A Season of Miracles (8 page)

“Tarot card reader,” Connie corrected.

“What?” Daniel demanded, incredulously.

“She started screaming that Jillian was a witch.”

“Well, I'm sure we've all called her a name or two along the way,” Griff drawled.

“It was spooky,” Connie informed them firmly.

“Yeah, it was kind of uncanny,” Joe agreed, setting his hands on his wife's shoulders. “Then Marston appeared—”

“Robert Marston showed up at the bar?” Daniel asked sharply.

“And Jillian passed out?” Griff said, brow furrowed as he tried to understand the chronology of events. “Because of
Marston?
”

“No…no…” Connie murmured uncertainly.

“It was the bar, I guess,” Joe said.

“The bar or the beer?” Daniel asked.

“She wasn't drunk,” Connie told him.

“The fortune-teller made her think she was a witch?” Griff asked, as confused as his brother.

“No…but I…” Connie began.

“I don't think we should let her find Jeeves like this,” Joe said flatly. “She loved that cat.”

“She loves anything with fur,” Daniel commented.

“Is that true of her men, too?” Griff asked Connie, teasing.

“Griff…” Daniel began warningly.

“Hey, she's coming!” Joe alerted them, stepping in and closing the door. “She's on her way down the hall.”

Griff quickly slid the dead cat behind his back. Connie rushed over to him, standing behind him so the dead cat was fully hidden.

“The tray of cookies is still there,” Daniel muttered.

“I'll just grab it,” Joe volunteered.

When Jillian stepped into her office, it was more than weird. Connie and Griff were standing to one side, were very close to one another, looking like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. A very guilty Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

Daniel was standing by her desk, Joe beside him, looking like a butler, last night's tray of cookies and tea in his hands.

“Good morning, Jillian,” Joe said brightly.

She frowned. “Good morning, Joe.” She looked around her office again. “Daniel, Connie, Griff,” she said, greeting each of them in turn.

“Morning,” Connie said.

“Good morning, Jill,” Daniel murmured.

“Ditto,” Griff told her.

They were all staring at her.

“Okay,” she said. “What are you all doing in my office?”

“Meeting,” Daniel said.

“I stubbed my toe,” Connie said.

“She stubbed her toe,” Joe repeated. “And screamed.”

“Yeah. She screamed. We all came running,” Griff told her.

They were still staring at her.

“Are you all right now?” she asked Connie.

“Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be all right?” Connie said.

“Your toe,” Jillian reminded her.

“Oh…I…yes. It's fine now.”

“So what about this meeting?” Jillian said.

“What?” Connie said, frowning.

“Meeting. Didn't you say you were here for a meeting, Daniel?” Jillian asked.

“Yeah.”

“About what?”

“A quick meeting. Just to say that, uh, we're definitely going with the Celtic cross.”

“You told me that yesterday.”

“Yeah, but…there's also an ad campaign we need to discuss.” He looked at his watch. “Can't now. Have to be in a marketing meeting in two minutes.”

“But—” Jillian began.

“Marketing. That's me,” Griff said.

“Since when have you actually bothered to attend a meeting?” Jillian asked.

“Today. It's an important one.” He was walking toward her door.

Backward.

And Connie was going with him.

“I'll get some coffee,” she said, smiling in response to Jillian's confused frown.

“And I'll get rid of the tea,” Joe said cheerfully, rushing out, the tea service rattling.

“Marketing,” Daniel said, sounding ridiculously awkward, not at all like his usual assertive self. He followed Joe, passing by Connie and Griff—old Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum—who nearly crashed into one another in their haste to exit her office.

She watched them go, then walked around to her desk and sat, still staring at the door. She groaned aloud and dropped her head into her hands.

The tarot card reader.

The nightmare. The feeling of burning…

And now her family and friends being entirely bizarre.

Like Alice, she might as well have fallen down a hole.

Her world was going mad.

T
here
was
a meeting that morning. At eleven a.m., Jillian found herself in the conference room with her grandfather and all her cousins.

It was a family affair, except that Robert Marston and the artist who'd created the sketch Eileen and Theo had discussed, Brad Casey, had also been invited.

Jillian had heard—via Connie, who had heard it from Daniel's secretary, Gracie Janner—that Douglas, Theo and Daniel had already met earlier. Now the whole family had been brought together.

She didn't think her grandfather had been planning on this meeting earlier. She'd seen him briefly at the breakfast table that morning, since he'd been finishing up when she'd come down. He looked good—even at his age, he was tall and straight as an arrow—but there had been concern on his features when he'd poured milk over his cornflakes and said, “I heard you had a bad dream last night.”

“Halloween. I guess I'm still impressionable,” she had tossed back lightly.

He hadn't pressed the point, which had worried her a bit.

Now, he was staring at her down the length of the beautiful hardwood conference table. “I guess everyone knows what's going on here,” he said, watching her. “Except for you. And Robert.”

She looked around uneasily, feeling a strange sense that maybe everyone really had gone mad and she had been brought here to be told she was to marry Marston or else be thrown to the wolves—whatever form of wolves still lurked in Manhattan, that is.

She didn't doubt that there were many.

“Douglas, I—”

“It's about our next ad campaign.”

“What?” she breathed, feeling instantly at sea. Whatever he was getting at, it was nothing she'd been expecting.

“I have to hand it to Eileen and Theo. They saw the possibilities first.”

“I'm sorry. I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

“Neither do I, Douglas. What's up?” Marston asked.

He was seated to her left. Cool, smooth, impeccable. A powerful, neatly manicured hand wrapped around his coffee cup.

“Brad, show the sketches, please.”

Brad Casey was a nice guy. Tall, slim, with thinning, long blond hair, he had a gift for taking a spoken concept and translating it onto paper. He flushed uncomfortably as he rose from his position at the far end of the table and lifted the cover from an easel. Jillian gasped.

He had drawn her. In an incredibly flattering way. She was sure she was far more electric in his sketch than she had ever been in life. She was looking at a man, her eyes alive, conveying a warmth that seemed to come from the soul, as he fastened a locket around her throat. The entire image was stunning. It captured something more than the giving of a special gift to a special person. It seemed to evoke the very essence of two people together, living for one another, understanding the gift not so much of a locket, but of love. The very best, and most tender, of human emotions.

“Wow. That's—that's outstanding, Brad,” she said softly. “And extremely flattering, by the way. Thank you.”

She made sure to add the last. He was a brilliant artist, but never really convinced of his talent. A capable man, but often very shy.

His flush deepened.

“Well, of course, it is idealized—” Eileen began.

“Jillian glows,” Daniel said.

“Just like Rudolph's nose,” Griff said cheerfully.

The others stared at him.

“Show the next sketch, Brad,” Douglas advised, breaking the silence.

Brad flipped the page. This time, it was a beach setting. She stood by a palm tree. Branches and fronds dipped over her head; the ocean rolled ahead of her. It was dusk, hues of incredible beauty captured on the page. One hand was on the tree, the other reaching for the man coming toward her.

She almost choked.

It was Robert Marston.

She couldn't look at him. She felt deeply humiliated, as if he had been paid to come here—for her.

“Grandfather, did you—”

“No. Brad admits to using you as his model, but he didn't know Robert, so that likeness is purely coincidental,” Douglas informed her.

Marston was studying Brad with his fathomless dark eyes. “Quite a coincidence,” he commented.

“Yes, sir,” Brad said. His eyes touched Jillian's. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. We usually hire models, though we've been doing more and more on computer lately, but when I heard what type of feeling they wanted…really, it was me. Just me. And I'm truly sorry.”

It was an incredible speech for Brad Casey, who looked even more desperately miserable than she felt.

“No, no, Brad, what you did is…incredibly flattering, as I said. I'm certainly not angry with you.”

Douglas leaned forward, hands folded on the meeting table, powder-blue eyes steady on hers. “We think it's incredible. An accidental piece of genius. What better way to promote Llewellyn Enterprises than with a real Llewellyn? We want to make this the centerpiece of a major campaign. Naturally, though, it has to be all right with you. And Robert.”

“They're wonderful sketches. And if you think that they'll increase sales, by all means, use them,” she said, though she still felt shaken by the power of the art.

“It's more than that, Jillian,” Eileen said, sitting forward. “You'd have to be really out there.”

“Really out there…how?” she enquired.

“A campaign, Jill. We want to do a campaign. We want to do some stills, maybe some TV ads. Theo was the first to see it. The sketches are just the beginning.”

Jillian must have been looking at Theo blankly, because he added, “We're hoping to get you on some of the talk shows.”

“What do I have to talk about?” she asked.

“The company. We can increase our Christmas sales, and by doing so, we'll be able to increase our charitable donations. We'll even do a special campaign, something for the children's hospital you support.”

Theo, she thought, was really trying to talk her into it. She wasn't sure she shared his enthusiasm, though. She wasn't convinced that her image would sell more jewelry or improve sales at all.

“We can focus on your piece this year. We haven't worked it all out yet,” Douglas said. “But the campaign will have something to do with the timelessness of beauty, relationships, the human need for love and permanence. And a full ten percent of each sale will go to charity.”

Marston leaned forward before she could speak. “Don't you think we might be putting Jillian in danger by making her so well known?” he enquired, not quite sure why the fear loomed so large in his mind.

“Danger?” Eileen exclaimed.

“All our images have already been out there,” Daniel said. “For Douglas's last birthday, family shots ran in a number of national publications.”

“And the press was all over Jillian last year when Mi—” Eileen began, then broke off.

“When Milo died,” Griff ended quietly.

“There was a tremendous amount of press then. Especially in the city. You must remember,” Theo told him.

“Anyone with money and influence stands in danger,” Douglas said, breaking in at last. “I see your point, Robert. But I also believe that what the others are saying is true—we've all been out there many times. Our faces are certainly recognizable. I've always had the best and most up-to-date security on the house, and the company that handles this building is top-rated. From the richest man to the poorest, no one is safe from random acts of violence. We need to be smart. But I have always refused to live like an ostrich. I came from nothing, and I was blessed to create this empire—a small empire, but an empire all the same. I like this campaign. It gives back, and it shares the spirit of the season.”

“That's another point. Most Christmas ads are already ready to run, and ours are no exception. Marketing strategies have been carefully put into place—”

“Yes, but we all know ads can be pulled, changed. And TV time is always available. We've got power, and they get cancellations.” Douglas turned to Jillian once again. “Jillian, the decision is yours. Though, I would like us all to be in accord.” He looked at Marston as he spoke.

Marston shrugged, deep blue eyes on Douglas, his jaw set. “Just for the record, I still think it's dangerous.” He turned to Jillian, his gaze suddenly hard. “It's you. You should object.”

She couldn't bring herself to agree with him, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't that he had done anything to her, or been rude to her in any way.

On top of that, she wasn't fond of the idea herself. In truth, for some reason, it made her nervous.

But she wasn't about to agree with him.

“If you all think it's good, then we'll go with it,” she said.

She didn't realize that they had all been leaning forward, looking at her, until they all leaned back, relaxing.

“I told you that she was Miss Llewellyn Enterprises,” Eileen said. She was smiling as she said it. No sting intended.

“We'll take a vote,” Douglas said.

All hands went up. Except Marston's.

“We were hoping you'd agree to do the campaign, too,” Daniel told him. He pointed at the second sketch. “That is you to a tee. And the man in the first one could be you, as well.”

“You would be perfect,” Eileen said with a sigh. “I'm so sorry you don't feel the same.”

“Oh, I'll do it,” Marston said, leaning back with a shrug. “I disagree with the entire thing, but I've been outvoted. So I'm your man.”

“I'll call for coffee, and we'll bring in the staff,” Douglas said. “Let's get started now.”

His longtime assistant, Amelia Yancy—silver haired, sharp-tongued and nearly as old as he was—was the first to arrive. Coffee and pastries were arranged, the room filled, and the planning began.

And through the entire meeting, Jillian felt Marston at her side.

It wasn't an easy feeling.

 

Robert Marston gave his last instructions to the young temp who was doing his clerical work until he had the time to find a permanent assistant, then sat at his handsome desk in his handsome office. He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an excellent view of the Manhattan skyline and idly tapped his pencil on the desk.
Why the hell had Douglas Llewellyn brought him into the company?
He had no lack of confidence; he'd worked his butt off through school and done very well at Hydro-Tech, his previous employer, but the point was, Llewellyn Enterprises wasn't lacking for leaders. Why had old Douglas been after fresh blood?

The campaign they had decided on was good. Excellent even. But he still didn't agree with it. Douglas was going to parade his granddaughter in front of the public for the benefit of the company, whether it would be personally beneficial to her or not. That didn't alter the fact that the campaign was good, ingenious, and it would also benefit charity. It was important to Douglas to give back to the country that had truly been the land of opportunity for him. Robert had learned that Douglas never walked by a bum in the street, he always gave a down-and-outer at least a buck. He had caught Robert studying him once when they were walking along Fifth Avenue, and he had shrugged and said, “You know the old saying, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.'”

Robert had felt a little jaded. His own parents had brought him up with a sense of responsibility for his fellow man, but he donated checks to known institutions and he used them as tax deductions.

After that walk with Douglas, he'd found himself handing out cash. New York gave a man plenty of opportunity. Just the other day, he'd given money to a woman down in the Village, who then had leapt up and kissed him. He'd thought she was about sixty. At closer glance, she was about thirty. “I really do have a little kid to feed, mister,” she had told him. He'd believed her, then given her another twenty.

So had he come here just because he admired Douglas Llewellyn? Or because Llewellyn had intrigued him with his offer—and his strange honesty at the end of their final interview? Granted, the salary and shares had been hard to refuse. But the job he'd left had been darn good, too. And despite having a vote on the board here, he was still an outsider. There were few other businesses like Llewellyn Enterprises, so big—and still family owned and operated. There had been a few insinuations, of course….

And more than insinuations. There had been that last interview before he'd accepted the position.

“I worry. I worry sometimes because we are all family,” Douglas had told him. He had shaken his head. “Family. In all the world, there's nothing so important. I've felt that way all my life. I sometimes feel even now as if we're still in the last century, and I'm just a dreamer sitting on a stone wall in Dublin, swearing I'll change the world. Family is everything, but you know, back there, back in the old country, I saw a father tar and feather his own daughter, and a mother turn from her own son. Over religion, politics…money. That's what it boils down to, eh, money. Family can be damn scary, son. I fear…”