Winner Takes All (7 page)

After making several notations in his notebook, Philip looked up at his boss. “Is there anything else?”

“One last thing.” He tossed the folder with the mockups to him. “Which do you like better?”

Philip had already seen the advertisements in several forms—in fact, he’d had a front-row seat to their evolution—so he could answer promptly. “The runway series. I think it’ll make great billboards and will translate well to TV. I was also going to suggest that we do one for movie theaters, to show before the previews. Something eye catching, not our usual style,” he said, before backtracking. “Not that eye catching isn’t our usual style. I just meant something artsy with more jarring elements than we’re used to.”

Cole nodded. “Excellent idea. Tell Orlando and see what he comes up with. And I agree with your choice. We’ll go with the runway series.”

“Great. I’ll do that now,” he said, standing up. “And I’ll let you know right away what I think about Wyndham’s. It’s smaller and doesn’t have the same name recognition as Davidge’s or Brooks’s, but your mother has interacted with the Wyndhams socially and felt compelled to give their firm a chance.”

“Great. Thanks again for helping out with the auction, Philip. It’s not official Hammond Communications business, and I appreciate your going above and beyond.”

He flipped his notepad closed and slid it silently into his pocket. “Not at all. I like working with your mother. She’s a fascinating woman.”

Cole knew his mother, beautiful still at sixty-seven, held a certain attraction for younger men. She was famously known here and abroad for her elegance and her soft-spoken words and for being a deft editor, but those who got to know her recognized a keen intelligence and wicked sense of humor. “You’re not bucking to be my stepfather, are you, Knight?”

His second in command flushed slightly but looked him in the eye. He knew it was better to play along than to deny the accusation. “I don’t think she’d have me.”

Cole was still smiling as Philip closed the door to his office. Left alone, with the most pressing details of his day sorted out, he glared at his telephone. There was no putting it off. He had to call Lucy.

He wasn’t particularly worried that he was breaking Lucy’s heart. They’d only been seeing each other for two months and their relationship had never been serious. Neither one had even hinted mildly at a future together; at best they made plans a week in advance. Still, he knew there would be a scene. Lucy was used to getting her own way and could be petulant when thwarted. That was one of the things that was starting to wear thin. At first, he’d admired her commanding way, but after a while he realized it as the merely entitled confidence of a spoiled child who expected everyone to bend to her will.

Cole didn’t like bending to anyone’s will.

He called her, selfishly hoping she was in Barney’s or The Waverly Inn or the hair salon at Bloomingdale’s—any place where she’d be too embarrassed to make a scene. She would employ her snippy, peevish tone, of course, the one she used with waiters and anyone behind a cash register, but that would be infinitely better than her hurling invectives at him.

As he listened to the phone ring, he wondered why he hadn’t made this call sooner. He had known weeks ago Lucy and he weren’t working. On the face of it she was perfect for him—reared in a wealthy household, educated at the finest schools, accustomed to dealing with the demands of a consuming job—but she was somehow soulless.

Just as he was about to hang up, she answered, breathless and panting. “Cole darling, is that you?”

“Yes, Lucy, it’s me,” he said, mildly annoyed at the way she always answered the phone as if slightly unsure who it was. “Have I caught you in the middle of something?”

“Yes, but not really. I’m just in the middle of my daily jog,” she said breathily. Lucy always ran fifteen miles a day on the treadmill at the gym, rain or shine. “You know I’m never too busy to talk to you.” Still, she didn’t stop jogging. She was breathing heavily and had to talk slowly to keep up with her legs.

Much to his regret, Cole knew Lucy spoke the truth. Although she was a busy woman, she always took his calls. He hated that. There was something very cloying in her availability. Not that he wanted her to
pretend
otherwise. Cole wasn’t looking for a woman who played games. It was just that he often wished that once in a while Lucy would be genuinely too involved in an activity to take his call. She had a life, didn’t she?

Cole knew that on paper he and Lucy made the perfect couple, but he also realized that in itself was part of his appeal to her. And he didn’t like it. He wasn’t a shiny bauble to be shown off at the country club.

“Lucy, I’m going to have to cancel dinner for tonight,” he said easily.

“This is awfully last-minute, darling.”

Cole could practically hear her pout. He hated when she pouted. “Some unavoidable business has come up,” he explained.

“That’s such a shame, darling. If you’re sure it can’t be avoided….” She let the suggestion hang in the air for a few seconds. Cole didn’t bite. “Perhaps I should come by later? For a nightcap?”

Her tone took on a wheedling note, and Cole felt a flash of annoyance. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. In fact, I don’t think our seeing each other anymore is a good idea,” he said, suddenly finding the whole thing very easy. It couldn’t be avoided any longer. He had to do it now. “I think we’re going in different directions.” This was an inaccurate statement as far as Cole was concerned. They had never been going in the same direction. Only Lucy didn’t know that.

“I think you’re being hasty,” she said, her voice even. “Our relationship is mutually beneficial to us both. I don’t see how that has changed.”

“My definition of
mutually beneficial
has changed.”

“Uh-oh. I believe I’m about to be on the receiving end of the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech. How droll.”

Cole had no intention of making any speeches, droll or otherwise. “I’ll have Rutherford send over your things.”

“Cole darling, you’re such a bastard,” she said smoothly.

“Good-bye, Lucy.”

He hung up, leaned back in his black leather chair and sighed deeply. It felt good to get that over with. Lucy wasn’t the right woman for him—not that he was looking for the right woman. He wasn’t quite ready to settle down, but nor was he enjoying casual relationships as much as he used to. The things that had given him pleasure in the past were starting to wear thin. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was his father’s death. Even though his dad had handed him the reins to the company four years before his death, it felt different without him watching over. What he had told Eva was true: He did start in the mailroom. But that was seventeen years ago. He had since proven himself a worthy and responsible heir to the Hammond fortune. Perhaps that was it: He was the Hammond heir and was tired of being liked for all the wrong reasons.

Mrs. Hemingway knocked once and opened the door. “Your mother said yes to dinner. You have a reservation for two at eight at the Blue Water Grill.”

“The Blue Water Grill?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in Union Square.”

“I know where it is. Why there? I said the Four Seasons.”

“Your mother lunched at the Four Seasons and requested a change of venue. I thought the Blue Water Grill would be satisfactory. Shall I have the car brought around at seven-thirty?”

Since the restaurant was thirty blocks away, it would probably take only fifteen minutes to get there. But traffic in Manhattan was always unpredictable. If he arrived early, he’d have a drink at the bar. “Yes, seven-thirty. Thank you, Mrs. Hemingway.”

“My pleasure, sir.” She closed the door silently behind her, leaving Cole alone with his thoughts. He wanted to call Eva and invite her out for dinner tomorrow night but resisted the urge. It was too soon. Their lunch had ended less than three hours ago. Still, the desire to hear her voice was stronand disconcerting. This was a new experience for Cole and an uncomfortable one, and rather than figure out what it meant, he looked through the stack of files on his desk to find something equally consuming to distract him.

***

When Cole arrived at the Blue Water Grill ten minutes late, his mother was already sipping white wine at a table by the window. She was staring at the park with a look of consternation on her face, but when he greeted her with an affectionate kiss on the cheek, her expression lightened. Taking the seat across from her, he examined the restaurant, which was known throughout the city for its delectable seafood. It was nestled in a building that used to be a bank, and Cole liked the high ceilings and bustling atmosphere. Too often he sat down to eat in rarified interiors that were elegant but stifling.

“Mrs. Hemingway chose well,” he said, as he unfolded his napkin. The smells emanating from the kitchen were divine and for the first time in hours he felt his stomach grumble.

His mother handed him the drink menu. “Mrs. Hemingway is a jewel.”

“That’s what Dad used to say.”

“Did he?” she smiled fondly as she remembered her late husband. “I wondered why it sounded familiar.”

Once he’d ordered a scotch on the rocks from the waiter, who promised to return shortly to rattle off a list of specials, Cole leaned back and examined his mother. Dressed simply in black slacks and silk blouse, she was the epitome of stylish sophistication. This was what Loretta Hammond was known for and she had packaged her product well. Throughout the years she had been featured in magazines as diverse as
Vogue, Town & Country, Forbes, New York
and
Ladies Home Journal. Style X
had been her idea and for many years she toiled as its editor-in-chief. Now she had one of those honorary titles like editor emeritus that let her drop in whenever the mood moved her. It was the perfect arrangement and in the year since her husband lost his long battle with colon cancer, it had served as the perfect distraction.

“You’re looking well,” he said honestly. Loretta hadn’t rebounded from her husband’s death. Although she tried not to let others notice, she’d been wallowing in her grief for months. It was easier than facing life without her dear Coleman.

“I’ve been busy,” she said. “It would seem that activity is good for my complexion.”

“How are arrangements for the Fashion Ball progressing?” he said, asking about the annual charity event his mother hosted to raise money for colon cancer research and education. A huge affair that drew socialites and celebrities alike, it was no small feat to pull it together.

“As vexing as ever. I’ve yet to meet a caterer who can follow instructions. I say canapés with cheese and he says canapés with caviar. I’m adamantly against caviar. It’s so cliché. There’s this persistent assumption that rich people eat caviar all the time, as though we put it on top of French fries or ice cream. I can’t remember the last time I had it. I much prefer ketchup on my French fries.” She paused and smiled at her son. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, pleased by the healthy flush vexation brought to her cheeks. “Tell me more. How is the florist this year?” He had been on the planning end of events like this one for many years and knew the trouble spots like the back of his hand.

“Already warning me that she can’t get
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
, which she promised me four months ago. She said something about an early frost in Bahia this year. I didn’t quite follow her conversation because she speaks so quickly. Tomorrow we’re meeting to discuss other orchids that might do in the arrangements. It’s a shame, of course, since I had my heart set on the
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
. It was your father’s favorite flower and I’d like to have them this year especially.”

This was the first Hammond Foundation Fashion Ball to be thrown without the Hammond patriarch. He searched his mind for another problem spot to remove the forlorn look from his mother’s eyes. “Are the designers behaving?”

“They’re like disorderly schoolchildren, as usual. We are engaged in the timeless battle of arranging the order of the fashion show. Every designer wants to go first. If they can’t go first, they want to go last. Nobody wants to be in the awful middle. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. A Gucci dress in the middle of the show raises just as much money as a Gucci dress at the beginning. It’s the same for a Celine corset or a Michael Kors skirt. And I have the numbers to prove it, since we’ve been holding this event for five years.”

“And the photographer?”

“I don’t know why we use the same firm every year. They’re so—” She broke off and laughed at the situation. She would rail off complaints about everyone involved in the fundraiser if he let her. “You’re like a straight man feeding me lines, aren’t you? You know exactly what to say to set me off. Enough of that. Now why don’t you tell me what this dinner is about?”

The waiter appeared suddenly at their side with Cole’s cocktail. “We have several excellent specials today,” he said, before reciting them with his eyes partially closed as if the list were printed on the insides of his eyelids.

After the waiter disappeared, Loretta took a sip of her wine and examined her son. “You were saying…”

“What makes you assume this dinner is about anything? Can’t I have a meal with my mother without having an ulterior motive?”

“Of course. But we did that on Sunday. Now, Cole, what’s on your mind?”

“The Hammond collection.”

“Ah,” she said knowingly. She was well aware that her son wanted her to hold on to the paintings. He believed that her selling them off and giving the proceeds to the Hammond Foundation was rash. He feared that in a few years she would regret her actions. They had talked about this all before, and she was surprised he would bring it up again. As far as Loretta was concerned, it was a done deal. All that was left was the bidding.

“It’s not what you think. It’s not my intention to try to talk you out of it,” he stated quickly. “Unless, of course, you’re having doubts. In that case, I’m willing to take another crack at it.”

“No, my mind is quite made up. Your father is not in those paintings. They’re merely inanimate objects that have to be dusted with alarming regularity.”