A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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“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.
“We’re off,” Connie said, kissing her mother’s cheek.
“Behave, now,” Kelly admonished.
“Behave? Good heavens, Mother. I want this witch to go wild, have a little fun.”
“She can’t go too wild, and you know it.”
“Why not? I’m buying her the biggest Guinness in the place the moment we get there. But don’t worry, because I’ll be there, protecting her.”
Jillian grinned. Connie was the closest thing to a sister she had. In school, Connie had been a class ahead of her, and from the start, she hadn’t been in the least intimidated by the Llewellyn power, money or prestige. She had allowed Jillian to see the streets of New York, the real streets. They had gotten into a few scrapes, but they had also gotten out of them. Thanks to Connie, she had seen harsh things firsthand: prostitutes on the street turning tricks so they could afford another line of cocaine, AIDS victims dying with no hope, kind priests, rabbis, laymen and women determined to help them.
“You are going to let loose, right?” Connie asked her, angling her dark head in question as she studied Jillian.
“You bet I am!” Jillian teased back.
“You can drink like an Irish potato digger, cuss like my pa, and trust in me to see that you’re okay.”
“Aye, and that I will,” Jillian agreed, putting on the appropriate accent. She was good with accents and loved the theater. She still played with the idea of heading out to audition for Broadway one day.
“All righty, then. Jillian and I are on our way out, Mother.”
“Toast me, ladies.”
“We will,” Jillian promised, as Connie dragged her out the door. They flagged down a cabdriver, who, despite the absurdities rife on the street that night, kept staring at them in the rearview mirror.
“See?” Connie teased. “He’s watching you.”
“Hey, you’re the princess tonight.”
“Sad but true, everyone loves an evil woman best,” Connie advised.
In a few minutes they reached Hennessey’s Pub, down in the Village. Though the place was rocking, it was doing so in the nicest way. The music was loud, but not too loud. The band was Irish-American, playing mostly rock, some folk, all with a wee bit of the Old Country thrown in. Drinks had been flowing, but not to the extent that too many drunks were weaving around. For the most part, the clientele was in a good mood. Many people were in costume, from the group dressed as the different colors of M&M’s to the brawny exercise guru in the Carmen Miranda skirt, bra, sandals and fruit headdress. He greeted Connie by name right away. Connie introduced him to Jillian—no last name—as Sergeant Tip Guyer of New York’s finest. Connie did the introductions, and the