Sparring Partners (25 page)

Reed didn't have a clue how much money Lily
dropped on clothes that Reed had nowhere to wear, there were no
tags on any of it. Lily insisted that she try on sample after
sample of everything from underwear to capes and hats. Reed was
then pinned, poked, and stretched until the team of people doing
the poking and prodding was satisfied with the fit. Reed was able
to tell the end of the horror was near by their grunts. The
finished garments were to be sent to Lily. Reed had yet to see
anything Lily picked for her, but she'd easily tried on enough for
ten fussy women. She'd even shucked her way into some designer
jeans that were a mile too long and a half diaphragm of air too
tight, at Lily's insistence.

In the short time she'd spent with Lily,
Reed learned that the fastest way around Lily was to give in. All
of these thoughts rushed through Reed's overworked brain in the
five seconds between seeing Lily's man at the door and actually
opening the door and forcing a welcoming smile. It wasn't his fault
that her confidence dissolved in less time than Jell-O in July,
especially when it came to her relationship with her husband and
his family. He was just the messenger. She needed to kill the
message.

Loki came out of the bushes and wound
herself around the man's legs, purring loudly enough to be heard
through the door. He couldn't be all bad. Loki was very good at
smelling a rat.

Reed opened the door. "Good morning."

The man tipped his hat.
Who wore a hat
this time of year?
"Morning."

"Any chance you've got the wrong house?"

The man smiled and bent to stroke Loki's
ears. His sky-blue eyes twinkling at her as he said, "No Mrs.
Mohr-Bennett, I've got the correct house. Correct woman too." He
handed her the invitation.

Reed hesitated a moment before taking the
gilt trimmed, hand painted envelope addressed to:

Mrs. Reed Mohr-Bennett

She looked at the envelope, trying not to
touch it with more than her fingertips. She didn't want this. She
really didn't. Reed looked from the envelope to the impeccably
dressed, still smiling, gray-haired man who delivered it.

"What's your name?" She asked.

He seemed taken back by her question. Loki
stopped purring and looked at her, head cocked to the side as if to
ask 'why do you need to know'?

"Thorson, ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr. Thorson for delivering this.
I'll put it right where it needs to go."

"It's just Thorson, ma'am. No 'Mr.'"

"Well then, thank you, Thorson."

Reed moved to close the door, she couldn't
wait to toss the invitation into the trash, unopened. Thorson
stopped her by clearing his throat in a
polite-but-not-to-be-dismissed kind of way.

"I'm instructed to inform you that tossing
that envelope in the trash won't do you any good. One of these is
being delivered to each member of your household. I'm also to
inform you that Jordon's self-proclaimed ex-fiancé` will be in
attendance, and his wife is expected."

Reed gritted her teeth through what she
hoped was a neutral smile. "Is that the same woman who insisted on
waving all those diamonds in my face in New York?"

The man's smile turned from polite to one
tinged with real working class empathy. "One and the same, Mrs.
Mohr-Bennett."

Well at least the 'ma'am' was gone. He was
starting to make her feel she was in her dotage.

"It's Mohr,
Mr.
Thorson. Reed
Mohr
." Thorson grinned at her, and Reed knew she'd made her
point.

"Some friendly advice Ms. Mohr?"

"Sure. I don't seem to be doing so well on
my own."

"
Mrs. Bennett, or even Mrs.
Mohr-Bennett
will have an easier time this weekend than
Ms.
Mohr
will. I suggest that you bring her out to play, if only
for the weekend." His voice was soft and his eyes open and
friendly. Reed understood he was trying to help her, the same way
she gathered life as she knew it was about to be torn apart.

"Thanks. Really. I appreciate the advice,
but I have no intention of going to Lily's party."

The man smiled, tipped his hat to her again,
and walked away, Loki bouncing around his feet.

It took the time for her to walk to the
kitchen and open the door under the sink, where she kept the
garbage can, until Thorson's choice of words sank in. He said
'weekend'. Twice. Reed stared down at the heavy paper she had yet
to throw away. It was hot in her hand and getting heavier by the
second.

She flipped it over and opened the golden
seal with a giant LB embossed on it. She pulled out the inner
envelope and a handwritten scrap of lavender scented paper fell
out.

Family dinner is Thursday at seven. Guests
will arrive Friday for your reception. I have your wardrobe here,
darling, so you need only bring your family, and of course my son
who seems to forget he has a family. I'm sure you'll have an easier
time than I have of reminding him.

Thorson has contracted a team of animal and
botanical specialists to care for your animals and the grounds in
your absence, so, as you can see, there is no reason for you to be
concerned about staying with us for a few days.

Lily

P.S. If you are not here by five-thirty for
cocktails I shall send Thorson with a car. I assume the
tranquilizer gun will not be necessary, but I've stocked up on
extra cartridges and have insisted Thorson practice twice a day
since we met, so don't be late.

Your loving mother-in-law ~ Lily Bennett

Reed crinkled up the sheet of paper.

Late?

A few
days
?

Reception
? When did dinner become a
reception
?

And a
tranq
gun? Come on.

"That's probably not the best way to
introduce your daughter-in-law into polite society, Lily." Reed
said out loud.

Not to mention way over the top, even for
Finn, who'd pulled some doozies over the years, including
kidnapping the dean of the law school when Reed's student loan
hadn't cleared and she was put on suspension for a week. That was
until Finn wined, dined, threatened, cajoled and
God-only-knows-what-else until the dean saw 'the light' as Finn put
it. But Finn got the concept that felonious bullying, commingled
with charm, didn't always work, and most of the time was just plain
wrong. She only pulled that skill set out when she'd exhausted all
others.

Lily Bennett wielded the felony blade with
the consummate skill of a samurai master. No remorse, just deadly
accuracy. All poetry, art and love one moment, and able to deliver
the death blow the instant that course of action proved more
expedient.

Lily Bennett was one dangerous lady.

"Tranq gun, my Irish ass." Not much of an
argument. No good for defense either, if Reed was honest, but there
it was. There were moments when the best she had was her wits and
her thick Irish hide.

Welcome to Clan Bennett.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

In complete control, pretending control

with dignified authority, we are
charlatans.

Or maybe just a goat's-hair brush in a
painter's hand.

We have no idea what we are.

Rumi~ 13th Century

Three white maned giants came lurching
toward him at what looked like a forty mile per hour lope. "Damn
those dogs are fast."

"Don't swear. You'll scare the fish."

Jordon looked down at the frail woman in the
wheelchair who'd been gamely sitting beside him catching nothing
for the past three hours.

"I'd say you already scared them, but that
wouldn't be very gallant of me."

Irma grinned at him, red-rimmed green-blue
eyes twinkling up at him. "No it wouldn't."

She was tired and it showed. In his
excitement to spend the morning doing nothing particularly
productive, other than casting a line with a friend and listening
to the crickets, he'd misjudged the toll a day out in the sun and
the air placed on her.

"I think we should pack it in for the day,
old girl. What do you think?"

Irma looked toward the house and the brace
of rapidly approaching deerhounds. Her expression lightened to the
point of almost glee, but Jordon couldn't figure out what would
cause that reaction. Some of the tiredness seemed to escape her as
Irma visibly lifted her shoulders and handed Jordon her pole.

"I think the chickens have come home to
roost and the hounds are calling."

"Next time we come out here, you're wearing
a hat. And sun screen."

"You're obtuse, not stupid, boy. Pay
attention."

"I am paying attention. You're not making
any sense." Jordon said winding up the excess line on both poles so
he could get them and Irma back to the house without sticking
either of them with fish hooks. He was looking down so he didn't
see Reed chasing after her dogs, who stopped at the edge of the
bank, right next to the pier, and waited for her.

"You've spent the past few days running from
your wife and the hash you've made of your life. Buried in those
facts and figures, making phone calls all day, sending
e-mails...running...running...running, that's all you know how to
do. Don't you think it's time to stop playing Monopoly and grow
up?"

Jordon jerked his head up and jammed the
pole he'd been working on into the holder next to the wooden bench
with enough force to break it, but it remained intact.

"
Monopoly
? Is that how you see what I
do all day? Do you think brokering billions, securing the best
corporate assets, and selling those that are no longer cost
effective to hold is a
game
?"

"It is for you." Irma said, with a calm tone
that made Jordon want to choke her.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten, in
Japanese. Then in Burmese. And once in French because he liked the
way it sounded in his head. When he opened his eyes Irma was still
sitting there, calmly assessing him as if she knew all the secrets
of the universe and he was the universe's biggest dumb-ass.

"What makes you think that?"
Because
you're an old fart with dementia creeping in and a mean streak a
mile wide.

She cocked her head at him. "Last month you
worked all day, every day making something you can't touch, see, or
feel so you could feel important and powerful. You saw your mother
twice a year. Once at Christmas. Once at Mother's Day. You had sex,
but no love, and even that didn't excite you like banking another
million." Irma shook her head at him.

"Last month you were bored, jaded, tired and
boring. Playing with other people's money, and your own, like it
was one sided and printed by Milton-Bradley. If your life wasn't a
giant Monopoly game, then what was it?"

Irma took a breath, but she wasn't done.
Jordon glanced toward Curly, Mo and Larry who seemed to stare back
disapprovingly. That irked him. They always looked like they were
smiling when they looked at Reed. Maybe it was an
elven-witch-familiar-thing. He shook his head, trying to remember
he was one of the men who kept the flow of commerce around the
world moving, and not some dolt off the turnip truck. The women of
Potters Woods played hell with a man's sense of pride. He couldn't
wait to get back to work.

"A parody. That's what your life was before
Reed brought you here. Now wake up and do something meaningful
before your entire life is measured solely by how much gold you
hoarded."

Jordon opened his mouth to respond and shut
it again. He did lots of meaningful things. He gave millions to
charities every year. He started a fund to rebuild homes, schools,
and hospitals for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. He was a good
man, damn it. He did meaningful stuff all the time. The companies
he bought for B.H. employed tens of thousands of people. That was
damn meaningful work. What did Irma want from him? What more could
any one man do?

Jordon caught sight of Reed jogging toward
him. She was wearing shorts and a faded tye-dyed t-shirt sporting a
giant frog flashing a peace sign. He smiled, in spite of his
Irma-induced-foul-mood. Reed had no sense of fashion, but she
managed to look beautiful no matter how absurdly she dressed. The
afternoon sun hit her hair, turning the lighter shades of red to
warm gold. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, bury
himself inside her and forget he ever knew how to play
Monopoly.

Then he caught sight of her scowl and
thought better of it.

"Like I said, the chickens are coming home
to roost."

Jordon glanced down at Irma. "Yeah, and the
sky is falling."

Irma nodded sagely in agreement. "Let's hope
you can catch it before it crashes and burns."

Somehow Jordon didn't think Irma was
referring to the sky.

...

"We need to talk."

His elf looked like she'd rather kill
something than talk, but he was learning 'talk' was elvish for
sit-down-and-shut-up-while-I-tell-you-in-mind-numbing-detail-everything-wrong-with-you.
Apparently, all the women of Potters Woods are fluent in
elvish.

Jordon didn't feel like playing. He'd had
quite enough insight into his psyche for one day from Irma. He
wasn't about to take any more from his wife, whom he hadn't
touched, until she fell asleep, in days. He was grouchy, needy, and
ready to explode if she didn't stop tapping her foot at him. She
was shaking the whole pier with her foolishness. Fishing was
supposed to be fun.

"Later."

"Now."

"No."

Irma pulled a small blue walkie-talkie from
her pouch and flipped it on. The static jolted Jordon, seeming to
harness the charge dancing between he and Reed, and magnifying it
enough to make his skin itch. Hell, this whole place was beginning
to make him itch.