Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (18 page)

By Monday, my regular workload had tripled. He left lists of people to contact: his mother's friends, donors, artists, and contractors. Find all the magazine articles profiling Helen and her books. Set up dinners. Attend luncheons. When he got a notion in his head, he became a man possessed.

The days blurred into one another. We lived on takeout food. I'd forgotten how to cook. Every night we sat at the dining room table and sorted through concerns and questions. A new to-do list blended into the old to-do list.

It was Friday or a month later. I wasn't sure which.

"You should take a nap," he said.

A fantastic suggestion, but it had to be delayed because of my workload. I allowed myself to be led to our bedroom and fell asleep before my head touched the pillow. My dream took me to the museum. The entryway glittered, awash with every color. Helen's books arranged with a full-size character by each one. The second and third floors were dedicated to the books themselves. Each one in a featured space. All built to scale. A rubber jeep parked in Jeremy's room complete with tools and a real engine.
Karen's Keepsakes
featured costume jewelry from different periods in history, baroque pieces to a flapper's pearls. Xavier's clock spoke English and Spanish and chimed for passersby
. Sarah's Sandbox
included buckets and shovels. The walls of each room had the entire text of the book written on them. The fourth floor had a story room where the books were read. The children would be invited to act out the stories as well.

It will be beautiful and inviting: a tourist stop, a field trip destination, a family outing.

I woke and found a sketchbook on the end of the bed. A page had been selected and a mechanical pencil was clipped to it. I sat up to get a better look at the picture. Ben sketched my face as I slept. My expression was both serene and sensual at the same time. Now I knew why guys liked kissing sleeping princesses. We held a trace of the mystical and the magic. I would make dreams come true, if my rancid breath didn't maim anyone along the way.

I had never found myself alluring, but now I embodied temptation itself.

Ben strolled in and joined me in bed.

"Do you see me like this?" I pointed at the picture.

"You're ten times better. I like the feel of you pressed against me, your laugh, your joy, your grace. I thought of all of it as I drew. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I want this moment frozen in time."

"People will say this pruny old lady is the same woman?" I laughed at the thought of me being analyzed on a museum wall.

"A plum, but never a prune," he said. "Now slip out of your clothes and pose for me."

I gathered my nerve and started to undress.

"Slow down, baby, I want to watch."

I blushed not out of shyness, but because I knew how this session would end. This time, it wouldn't just be my business card exposed on the floor.

CHAPTER NINE

The rest of the weekend we spent at home making love, writing, and listening to music. Soothing and relaxing. He rested up for the last battle with his father. We edited the museum proposal three times.

The fateful day arrived.

"No guts, no glory," he whispered.

"No blood, no foul," I said.

He faced his condo's front door as if he expected hungry tigers on the other side. He pulled me close and kissed me like it was the last time. We headed to the garage to speed away to our date with destiny.

"I've got some preliminary drawings from some architects. I've contacted a crew to clean up the lot after the demolition. I talked to a publisher who is salivating. He also made a pitch to me about doing a book about my mother or myself," Ben said as he maneuvered the car through traffic.

"A book of your work would be marvelous. Big glossy photographs of the private collection of a genius. So little of your work has been seen. It's a shame to hide most of it," I said.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I'm serious. You're the mystery man. Any glimpse inside would sell."

"I'll have you put it together and write all the reviews."

I frowned as I thought about his paintings at the museum. Models that got paid, but still the look they gave Ben made it clear they would have posed for free. The past was past, and nothing I could do would change it. I needed to grow some and let it go. I tuned back into Ben's observations.

"I need to tend to my coalition. Being wealthy means assembling a team to monitor, to instruct, and to advise. Lawyers, financial planners, accountants, and bankers are all on the payroll. Now I'm adding an architect, not-for-profit consultants, a publisher, and who knows whom. I need all of their expertise and muscle to see your plans through," Ben said as we rode downtown.

"From the papers I've been sorting and typing, I'm piecing together the money pot. There is plenty to fight over," I said.

"No shit. The board consists of five people: me, my father, and three of my father's cronies. My grandmother's family was wealthier than my grandfather's family. She died at twenty-three after delivering twin daughters. Her parents designated my father as sole heir at the ripe old age of five. Girls weren't allowed to inherit directly in the Cobb family. The men knew best," he said.

"Their first mistake," I said.

"You haven't met my aunts. You'd see it's the only part that makes sense."

"Ouch, glad I'm not a woman related to you."

"If we were related, all of our activities would be illegal."

"Then I'm glad I'm a stranger." I smiled.

"Me too. Anyway, all the assets were put in trust for my father. My paternal grandfather, wealthy in his own right, resented the distrust shown by his in-laws. They blamed him for their daughter's death."

"They must have been devastated."

"As I heard it, she was an asset to them, nothing more."

"That's sad."

"My grandfather wasn't allowed to make any decisions regarding the trust. He sued over the fund's mismanagement and won control of it. His talent in investing helped create quite a nest egg. My father learned well from his own father. The adage money makes money is the Benjamin Emanuel Cobb credo. When my parents met, she was nineteen, and he was twenty-nine. They were married three months later. She didn't have a dime. My father put her name on everything he owned," he said as he merged onto the expressway.

"And you got her share," I said.

We didn't inherit anything from our parents, but loving memories. How horrible to benefit from the death of a loved one.

"I'm the chosen one," he said with a hint of regret.

"And humble and modest."

"You can't have everything. I'm the sole owner of all copyrights and royalties of her books. No one foresaw the phenomenon coming."

"We got our set for Christmas. I miss her books."

"Barbary Books went into an eighth printing to keep up with demand. They also went international. In six months, four million book sets had been sold."

"The J. K. Rowling of her day," I said.

"Damn straight. The titles became part of the vernacular. Everywhere people were familiar with each theme and character. Queenie became a popular nickname. Different hospitals around the country noticed that character names were becoming newborn favorites. The increases in Lionel and Yolanda alone were three percent," he said.

"My dad called Eleanor Queenie when we were in junior high. It had nothing to do with the books, but fit her. Your mom must have been stunned by the success."

"And then some. She had influenced popular culture. Mom felt people wanted more of her than she could give. It took a deep toll on her and started the rift between me and my father. I noticed the strain first and took on my father to defend her."

"Your father threatened her?" I was shocked and decided not to like Cobb the Elder.

"Never. He loved her more than life itself, but his judgment clouded by the money. He pressed her to make public appearances. She would be physically ill before them. He assured her it would get easier with experience. Instead, she began to get migraines and then panic attacks. My father and I argued ferociously."

"Poor Helen." I shook my head in sorrow.

"By the time I hit high school, I avoided my father. When I left for college, I never wrote, rarely called, and always had an excuse not to come home. I'm sure I broke my mother's heart. I came home for Christmas at her request. The stone cold stares and silence would continue for three days. Then a hot battle would burst forth for a few more days before I would storm out of the house. The fights were small, petty, and vicious: my hair length, grades, smoking, painting, alcohol, speeding tickets. His treatment of her career became my target." He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"You had nothing to do with your mother's death," I said as I patted his leg.

"I know." He eased and let his fingers loosen their hold.

"And neither did your dad," I said.

"I know. Not til her death did I know the extent of my wealth at her expense. I'm swimming in blood money. My mother's brilliance had made me a multi-millionaire. Her encouragement also made me an artist. I owe her everything. I'm not going to let my father use her again."

Pumped for the meeting, Ben wore his interior armor and sword. No one would lay a glove on him. I played the petrified assistant. The board would agree to all of his terms or be destroyed. Was I his squire or his second? If he fell, would they attack on me? Why didn't I stay in the kitchen, making tombstone brownies and wormy punch?

At the office, we were greeted by the gang of three: Jacob Diller, Richard Barkley, and Lawrence Grist. The three buzzards gave me the once over. I made my way to the window. Unfortunately, it was sealed shut. No chance for escape. Ben only made eye contact with his father.

Benjamin Emanuel Cobb glanced at me and smiled. I shivered and nodded to the older version of Ben. Sparks were ready to fly. The gauntlet about to be thrown between them. Get ready to rumble.

"Son, it's good to see you," he said as he extended his hand to Ben.

"Have a seat. We have a lot to cover today," Ben said as he shook the out-stretched hand.

"I'm all ears," Mr. Cobb said as he picked up the challenge.

The men took their seats as Ben unpacked his briefcase. I had thankfully become invisible. He slid packets to all four of them. The three watched the father's reaction. Mr. Cobb didn't touch it. His stare never left his son.

"What is it?" his father asked.

"The future," Ben said.

"Whose?" Mr. Cobb said.

"Ours," Ben said.

"Enlighten me."

"The Helen Nance Cobb Children's Museum."

"I beg your pardon."

His packet sat unopened on the table. The others viewed the envelopes with intrigue. This would be the final battle. They should be honored to have front row seats.

"It will be built on the land I own near the Art Institute," Ben said.

"You're going to tear down a perfectly good building, then build a museum?" his father asked.

"Yes, dedicated to my mother and her work. It will feature all twenty-six stories, have hands on activities for kids, and workshops for aspiring artists."

"You've never attended a workshop in your life."

"No, I inherited my talent and was nurtured daily by a loving parent. Everything I have and everything I've become I owe to her."

His father laughed, rose, and approached him. Ben's intense expression froze.

"Look in the mirror, boy. You're me. Every inch. Your mother never made a dent in your hide. I'm responsible for your money. I made it for you."

"Off of her back. You forced her to work for you," Ben said.

"I never forced her to do anything. She poured her heart into those stories, and it showed. She is admired by millions and should be. She insisted you get the money. I believe your mother sensed that someday I would disinherit you."

"You don't have the balls. Plus you know I don't want or need your money. Spend every dime. See if I care."

"I'm thinking I should spend it soon. I think your idea is ludicrous and will be an endless pit. I won't allow you to waste her money on a shrine. She would be humiliated. A lawsuit should derail your ridiculous plans." He circled around the table.

Mr. Cobb spoke to the other men who were spellbound. "What say, gentlemen? I've sufficient grounds."

He didn't finish his thought. Instead, he reeled from his son's uppercut to the jaw. I went to his father's aid and was met with a smile. This man was not what I expected.

Ben acknowledged the stunned trio.

"Why don't you boys go powder your noses?"

They scrambled for the door and slammed it hard.

Ben offered his hand to his father who sat on the floor. He pushed it aside as I stood.

"I'm sorry," Ben said.

"The hell you are. You've always had a violent temper. It frightened your mother. Does your little girl know about it?" Mr. Cobb asked as he nodded his head toward me.

I hoped he had forgotten about me. I spotted a box of tissues and brought it over to Mr. Cobb.

"She doesn't infuriate me like you do. As I remember, your temper tantrums were legendary," Ben said.

"I had my temper under control until you came along. Yes, one more thing we have in common, boy."

"Your lip is bleeding." Ben bent down to examine his handiwork.

"I know. Congratulations. A sucker punch and you gave the lackeys something to talk about." He grabbed a handful of tissues and dabbed at his lip.

"I don't mind scaring them."

"How about the fair Alexia?" Mr. Cobb asked as he motioned to me. "As a teenager, all breakable items had to be removed from his room. Ben tended to throw them at the wall after a round with me."

"I'll try to keep him sedated," I said.

He dropped the bloody tissue, took out a handkerchief, and put it to his lip.

"Dad, I don't want a lawsuit. I need your support. The museum will be funded by donations and my trust. It is in the by-laws of incorporation the assets can't be liquidated without majority approval of the board," Ben said.