the men watching you. Close to punching a couple of them, but their wives were quick to do it for me."

"You overestimate my appeal," I said.

"She's kidding, right?" Mark asked.

"No, Alexia doesn't know she's beautiful."

"Well, she's the only one."

"I'm going to try one more time to explain your radiance. There's an innocence about you, but you possess an old soul. Your eyes draw in all the sunlight and reflect it back. In your presence, the world is a warmer sweeter place," Ben said.

"Are you blaming me for climate change?"

"Humility, honesty, beauty, charm, and grace start a list of your best qualities. Alexia, look how many people defer to you. Your sisters adore you, as well they should. You make life more enjoyable for everyone."

We needed a new topic instead of turning the spotlight on me.

"Mark, have you seen any good movies lately?" I asked.

"Nope and he's right."

Ben tried to distract me from my fake uncle. I snuggled closer as worry settled into my gut. I knew the press was interested, but a stalker crossed the line. Ben's hand rubbed my hip, waiting for the genie to appear. I knew what his three wishes would be: too bad we weren't contortionists. His distraction worked on me, however. I craved him.

Ben kissed my nose and then my cheek. I responded by wrapping my arms around his neck and attacking his waiting lips. He deepened the kiss. Mark cleared his throat.

"Am I supposed to be filming this?" he asked.

"Some other time perhaps. I'll carry her in. She might feel like adjusting my tonsils again," Ben said as Mark drove into the garage.

"I can walk," I said, yawning and pulling off the wig.

"Not necessary," he said.

After he deposited me on the bed, he stripped me and proceeded to maul me, too. I needed vitamins or steroid transfusions to keep up with him. Maybe a protein smoothie with lots of whipped cream. On him or on me was my final thought before I conked out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Over the next six weeks, work on the museum never ended. Ben met with the city, builders, curators, publishers, and fund-raisers. Everybody wanted in. I never realized the unabashed popularity of his mother's books. Money poured in. Requests for jobs in the museum arrived daily. He handed much of it to me, shifting my former workload back to his office.

He employed six people to handle his mail and day-to-day life. First, I was mad and now grateful. My email never ceased. The press and everyone else wanted to meet with him. No clear picture emerged of the man masquerading as my uncle. Harold studied the tapes but could never pick him out of the crowd. I never mentioned it to my sisters. No reason for everyone to get upset or, in Irene's case, homicidal.

Ben and I spent our time together discussing exhibit layouts. He had memorabilia and personal items to be catalogued. He gave me the biggest responsibility: sort through boxes of personal material and make a list for him of possible entries.

The boxes took up the dining room, part of the living room, and the spare bedroom.

One night, he came home and found me barricaded in the dining room.

"Find anything good?" he asked.

"Your report cards from grade school. You habitually got good grades in spelling, math, and science. Your penmanship was less than stellar. Helen saved everything. Your drawings of her book characters. They would be wonderful in each room. There are even love letters from your father."

"You're kidding? Are they addressed to himself?"

"I didn't read them. I feel like I'm prying enough already."

"Give me the letters. I need a new source of blackmail." I pushed the stack of bound mail toward him.

"I also found her teenage diary and your baby book."

"I didn't know I had a baby book."

I held it out him. He took it, thumbed through, and found a lock of his hair. He sat down and started reading

"There are photographs of your mother as a child, a wedding picture, and this one."

I handed him a photo of a bare butt baby on a down comforter. Written on the back: Ben 6-5-80.

I tried to keep my composure.

"Go right ahead. Speaking as the person who has seen my backside lately, I take your reaction as an insult."

I exploded with laughter and rolled on the floor.

"I must say I was adorable," he said, holding the picture out to me.

"I agree. Then and now."

I took it back and handed him a sketchpad. Some of the pictures were signed and dated.

"She never realized this stuff would amount to anything. Her little stories made me a multi-millionaire," he said.

"How do you feel about your own collection? Did you ever think you would be an internationally acclaimed artist?"

"No, it further proves some people have good taste, and the rest follow the leaders. I live a charmed life. I don't deny it."

"Do you see your talent?"

"No, I feel it and start painting."

He continued to thumb through the book.

"We were both daydreamers. I would doodle on anything: homework, textbooks, and later tablecloths and napkins. The teachers complained until they met my mother. Then they praised my inherited artistic talents. I was allowed to slide through almost everything: school, the art world, and life because of my parents' notoriety. No responsibility and all responsibility."

He stared off in the distance, immersed in memories.

"Do you want the diary?" I asked.

He took it from my extended hand. The cover had 1971 colored on it. He skimmed it.

"The year they met. I'll read it later."

His voice went hoarse, and he rubbed his forehead.

"Reliving the past can be painful, but the beauty of your mother's talent is awe-inspiring," I said.

"She would have loved you."

He put out his hand. I took it and sat on his lap. The casual kissing grew more intense.

The phone rang, and the answering machine clicked on.

"Alexia, this is Benjamin Cobb. I'm calling for a progress report."

Ben put the phone on speaker and smiled.

"Dad, it's fine. I have a news conference scheduled for next week. The land has been cleared. The foundation has been poured. I want to get as much done before the snow flies."

"I'm impressed. How's our little Alexia?"

He put his finger to my lips.

"Fine, Dad."

"You two could use a break. Why not fly down to Florida for the weekend. Bring the plans for my approval."

"We don't have time."

"You mean you don't want to see Alexia in a bikini on a private beach overlooking a sparkling blue ocean?"

He nodded his head up and down.

"We'll be there Friday."

"Great. See you then."

Mr. Cobb hung up.

"Sun, sand, flesh: my kind of vacation. Plus, I need to show him a few things and sort out some details. Pack light. Bring sunglasses, sandals, a bikini bottom, and lots of suntan oil. I don't want you to burn."

He rubbed my shoulders and neck.

"Will we stay with him or in a hotel?" I asked.

I felt exposed. His father knew we were cohabitating, but to do it in someone else's home was rude.

"His house is gigantic. You won't even see him. It's on the beachfront and gorgeous."

"Will we be sharing a room?" I shifted off his lap.

"There are plenty of bedrooms, if you would be more comfortable alone. Of course I would just sneak in later. We need a break. This would be perfect. He'll leave us alone. I promise." He put his arms around me. "If there's a problem, I'll publish the love letters. He'll be putty in my hands."

"Do you believe your mother loved your father?" I asked.

"I know she did."

"He would enjoy the letters."

"Men are crazy when they are in love."

I nodded. "Pay all expenses; offer room, board, and employment?"

"The Cobb men are a very predictable lot," he said.

"I'll go. I've never seen an ocean."

"Maybe you'll get a peek. I have a different priority."

No kidding, I sat on it.

Three days of the intense Cobb men. His father requested plans and updates on the museum. They would huddle, fight, and decide. What would I do? Sit in, offer an opinion? The very thought made me nervous. My stomach's queasiness didn't help. Nausea became my constant companion since he announced the trip. For the last week, I hadn't felt well. The upcoming flight only intensified it. I sat on the bed to rest, curled into a ball, and slept.

I heard the front door open and flew out of bed to my new porcelain friend. Was there such a thing as quiet retching?

"Alexia, are you alright?" Ben asked, running into the bathroom.
I sat on the floor, trying to salvage my dignity. Didn't work. I leaned back against the wall.

"Flu or what?" he asked.

I knew what but was afraid to say it out loud. It had dawned on me when I woke up. Seven weeks late and I had been too busy to notice. I needed one of those home pregnancy tests, but then I would have to get dressed. Or did the store deliver? A pee-on-the-stick with a case of antacids to go?

"I'm fine. Just a twenty-four hour bug," I said, smiling weakly.

"Do you want anything?"

"No, I'm going to try to sleep."

"I need food," he said as he helped me up.

"Nothing for me thanks. There's leftover meatloaf and potatoes in the fridge."

I'd been making comfort food. Nesting?

He left me on the bed, and I sank down to the pillows. We were going to Florida in three days. I needed to know before then. Not enough time for a doctor's appointment. I had to feel better and go to a pharmacy.

"I don't want to eat what's here. I'm going to run out for a sandwich. I won't be long," he said from the kitchen.