A Season of Miracles (4 page)

“Daniel, we don't miss a beat as far as work is concerned. You know that. Joe works for you, and he's a great employee.”

“Sit down,” he told her, indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk.

She sighed and did so. He heard her sigh, and looked at her sharply. “Daniel, no one puts more time into this company than I do,” she reminded him.

“Oh, I agree,” he murmured. “It's as if you're married to it.”

There was a note of bitterness in his tone. Did he think she was trying to make herself the indispensable one?

“Daniel—”

“Never mind,” he said curtly. He thrust his copy of her design for the new cross toward her. “What is this?”

She inhaled, staring at him. “A cross.”

“Yes. It's supposed to be a contemporary design, Jillian. Sharp, hot, contemporary. A look to the future.”

“Yes,” she said, and faltered. “I know.”

“So?”

“I don't know what happened. But—”

“It's a great design. Beautiful. But not contemporary.”

He was right. Definitely right. They'd all been in the meeting, and it had been Douglas Llewellyn himself who had stressed the need to look to the new millennium.

She seldom failed, but she had failed this time. Her voice wavered as she told him, “Well, we can use this in the general line, and I'll just start over.”

“No.”

“No?”

“We don't have time, and this…it's not what we planned, but we can go in another direction. You know. Something like, ‘As we enter the first decade of a new millennium, we welcome the new—and cherish the beauty of our past.' I'm not sure if that's quite right, but something like it. I haven't talked with the old boy yet, but I'm sure he'll go with it.” He was quiet for a minute. “Especially since it's you who designed the cross.”

“Daniel—”

“I just wanted to let you know that we would go with it,” he said, interrupting her. “I'm sure you were aware yourself that it doesn't fit the original concept.”

“Of course.”

He lifted his hands in dismissal. She met his eyes, feeling that she needed to apologize for something. She hadn't done anything, she reminded herself. The design was different from what they had planned, but…

It was also very good.

“Daniel—” She broke off.

His secretary had tapped on the door and now hesitantly stuck her head in. She was a capable young woman, but to Jillian, Gracie Janner had always given the impression of being a doe caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. She had frizzy dirty-blond hair that seemed like a puffy halo around her head, and huge hazel eyes. Jillian was as nice and soft-spoken as she could be to the woman, but Gracie always seemed to be on edge. Nervous.

Afraid.

“Cookies and tea, Mr. Llewellyn,” Gracie said. “Jillian, I believe your tray has been sent to your office, but I can run down and get it—oh, my God, I called you Jillian. I should have called you Miss Llewellyn. Or are you still going by your married name? Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Jillian is just fine, Gracie. I've told you, please, my first name is just fine.”

“Cookies and tea?” Daniel said impatiently. “You brought me cookies and tea?”

“From the Great Pumpkin above,” Gracie said, trying to joke. She was as slim as a saluki, and appeared frazzled. Joking wasn't her forte. Maybe she was perfect for Daniel. He didn't seem to know how to joke anymore, either.

“Thanks, Gracie, but we're finished here. I'll just run back to my own office,” Jillian said. “Happy Halloween to you both,” she murmured as she got up and moved toward the door.

“Um, happy Halloween,” Daniel said. Then, to her surprise, he called her back.

She paused in his doorway.

His voice was slightly gruff when he spoke again. “Go out and have a great night. And remember, it's only Halloween. You and Connie leave some Christmas stuff out there for the rest of humanity, hmm?”

“Will do,” she promised. Her voice was light. But tight, as well.

She was sorry about whatever it was that lay so strongly wedged between the two of them, but for the moment, there was nothing she could do about it.

She had been dismissed.

She hurried back into her own office.

Her tray of cookies and tea had been left on her desk. With a few things to clear up, she poured herself tea. She usually liked milk in her tea, but it had gotten cold, so she just shrugged and sipped it black as she started clearing her desk. She picked up one of the cookies, then put it back down, drawn again to her design for this year's Christmas cross.

What had possessed her?

The design was beautiful. Intricate, delicate. One of the best things she had ever done. But contemporary? Definitely not.

She picked up the cookie again, studying the cross. She leaned low, looking at her own work. It really was so Celtic.

She set the cookie down again. “Am I unintentionally…stealing?” she murmured aloud. “Did I take that off a gravestone in Ireland or a picture somewhere or—?”

She heard the tinkling of a small bell. Jeeves, a big black alley cat who had one day made his way inside and become a company pet, suddenly leapt up on her desk.

She absently stroked his back. “Am I a cheater, Jeeves?” she murmured. “Can't be.” She shook her head and threw the design into her upper right-hand drawer. Once again she stroked the cat, then poured him a saucer of the milk intended for her tea.

“Drink up, buddy. Have some cookies, too.”

The cat let out a mournful cry, looking at her with huge golden eyes.

She smiled. “Excuse me, you're a cat, not a dog. Lap up that milk.”

The cat did so, needing no more invitation. Jillian stroked the animal one last time, making a mental note to leave her office door open.

The litter box was down the hall in Griff's office. Her cousin did, after all, have his responsibilities. Cat food, water—and the litter box.

It had been his idea to keep the cat and feed it. Studies had shown that pets were good for people, lowering blood pressure, making them calmer, more friendly. Eileen had pointed out that cat hair also made many people sneeze.

The cat had stayed. Luckily, no one in the office had been allergic.

“It's all yours, Jeeves,” she said cheerfully.

She was leaving. She glanced at her watch one more time. Taxi or subway? She was due to meet Connie in fifteen minutes.

Feet. She wasn't that far from the coffee shop where they had planned to get together. She would just walk fast. That would be her best bet.

“'Night, Jeeves,” she told the cat.
Happy Halloween. Trick or treat.

She grabbed her coat and her handbag, and exited her office.

The cat, heedless of the comings and goings of mortals, gave no note. It greedily drank up the milk.

Suddenly the animal's body went rigid, then convulsed.

It collapsed by the tea tray.

The body twitched once. Twice.

And then it was still.

Dead still.

“I
didn't think I was ever going to get away this afternoon,” Jillian told Connie when she met her at the little coffee bar off Fifth. She'd been in such a hurry to leave. She had actually gotten here first. But now, out of the office at last, she was beginning to relax. Not even the caffeine in her café mocha could start her blood rushing again.

“You shouldn't have given me the day off,” Connie said sadly, stirring her tea.

Jillian looked at her friend. Connie Adair Murphy was petite, dark haired and blue eyed. Her face was round and always pleasant; she had a dimpled smile, and could be a powerhouse despite her small and cheerful appearance.

“You always take Halloween off. And I don't think anyone could have helped. It was just one of those family kind of days,” she said, rolling her eyes, then grinning.

“They were feisty today, huh?”

“Moody, I think.”

“Over the cross?”

“Only Daniel.”

“What did your grandfather have to say?”

“He didn't come in today. He likes to take Halloween off, too.”

“Are you going to start over? It would be a shame. It's such an outstanding design.”

“No, Daniel says we're going with it. We'll just put a different spin on it.” She looked at her watch. “My God, it's getting late.”

“No, it's not so bad, only three-thirty.”

“It gets dark so early.”

“Doesn't matter,” Connie assured her cheerfully. “I told the girls we'd head out at five-thirty or six. We've got a little time. It won't take long to get home on the subway. We'll just shove anyone in front of us away from the platform. We're fine.”

“If we hustle.”

“So we'll hustle.”

“Let's do it.”

They hustled. And to good avail.

Connie found darling dresses for her daughters. And though Llewellyn Enterprises offered an elegant line of evening wear, they took pleasure in finding the bargains that could be had in haute couture by other designers. They went on to find some fantastic gowns for the season's parties, and there were going to be a lot of them. They would be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Llewellyn Enterprises, and the rounds of activities and events planned for the estate in Connecticut were endless. Naturally Connie, as Jillian's assistant, was included, as was her husband. There were benefits to having both members of the family working for the same business. Connie had met Joe right out of college, during her first year working for Jillian; Joe had already been a rising star in the management division.

At the end of their whirlwind shopping spree, they happened upon a costume shop, with a last-minute sale. Connie was totally incapable of passing a sign that stated—in large black letters—50% Off, Today Only!

“Wow! Will you look at this?” Connie said.

Inside, Connie pulled a costume off a rack and brandished it before Jillian. It was a witch's costume in silk and velvet, decorated with rhinestones. It had a high collar, draping sleeves and a suggestive bodice. It was fitted at the waist, and flowed from there.

“Exquisite,” Connie breathed.

“Buy it. Fifty-percent off,” Jillian suggested.

Connie shook her head sadly. “Too long and too tight for me. But…” She paused and looked at Jillian. “It's you.”

“Me? I'm not wearing a costume. And there's no time. We have to take the girls out. In fact, we need to take them soon.”

“Yes, and I'm going to find a costume. I've decided I'm going to be one of those fun moms, all dressed up like the kids. Oh, look, there—”

Jillian looked where Connie was pointing and saw a large horse's head. “That one? Oh, no, Connie, even if I decide to come with you, I am not playing the rear end of a horse so you can be a fun mom.”

Connie started to laugh. “No, not the horse. I'm going to be a princess, and you can be the witch. The gorgeous witch, I might add. And when we finish the trick-or-treating bit, we'll meet Joe at Hennessey's.” She made a face and shrugged. “It will be fun. You know Joe. He'll take a few pictures of the kids, tell them they're adorable, then leave me to do the candy bit. But he's going to the annual Halloween party at the pub, and he's always telling me to get my mom to watch the kids and join him. We'll do it. We'll get dressed up and go together.”

“An Irish pub for Halloween?” Jillian asked skeptically.

“Why not? It's sure to be filled with pixies and leprechauns and maybe a banshee or two.” Connie cocked her head, looking at Jillian hopefully. “All right, so there are sure to be a few big bad wolves around, as well. Actually, you could use a big bad wolf or two in your life.”

“My life is fine.”

“You can't mourn Milo forever,” Connie said, studying her friend.

Jillian felt another twinge of loss. People still tiptoed around mentioning Milo's name most of the time. Today, though, he seemed in the forefront of her mind, and she reminded herself again that she had married Milo Anderson with her eyes wide open. She had known about his cancer. He had tried to talk her out of marriage on the basis that she pitied him but didn't love him. She had insisted, though. Because he had been wrong. She had loved him very much.

Even more than Connie, he had been the best friend she'd ever had. Maybe she hadn't been
in
love the way it was in movies and romance novels, but she wasn't so sure she wanted to be in love that way. Loving Milo had hurt enough.

Neither all the king's horses and all the king's men—nor all the Llewellyn money—had been able to stop the growth of the disease. Milo had died almost a year to the day after their wedding. Almost a year ago now. No one in her family ever told her, “Well, you knew it was bound to happen,” and for that she was grateful.

“I'm not going to mourn Milo forever. I'm glad for the time we had together, glad for what he did for my life, glad for what I was able to do for his. But it's not as if I've been wasting away for years. He hasn't even been gone a year. I don't go out a lot because I'm busy. I—”

“You need a life. And I happen to know that you refused a get-to-know-you with Robert Marston for this evening, when your grandfather suggested it.”

“And how do you know that? It wasn't even a real suggestion.”

“You poor innocent! Word is all over the company. You know we love to talk about the bosses.”

“I'm not the boss.”

“Your grandfather wants you to be.”

“No, he doesn't. He doesn't want to let go of the reins while he's living, and I don't think he should.”

“He knows he's not going to live forever.”

“It's a huge operation. I'm in design, not business. I don't want the headaches of everything my grandfather has his fingers into.”

“A few of your cousins would be happy with the reins.”

“I'm sure they would be.”

“And they all despise the fact that Douglas has hired Robert Marston. They hate him.”

“They don't hate him. He's an intelligent man, a top-notch businessman, and he'll be great for the company.”

“I bet they think your grandfather brought Marston in to marry you and create a new dynasty.”

“Connie! How ridiculous. This is the twenty-first century. That's archaic.”

“Archaic, schmaic. I think it's what's up. And I think a few Llewellyn noses are going to be out of joint.”

“Connie, I'm not marrying Robert Marston. I'm not dating him. I haven't had a business lunch with him. I haven't even been close enough to him to really see his face.”

“There hasn't been time yet.”

“Connie, come on. We're not a dynasty—and we're not going to rule New York fashion design and marketing together. You know I would never marry anyone for business reasons. I can't believe anyone would think such a thing.”

“Jillian, look at the facts. Suddenly, when you're…when you're getting accustomed to the fact that Milo is gone, your grandfather brings in a handsome, powerful,
unattached
businessman. Out of the clear blue.”

“The company has gotten huge.”

“Marston isn't working under Daniel, is he?”

“No, he's—”

“Aha!”

“Connie, I'm not in a position of power. You know that. So an alliance with me wouldn't get him anywhere.”

“You have your vote. And most people do see you as the natural heir to the company.”

“Eileen is a grandchild, too.”

“Yes, but Douglas dotes on you.”

“It just appears that way because I was orphaned very young and I grew up with him. But I don't want to run the company. Why would I? It's huge, and I'm happy to share the legacy with the family. Please, are we buying costumes or not?”

Connie sighed. “I'm dying to dress up. But only if you will, too. Will you buy that outfit? It would look gorgeous on you.”

“I…yes. I guess.”

“We'll have fun. I promise. Let me call my mom and tell her she's definitely staying on, that we're going to go and meet Joe. Don't look at me like that. I won't talk shop anymore, I promise. We'll have fun, fun, fun.”

It did turn out to be fun. They dressed up at Connie's apartment in Chelsea, went with the kids to the Safe-Haunt party arranged by one of the churches, then took the candy-laden kiddies back home, where they excitedly told their baby-sitting grandmother everything that had gone on. Kelly Adair, Connie's mother, oohed and aahed over the two women's costumes, and got into the fun by helping with glitter makeup. Jillian admitted that she was having a terrific time; she so seldom had a chance just to play this way. She worked constantly, went to charity dinners, plays, the opera and political fund-raisers. She almost never got a good night out at a pub or spent time with friends for no reason other than to have fun.

Connie called her the oldest twenty-six-year-old she knew and teased her that she needed to have a good time before moving to a retirement home, where she would get her kicks out of watching reruns and waiting for grade-school children to come and sing Christmas carols. But Jillian knew—instinctively, and due to the fact that it had been pounded into her all her life—that she was a Llewellyn of Llewellyn Enterprises; she had a responsibility to uphold, as did all the family. Once her grandfather had entertained dreams about her father going into the White House. He'd become one of the most popular senators ever to be elected to public office, but then he had dropped dead. An aneurysm had felled him at the age of forty-one. That was when she had really come to love her grandfather. She had watched him swallow his own grief and anguish to console her.

She understood that she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but when people called her lucky all the time, she wasn't sure why. Luck wasn't money. She would have traded every dime in the family coffers to have her father back. Connie told her that it was worse to be in agony
and
broke, and she guessed that must be true, but she felt it was more than enough that she'd lost her mother and baby brother in childbirth, and then her father. She had been raised in a huge, cold house and a huge, cold apartment—though not by a cold man. She adored Douglas Alexander Llewellyn. At the age of eighty-five, he remained the iron-fisted, tough-as-nails ruler of all he surveyed.

But it had never been fear of him that had made her work so hard, take such care in school, or behave with complete responsibility at all times. She loved him. She wanted to please him. And though she loathed politics, she did want to do her part to change the world. Douglas had taught her about giving back; Connie had shown her why she must do so.

“Jillian,” Kelly said, bright blue eyes sparkling, “I have never seen you look lovelier. Not even in all those chic gowns you own.”

“She's a vamp,” Connie said with a laugh. “We look okay, Mom? I mean, how about me? Your daughter, remember?”

“Cute as a button,” her mother said.

“Cute? I want to be sultry. Stunning.”

Kelly laughed. “Your husband adores you, and you're devastating. You're both devastating—in fact, I'm afraid to let you go out to that pub.”

“Just Hennessey's, Mom. And Joe will be there.” She looked Jillian up and down and angled her head in thought. “Though, come to think of it, we may pick up every sodden Irish-American—hell, every sodden man of any nationality—but what the hey, you only go around once, right?”

“Well, off you go, then.”

They kissed the girls good-night. Tricia was five, and Mary Elizabeth, or Liza, was the baby at four. The excited little girls raved over Jillian's costume, and as she kissed and hugged them, she found herself loving the clean, baby-powder scent of them in their jammies. They were such a wonderful part of real life, and one day she wanted something as wonderful as what Connie had: a cozy little apartment and people all around her who loved her, really loved her. Family. True, she had a family, but it wasn't the same as having a husband who'd chosen to love her and children born of that love.