A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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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.
CHAPTER 2
“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,”