After the Party

His brows furrowed momentarily. Then, to the woman seated on the left of the reception desk, he said, “This is Ella Sanborn. She’s here to see Elliot.”

“Yes. He’s expecting her.”

“My uncle’s office is the third door on the left.”

The door in question was closed. Ella asked, “Should I knock?”

“Just once and then go right in. If you wait for him to answer, you might wind up standing there all day.”

It seemed rude to barge in, even if she was expected. “You’re sure he’s not busy?”

Chase consulted his watch. “Oh, he’s busy. It’s nearly race time.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” One side of his mouth rose. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest she’d seen him come so far. It softened his features and left her a bit dazzled. It also made her wonder what Chase Trumbull would look like with a full-out grin plastered on his face and amusement lighting his eyes.

“Good luck. Of course you don’t need it,” he said solemnly. At her puzzled expression, he added, “You found that penny in the lobby.”

“I did.” Ella replied with an equal amount of seriousness, even though she was pretty sure that he was teasing her.

He disappeared into the first office, whose door bore a brass plate etched with Chase Danforth Trumball III, Chief Financial Officer.

She sucked in a breath and proceeded to the third door, passing one with a brass plate marked Owen Scott Trumbull, Chief Operating Officer. The nameplate on the third door wasn’t brass. It was bright red, and its white carnival-esque script read, Elliot Trumbull, Purveyor of All Things Fun. In spite of her nerves, she found herself grinning. After she knocked and the door opened, that grin changed into delighted laughter.

Now this was more like it.

It wasn’t an office. It was every young boy’s fantasy, complete with a race track that snaked under, over and around the spacious room’s eclectic furnishings.

“You’re just in time,” said a man teetering on the top rung of a ladder that overlooked the track.

Even though he was older now, she recognized him from the television program. Elliot Trumbull in the flesh. And he was indeed the purveyor of all things fun.

No stuffy business attire for him. He was dressed in a professional racecar driver’s jumpsuit, complete with half a dozen endorsement patches sewn on the sleeves and chest. In one hand, he held a flag; in the other, a bright orange starter pistol. As Ella stood transfixed, he fired the gun into the air—the bullet a blank, she assumed, since it didn’t take out any ceiling tiles—and declared the race under way. On the track, three vehicles about the size of her palm whirred into action.

“They’re sound activated by the pistol,” he told her. “After that, a computer takes over and ultimately decides the race. Care to place a bet on the winning car?”

“Ten bucks on number seventy-seven,” she replied, without stopping to wonder if she had enough money in her purse to cover her wager.

“Why that one?” he wanted to know.

“Because blue’s my favorite color and seven is my lucky number.”

“Sound reasons to pick it then,” he agreed without a trace of his nephew’s mockery in his tone. “I always go with red for the same reason. You must be Ella.”

After climbing down from the ladder, Elliot picked his way over the track to her. She placed his age at late sixties and his weight at one-eighty with most of it centered at his waist. He had a shaggy mustache and a mop of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a decidedly Einstein vibe.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Trumbull.”

She would have shaken his hand, but he took the one she extended and kissed the back of it instead. Make that Einstein meets Sir Galahad.

“Call me Elliot. We don’t stand on formality around here.” His bushy brows pulled together in a frown and he muttered, “At least I don’t. I run a toy company, for the time being, at least. That should be fun, don’t you think?”

“I do,” she agreed.

“Good. At least someone does. Would you like something to drink?” Instead of offering the usual coffee or tea, he said, “My secretary makes the best strawberry malts this side of the Mississippi. Probably the best on either side, come to think of it.”

Ella’s mouth watered at the offer, but she shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“All right. Then, have a seat and we’ll get started.”

The room didn’t have a proper sitting area. Instead, it boasted two white chairs that resembled hollowed-out eggs on clear plastic stands, and a cushioned porch swing that hung from the ceiling on a pair of thick chains. It creaked when Ella sat down and set it into motion.

“Comfortable?”

“Very. My grandmother has a swing like this at her house in New Jersey.”

Elliot beamed. “My grandmother had one, too. I loved that swing. Did some of my best thinking on it as a boy. That’s why I have one here. What do you think of my office?”

She glanced around and couldn’t hold back her smile. “It’s a lot fun.”

“Exactly. Let me ask you something, Ella. Do you think toys are only for children?”

She shook her head. “Aren’t we all children at heart?”

“Not all of us,” Elliot said. Then, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

She glanced over to find Chase looming in the doorway. His expression was one hundred and eighty degrees the opposite of his uncle’s inviting grin. He looked positively grim.

“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you that before this afternoon’s meeting with the board of directors we need to go over some reports.”

“Meetings and reports,” Elliot muttered before hooking his thumb in Chase’s direction and adding in a not-so-confidential whisper, “All work and no play, that one. I guess some good genes skip a generation.”

She bit back a smile. It was impossible not to find the older man charming, even if his humor came at his nephew’s expense.

Chase remained stoic. “It’s important. When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“Oh, it will be a while yet.” Instead of pointing out that they had barely gotten beyond introductions, Elliot said, “The cars are only on their third lap.” Then he whistled softly. “Look at your blue car, Ella. It’s pulled ahead of the silver, but my red one is still in the lead.”

“Come see me when you’re done in here.” Chase nodded politely in her direction.

When he turned to leave, however, Elliot said, “I’d like you to stay, Chase. I value your opinion.”

“You already know how I feel about the party, Uncle.”

“Wake, you mean.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Oh, but I am. Professionally speaking anyway.” To Ella, he said matter-of-factly, “My board of directors thinks I’ve lost my marbles. That’s ironic, don’t you think, given that I make toys for a living?”

“I...I...” At a loss for words, she glanced at Chase.

His cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red. “No one is saying that,” he ground out.

“To my face,” Elliot conceded. “But we both know what is being said behind my back.”

“When I find out who started the rumors we’ll sue them for slander,” Chase declared.

“I will be out of a job by then. Owen is only too happy to take my place. He’s my son,” Elliot informed Ella. “He has the head for this business, but not the heart. That apparently skipped a generation, too.”

“Ah.” She nodded, not knowing what else to do.

To Chase, Elliot said, “The writing is on the wall. Don’t think I don’t know it. I may be slowing down, becoming a little forgetful, but I’m not stupid.”

The older man sounded weary, resigned.

In contrast, Chase’s tone was infused with urgency. “That’s why we need to talk, put together a plan of action before this afternoon’s meeting.”

“All right,” Elliot conceded with a sigh. “But after I speak with Ella. Stay, Chase. Please.”

Chase was too tall to sit comfortably in either of the egg-shaped chairs, so he joined Ella on the swing. His feet remained firmly planted on the floor, bringing the swing to a halt. It was time to get down to business.

Calm. Collected. Confident. She chanted the three words in her head as she exhaled slowly and pulled a small notepad from her purse. She’d jotted down several questions she figured a party planner would ask.

In her most professional voice, she said, “Let’s start with the basics. When do you want to have your wake?”

“Memorial Day would have been fitting, but it’s passed.” He sighed. “What about the weekend before the Fourth of July? We could have fireworks at night.”

Ella might not have planned any parties, but three weeks to prepare seemed doable. Until she asked, “How many guests will there be?”

“Six, maybe seven hundred.”

Her mouth went slack. A party for sixty would have left her panicked. How on earth was she going to pull off a party for six or seven hundred? And in less than a month?

“Uncle Elliot, be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang. What do you say, Ella?”

“Well, the, um, timeline is a little tight for a gathering of that size.”

“You’re right.”

She relaxed until Elliot said, “Let’s push it to August. My Isabella died in August. August twenty-seventh.” His expression dimmed. In a bewildered voice, he asked, “Can it really be three years?”

“I’m sorry,” Ella told him.

“I couldn’t have started my company without her. She was my rock.”

The race cars whizzed past on the span of track that wound under Elliot’s desk. Just that quickly, his attention was diverted. He clapped his hands together, eyes once again bright, and crowed, “My red car is still in the lead! Have your ten dollars handy, Ella. There are only three laps left.” Afterward, he scratched his head. “Now, where were we?”

“The guest list,” she prompted, still feeling dazed.

“Right. Definitely seven hundred. In addition to friends and family, I have a lot of acquaintances in business and the community at large who will want to pay their respects.” He snorted before adding, “And my competitors will want to come and dance on my grave. The media, too.”

“Media?” Chase asked, sounding alarmed.

“That’s right. I plan to invite reporters from several news sources, both tabloid and mainstream. You can’t keep those vultures out anyway. I might as well open the doors and the bar to them. That way, they won’t be circling in helicopters overhead.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” she replied, thinking of her father’s treatment by some so-called journalists. She glanced up to find Chase studying her. Clearing her throat, she asked Elliot, “Do you have a location in mind, then?”

“My house. Estate, I guess is more accurate. It’s in the Hamptons. We could set up tents. The grounds are quite expansive.” He chuckled. “I just happened to think, the name of my estate is The Big Top. What about Three Ring Circus for the theme?”

“I thought the theme was Irish wake,” Chase and Ella said at the same time.

“Right, right.” Elliot nodded. “What if it’s both? What do you think, Ella?”

She nibbled her lower lip to give herself a moment to think. A circus-themed wake for a man who wasn’t dying? For the first time since seeing Elliot’s call, she wondered if perhaps Madame Maroushka had gotten her palm confused with someone else’s.

“Well?” Elliot prodded.

“While there is nothing wrong with a party that has two distinct themes, marrying them can become, um, tricky. That’s especially true when they are so, um, so...different,” she finished, hoping to sound authoritative even if she was making things up as she went along.

“But it can be done?” Elliot asked hopefully.

Uh-oh.

“It can be. But it would take a lot of planning. Months, say, to do it right. Are you willing to wait that long?”

“No.” He sighed.

Ella nearly did, too.

“I suppose that answers that question,” Chase said. He looked as relieved as Ella felt. Then he asked, “May I make a suggestion, Uncle?”

“By all means.”

“If you are determined to have a party, why don’t you go with the circus theme and save the wake idea for another time?”

Elliot scratched his head. “I don’t know. I really want to have a wake. Ella?”

She’d already done some research on wakes. Besides, she had a clown phobia, and was pretty sure any big top-type bash the size Elliot wanted would have to include at least a few of the painted-faced performers.

“The circus theme is overdone.”

“What?” Chase asked at the same time Elliot said, “I should have known.”

“An Irish wake will be very, um, cutting edge.”

Chase gaped at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Really?”

“Really. This is the first one I’ve ever planned,” she added truthfully.

“She should know, Chase,” Elliot said. “She’s the expert.”

Ella worked up a smile that she hoped didn’t reveal her newbie-ness.

“Look, Uncle Elliot, you claimed you want my opinion, so I’m offering it. Throwing a party right now—”

“A wake,” Elliot corrected.

“That only makes it a bigger mistake. Calling it that will feed the rumor mill.”

Elliot shook his head, his expression patient, but still resigned. “I appreciate your input, my boy. Really, I do. But if I am going to be turned out of the company I started, I will do it on my own terms.”

“But a wake?”

Elliot looked every year of his age when he replied, “It’s fitting. What is forced retirement but another form of death for someone like me?”

The whir of the race cars broke the stretch of silence that followed. Elliot’s sober expression brightened when the little vehicles shot into view.

“Ella! Look! Your fortunes have changed. I think you’re going to win the race!”

He hurried over to the ladder, arriving at the top step just in time to wave the checkered flag. As he’d predicted, the blue car marked with number seventy-seven was the first to cross the finish line.

“Congratulations, young lady!” To Chase, he said, “Pay her for me, will you, my boy? Our wager was for ten dollars.”

Chase stood to retrieve his wallet from the rear pocket of his pants. He pulled two fives from his billfold and handed them to her. Afterward, he didn’t return to his seat. He paced to the window, where he stood, arms crossed, back to the room, a quiet yet imposing presence whose mood she could not quite gauge. He wasn’t angry. That much she could tell. Frustrated? Perhaps. But something else was going on.

She did her best to ignore him for the next twenty-five minutes as she culled as much information as she could from Elliot. The task wasn’t easy. The man was full of suggestions for his wake, but he kept going off on tangents. One moment, he was talking about beverages and the next he was relating a story about a fly-fishing excursion in the Rockies, the only common thread between the two being grape soda.

As they wrapped up, they made plans to meet again the following week, by which time Ella promised to have a mock invitation ready for Elliot’s approval, and some menu suggestions.

What did one serve at an Irish wake? Surely the fact that Elliot was so offbeat gave her license to be creative.

“You haven’t discussed the budget,” Chase said, turning back from the window. They were the first words he’d uttered in nearly half an hour.

“Ella can spend whatever she needs to spend. Money is no object,” Elliot replied on a shrug.

A muscle ticked in Chase’s jaw and he shoved a hand through his hair. Every strand fell back into place, except for those caught up in the cowlick. They staged a rebellion and remained erect. Sandra’s claim about men and cowlicks had Ella sucking in a breath.

Chase’s gaze met hers. She swore the air crackled with electricity, almost as if he could read her mind.

“Well?” he challenged.

Her mind went blank except for X-rated thoughts. “Wh-what?”

“How much do you think you’ll spend?”

Money. Right. She would have been relieved, except that she had no clue as to the cost.

“I promise to show restraint,” she replied with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He looked far from reassured. “And what about your fee? What do you charge for your services?”

Her fee? In truth, Ella hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I, um, I charge a percentage.”

“Of what?”

“Of the overall cost,” she told him without stopping to wonder if that sounded reasonable.

“What about a contract? Did you bring one with you?”

“Good heavens, Chase. Stop badgering the young woman.” To Ella, Elliot said, “It’s the lawyer in him, I’m afraid. In addition to his business degree, he has a law degree, too.”

That made him handsome, imposing and apparently too educated for a sense of adventure.

“He has a point,” she told Elliot. “We probably should have something in writing.”

“Why? Did you know I sold my first toy to a store on Thirty-Fourth with a mere handshake?”

“Randy the Robot,” Ella supplied with a smile.

Not surprisingly, Chase was frowning. “That was more than four decades ago. We live in different times, Uncle.”

“Which is too damned bad, if you ask me,” Elliot replied. “I’m a good judge of character. I trust Ella.”

“Thank you for that, Elliot,” she began. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, really, but—“

“Oh, all right,” the older man broke in. “If it will make you both feel better, I’ll put it in writing.”

Chase relaxed visibly at the news. That was until Elliot reached behind him on the desk, tore off a square from the boxed calendar set and scribbled something on its back. He handed the paper to Ella.

It read: I, Elliot Trumbull, being of sound mind and body, promise to pay the delightful Ella Sanborn whatever the heck she decides to charge me for one Irish wake.

His signature was scrawled below it.

It was all she could do not to burst out laughing.

“May I see that?” Chase asked.

She gave him the paper and wasn’t surprised when he let out a soft curse.

After she and Elliot wrapped up their meeting, Chase accompanied her to the elevator.

“I guess you were right,” he said as he pushed the down button.

“About what?”

“That penny you found in the lobby. It really was lucky.” She might have smiled had he not added, “See that you don’t abuse my uncle’s trust.”

Incensed and offended, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “What a waste of a good cowlick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

When the elevator doors closed a moment later, however, she had the satisfaction of seeing Chase try to pat down his hair.

TWO

Chase headed for the decanter of aged scotch the moment he arrived home. It was after eight o’clock and he had yet to eat dinner, but that didn’t stop him from pouring two fingers and then downing them in a single gulp.

The fiery liquid scorched his throat, but did little to chase away the bitter taste in his mouth.

Damn the five members of the board of directors who were being so spineless!

Damn the investors for their lack of faith!

Damn his cousin for being so disloyal!

And damn his uncle for...for...

Chase set the glass on the counter and ran the back of his hand across his mouth.

None of this was his uncle’s fault—even if Elliot seemed to have thrown in the towel.

A wake, dammit. One to which the media would be invited. To Chase’s dismay, what he found himself focusing on was the very attractive woman hired to plan it.

He ran a finger idly around the rim of his empty glass as he recalled Ella Sanborn’s intriguing face, pinup curves and mile-long legs. When his mind threatened to slip into fantasy mode, he forced himself back to the present. Ella was sexy and gorgeous and quirky enough to keep a man guessing what she would say next. But was she competent to handle such a huge job?

She’d fallen into the gravy, he thought, recalling the “contract” Elliot had signed. It was dealings such as this that put the more conservative members of Trumbull’s board of directors on edge. Handshakes and hastily scrawled “contracts” were not how Fortune 500 companies were supposed to do business.

His phone rang as he contemplated pouring himself a second drink. A glance at the caller ID had him considering letting it go to voice mail, but there was no sense prolonging the inevitable.

“What do you want, Owen?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Chase. We’re cousins. We grew up the under the same roof. Do I really need a reason to call you?”

They might have grown up together, but they had never been close.

“You only remember that we’re related when you want something,” Chase replied. “So what is it?”

He heard an exaggerated sigh and then, “I’d hoped to speak to you in person after the board meeting.”

“That wasn’t a meeting. It was a frigging blood-letting. How could you do that to your own father?” Chase’s temper flared anew just thinking about it and his tone turned sharp. “You all but hung him out to dry.”

“No. I was honest with the board when I was asked my opinion of his mental state. When are you going to admit that my dad needs to retire? If he goes now, he goes out on a high note and the company can be saved.”

“For God’s sake. It’s his company!” More than that, Trumbull Toys was Elliot’s life. Chase expected Owen, of all people, to understand that.

“It was his company. Now it belongs to the shareholders.” Owen took delight in adding, “You were the one who convinced him to take Trumbull Toys public.”

A move that had made good sense six years earlier, but one Chase regretted now.

“Then they need to be made to see reason.”

“What they’re seeing are the most recent sales projections. My father...has lost his edge.”

“He hasn’t lost anything.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Owen replied with a hint of sadness in his tone. “He lives in his own little world half the time.”

“It’s called being a creative genius. It’s what makes him so good at coming up with new toys.”

“And so lousy at being a father,” Owen shot back.

“Is that what this is about? Family grievances?”

“I wish!”

“Do you?”

“Look, his memory, his judgment, both have gotten worse since my mother died. When are you going to admit that, Chase? You may not think so, but I’m looking out for the future of Trumbull Toys. Dad needs to step down.”

“He needs...he needs a little help.”

“On that much we agree. Meanwhile, he’s not up to leading the company.”

“He built it from nothing. Without his vision and creativity, there would be no company. How can you side with the stockholders and those board members who believe he should be ousted?”

Chase hated to consider it, but he couldn’t help wondering if Owen might be responsible for the dementia rumors that were only succeeding in making a bad situation worse.

“It’s not personal. It’s business. And it’s a fact, Chase, that Trumbull Toys is no longer setting market trends. We’re following them.”

“I tell you, there’s a leak. Someone inside the company is selling us out to our competitors before our new toys are officially launched.”

It was one of the reasons Chase had tightened up the loose, anything-goes atmosphere that his uncle had allowed to flourish. Chase knew he was viewed as a tyrant as a result. Even his uncle complained that the new policies went too far and took all of the fun out of the office. But Chase wasn’t sure what else to do. He owed it to Elliot to try everything possible to protect the legacy the older man had built.

“There’s no friggin’ leak!” Owen countered, his tone surprisingly adamant.

“How do you explain the fact that Kellerman’s managed to come out with its remote-controlled dinosaurs just two weeks before we did?” Chase replied.

Kellerman’s was their biggest rival in the industry. At one time, its founder, Roy Kellerman, not only had worked at Trumbull, he’d been one of Elliot’s closest friends. They’d parted ways decades earlier after a falling-out that, from what Chase gathered, had been more personal than professional, as it involved his Aunt Isabella. Her funeral marked the first time the two men had spoken since becoming business rivals. Elliot claimed they’d buried the hatchet. If that were true, Chase was pretty sure it had been buried in Elliot’s back, because not long after that Trumbull’s business woes had begun.