Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (31 page)

"Imagine what she did to Henri and Mario."

"Please hold me before the nightmare begins," he said as he led me to our bedroom.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two days later, the clouds broke, and the sun came out at noon. The news conference was held at two o'clock in the afternoon at the construction site. The local television stations set up cameras along with cable networks. Newspapers from coast to coast sent reporters. Magazines covering the art world, education, and museums sat in the front row. Toy and booksellers were there vying for Ben's eye. They wanted to market anything and everything imaginable. The exclusive distributors of all stuff Nance Cobb.

"I'm Benjamin Nance Cobb. Today I am introducing the Helen Nance Cobb Children's Museum. The building will consist of exhibits chronicling my mother's life and work. All of her books will be highlighted. Preliminary plans are being drawn up, and I expect the project to take a year. Thank you for coming," Ben said from the podium.

He offered no drawings of the museum or other information. The reporters were on their feet firing questions.

"What's the square footage? Will your mother's books be available? Will your work be included? How much will it cost?"

"Big. Yes. No. Enough" he replied.

I had watched the whole show from the back by the car. He swaggered toward me wearing a big smile. He had been trying to talk me into christening the site. A one o'clock in the morning bump and tickle under the steel girders. If I weren't an expectant mother, I would have succumbed to his irresistible charms. Love, propriety, and a cast-iron skillet were all I had to offer my children. The trust funds, fame, tuition, intelligence, talent, and good looks would be from Ben.

"Those people have questions," I said as he opened the car door.

"Don't we all?"

"Will you hold another news conference?" I asked as he helped me in the seat.

"Why?"

He shut my door and circled around the back.

"To respond, explain, show a model, and give information," I said as he settled in the driver's seat.

Cameras flashed around us.

"They ate every crumb Alexia. I'm trying to spark interest, not solicit advice."

"They might think you're rude."

"I am. You're welcome to answer all the questions. A website will be open soon. It's your idea. Time to step up to the plate."

The public eye was invited to descend on us. A major fundraiser approached. Ben would be the star attraction and I should bring my sisters to work the crowd.

The evening news showed the impeccable Benjamin Nance Cobb sneering at the press. The newspaper coverage featured a picture of the unsmiling Ben: tight-lipped, mysterious, unflappable, titan of the art world.

The press loved his rebel, outlaw, loner persona.

"Nice guys are ignored Alexia. Ben owns them because he's not afraid of their opinions. He flips off authority, convention, and establishment. And he still rules," Mark said, thumbing through the newspaper the next day in the kitchen.

"It's a horrible message to send out," I said, sitting with my daily banana, jalapeños, and milk.

"But it works. Ben knows how to play the media. He will get the donors, too. He'll amp up the charm, put on the smile, and the checkbooks will open. He's a pro."

Someone on the front page caught my eye. He stood off to the side of the reporters' pack with a scowl.

A man in his sixties, short in stature, balding, glasses.

"He looks familiar," I said, ripping the paper from Mark's hand.

"What guy?" I pointed to the blurry picture.

"Someone showed up at my apartment and at Wellington's gallery. He tells people he's my uncle."

"Publicity hounds are everywhere. You're a blank slate. He pretends to know you to get in the door. Has he planted any stories about you?"

"Not yet."

"I'll tell Ben. He has people to slap this shit down. Don't worry."

"Wouldn't you be freaked out by someone following you?" I asked, pushing the paper back across the counter toward him.

"Alexia, please don't get upset. He's just a jerk with too much free time."

But why did he have to spend it on me?

The next couple of weeks were a whirl. I found life with Ben more exhausting. Sex all night and the museum work all day. Since news of the museum came out, the web page had been inundated with questions. "When will it open? How many people will you hire? Will the books be available over the Internet?"

The idea of the museum blossomed and became a reality. The building itself took shape as well.

And then it stopped.

Chicago was a union town. Talk started about non-union workers being brought in at a lower wage. The tradesmen walked off the job. An inflatable rat had been parked at the entrance of the work site. Pickets soon followed.

"What the hell is going on?" Ben yelled into the phone. "A fucking rumor is costing me ten thousand a day."

He slammed down the phone and glared at me.

A disadvantage of working for my husband was being home when things went south. Also, being the person who initiated the idea, which he now hated, didn't help.

"Could we ask the contractors to sign an affidavit, swearing to only employ union workers?" I asked.

"And pay their legal fees, too? Every employee has to be verified. At least two hundred people have set foot on the property. Some may have been day labor. Tracking them down would take time and money. Why am I being punished?" he asked.

Because he listened to me.

Next a few subcontractors put a lien on the property because they were not paid. City inspectors showed up and issued citations for safety violations. Finally, building material had been stolen. New orders were placed and the overruns were climbing.

Donors grew skittish because the once pliant press declared war on Ben, especially my former employer. Costs were touted as outrageous and printed as truth. Pictures of the gangly skeleton of a building stood in sharp contrast to the majestic Art Institute. Reporters staked out the site, pleading for anyone to complain and bash Ben.

Two weeks of an angry husband preceded a week of stony silence. He never accused, but I could read it in every gesture. This catastrophe rested on my shoulders. I ate and slept alone. I only saw him at Tad's office. The nurses cut him a wide berth.

Mark reported Ben's own staff was ready to bolt. The phones rang incessantly: reporters, lawyers, collection agencies.

I packed a bag, left, and camped with Eleanor. I didn't hear from Ben.

After two days, I placed a call to Florida. Ben needed the big gun.

"Mr. Cobb, I don't know if you've heard," I said.

"I was against this museum from the beginning," he said.

"Duly noted. I'm asking for help. Everyone and everything is piling on Ben. He needs someone on his side."

"He has you."

"I'm seen as the enemy right now and staying with my sister."

"Ben asked you to leave?"

"No, but he's been distant and uncomfortable around me."

"He's trying not to upset you and failing miserably. I'll make inquiries and get back to you."

"Thank you."

"Alexia, I questioned the idea, never you. Ben loves you. Being like me, he has a problem with internalizing everything. Please don't make your departure permanent."

"I don't believe it will be up to me."

"My dear, you hold the key to my son. This is the first bump. Believe me, there will be many more," he said as he hung up.

I hoped for reassurance and soothing words. Should have called for the time and temperature instead.

Within an hour, Ben showed up at Eleanor's door. We didn't touch.

"Dare I ask when you left the condo?" he asked.

"A few days ago." It didn't make me feel any better that it had taken him this long to notice.

"Tad's office left a message about changing an appointment."

"I know. I got one on my cell."

We stood in the hall like an awkward first date.

"So, I'll pick you up here tomorrow," he said.

"Fine."

We semi-hugged, and he left. I wandered down to my room and cried.

In the morning, I rolled over in bed, and Eleanor brought me the newspaper.

"Do you know this guy?" she said, handing me the front page.

The picture of a paunchy older man looked a little familiar.

Richard Grant, the architect Helen hit with a wine bottle.

"He's accused of being the root of all the museum's problems. Bribing people to lie, cheat, and steal to screw Ben," she said.

"Ben had sex with his daughter."

"Lately?"

"No, when he was a kid. The police arrested Grant without incident," I said as I read the article.

There was a knock at the front door, and Eleanor went out to answer it.

I stared at the picture of Grant. Why did he hate the Cobbs? Why wouldn't he? Jealous of their money, fame, power, and women. Wouldn't all of it drive someone crazy? It kicked my ass, and I liked them.

Ben strolled in and crawled into bed with me. I showed him the paper as he kissed my cheek.

"He's been planning an assault for years ever since I bought the property. I didn't know I outbid him. My dad had his operatives snoop around and found Grant's fingerprints on everything. A sidebar not in the official story is a wallet with a Richard Hale driver's license in Grant's possession."

"He was my stalker?"

"Yep, I hope they fry him for scaring you."

"Thanks, it won't happen, but I appreciate the sentiment. Are conditions any better at the work site?"

"I've been fielding calls and emails all morning. I need my assistant back. She's the brains behind the museum and the one who will make it happen. And I need my wife back because my world is a worthless place without her," he said, holding me tight.

"Is this an apology?"

"Please come back."

"We should have make-up sex, but Eleanor would sell tickets."

"She would?"

"Believe it, buddy," she said from the hall.

According to the doctor, I gained twenty pounds. Wide load had a whole new meaning.

Christmas was upon us. The season of shopping, decorating, and my first official party as Mrs. Benjamin Nance Cobb. I wasn't anti-social, just petrified. One question daunted me: What to get Ben? My situation begged the infamous question. What do you get the man who had everything? More.

He finally chose a wedding band. Plain gold engraved 'BNCAMH' on the inside. Maybe more jewelry. A chain, an earring, an ankle bracelet?

The invitations to the fest at the Art Institute were the hottest tickets in town. Ben had approached the best and gotten supreme items for the silent auction. Caribbean vacations in secluded villas, dinner parties catered by master chefs, a six-carat diamond ring. The
piece de resistance
, a small painting of Ben at age three done by Helen Nance Cobb. I thought it was too much to give away. He showed me five more bigger and better ones.

The day of the party, I shook as I dressed. Eleanor found an eggplant-colored maternity gown to wrap me in.

"I should sell the back of the dress to an advertising firm. My butt is as wide as a billboard," I said.

"You're fine, but I'm stunning," Eleanor said.

In a bronze strapless gown with her hair swept up, she looked like a prize to be won.

"And modest," Irene said as she appeared in the doorway.

She wore a strapless, shimmering, burgundy, knee-length cocktail dress.

They both were bright and shiny. I hoped they would deflect some of the glare off of me.

"Ladies, let's go," Ben said from the hall.

"Nothing will start before you get there. No reason to rush," Irene said as she reapplied her mascara.

I stood in the nursery and he in the doorway. The light shone behind him, and he was in silhouette. The fit of the suit on his muscular body astounded me. The sight of him did make me pause. Stunning. Sometimes it was too much for me to deal with: the man, the life, and the babies.

Eleanor and Irene scurried down the hall to the living room.

"When you get to the ball, every other woman will be an ugly stepsister, including your sisters," he said, kissing my cheek. "Come with me, I have something for you."

"Early Christmas gifts? I hope its three French hens," I said as I took his arm.

"No, I thought, in your condition, you would fit in with nine ladies dancing."

We strolled out hand in hand. Eleanor and Irene were on the couch.

"I knew we should have met them there. We're interrupting a romp," Irene said.

"Always the romantic. I want to arrive in a limo with the hosts. My purse is packed with business cards. When the cameras zoom in, I'll flash one," Eleanor said.

"Make sure it's all you flash," Irene said.

Ben steered me over to the tree and reached under it. He came up with a flat black velvet box.

"Your dress needs some ice," he said.

He opened the box and held up a diamond necklace with matching earrings.

My sisters gasped.

"Real cubic zirconia. I bought it from the shopping channel. There are only ten thousand exactly like it. This one is called seven thousand, two hundred ninety four." He hooked the necklace on me, and then I put the earrings on. "Absolutely perfect. How did such a beautiful woman get stuck with me?"

"You knocked her up," Irene said.

"I've been thinking about gifts for the two of you. Battle axes? Witches' brooms? Where does one buy kill-joys?" he asked. "Don't wear out your welcome. We're together for the long haul."

"I suggest a truce. Irene likes to be the lone warrior. Personally, I've always wanted a rich, famous, older brother who showers expensive gifts on his favorite sister," Eleanor said as she batted her eyelashes at him.

He laughed as he hugged her, but spied Irene who stood staring at him.

"If you were a guy, we would have beat each other bloody and be best friends by now. But you're a proud, beautiful woman who doesn't trust me. I'll have to earn your respect. I accept your gauntlet, Irene. Let the tests begin," he said.