Taming Mariella

by Dara Girard

  Chapter 4

  Ian walked into the offices of Flash magazine the next morning pleased to see everyone working diligently. Just the way he liked it. Little did he know that several minutes before he entered, Merta Robinson had glanced out her office window and seen him walking toward the entrance of the building. “Oh no,” she cried. “He’s early.”

  “Why?” someone asked.

  “It doesn’t matter why. Places, everyone.”

  In a moment, people removed their feet from their desks, hid breakfast bars and donuts, and stacks of magazines, grabbed phones and exited certain Internet sites. By the time Ian entered the office with his black Labrador Sylvester at his side, the office looked like business as usual.

  His assistant, Nelson Mullings, a recent college graduate and eager to please, rushed up to him. “You’re early.”

  Ian stared at him, but didn’t reply.

  Nelson cleared his throat. “It was just an observation.”

  Ian shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. You want to know why I’m coming into the office at this time. The reason is I have an appointment at eleven and I want to be ready for her.”

  “Oh, well, the thing is…there’s a situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Your mother is here.”

  Ian paused. “In town?”

  “In this building.”

  “Where specifically in this building?”

  “In your office.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Nelson echoed.

  “Yes,” Ian said with exaggerated patience. “Why is she in my office?”

  Nelson finally understood his error. “She wanted—”

  “You know I don’t like people in my office when I’m not there.”

  “I thought I could…uh…convince her to leave before you arrived, but she insisted.”

  “Next time think about this. Who would you rather upset? Me or her?”

  Nelson tugged on his tie, nearly strangling himself. He coughed then said, “It won’t happen again.”

  Ian walked toward his office. “I didn’t think so.”

  “It gets worse.”

  Ian stopped. “How bad?”

  “She said she has luggage in the car.”

  “Okay.” He continued walking.

  “There’s more.”

  Ian slowly spun around. “Yes?”

  “She brought Candy.”

  He swore softly but with force. Before he could consider the perfect exit strategy, his mother stuck her head outside. “I thought I heard your voice. What’s keeping you so long?” She turned her cheek to him. “Come here and kiss me hello.”

  “I’ve never kissed you hello. Stop imagining things.”

  “Can’t you be civil for five minutes?”

  “I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question.” Ian turned to Nelson. “Make sure we’re not disturbed.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to his desk. Sylvester walked in and lay down beside it. Although he was a Lab, Sylvester was accustomed to the sedentary life in the office, which he tolerated in anticipation of the invigorating walks he took with Ian before and after his workday. Ian followed his mother into the office and shut the door. She sat down on the couch and held up her cheek. He walked past.

  In the absence of his greeting, she tapped her cheek.

  “Stop that,” Ian said. “No one is looking so we don’t have to perform for them.”

  She frowned. “Other sons kiss their mothers on the cheek.”

  “Yes,” Ian said, sitting behind his desk and staring at her. But other sons didn’t have a mother like Shirley Cooper. She was lavishly beautiful, a banquet of desirable attributes: thick dark hair with only a hint of gray despite her years, expressive brown eyes that made her face look twenty years younger, a trim figure with enough curves to save her from being called skinny.

  However, her looks hadn’t kept his father from openly playing the field, and she wasn’t surprised. His mother was a former fashion model. She had been discovered working at her father’s pharmacy by a scout for Williamson’s Modeling Agency, and had a very successful modeling career. Before she married his father, she knew the sacrifice she would have to make. He had been up-front with her, and she had weighed what was best for her. She wanted to be taken care of and had gotten used to the wealth and privilege that being a model had provided. She knew that in time, she would be too old for the industry, and wanted to ensure she would be able to continue the lifestyle she had become accustomed to. Her only regret was being passed over for a chance of being a Bond Girl.

  Sitting in his office, Ian saw for a moment the beauty she must have been forty years ago. Today she wore a finely tailored pink crepe suit. But no outfit was complete without matching high-heeled Italian shoes and her Chihuahua, Candy, who sat on her lap wearing the identical suit.

  Ian scowled at the dog that was dancing on its little paws eager to greet him. “Did you have to bring that?”

  “Candy is very sweet and she loves you.” She held up the excited dog. “Come on. Let her give you a kiss.”

  “The day I let her kiss me, one of us will be dead.”

  Shirley pulled Candy close to her chest, shielding her. “Don’t be disgusting.”

  “So. Where are you going?”

  She placed Candy on her lap and began to stroke her. “What do you mean?”

  “Nelson said you brought luggage.”

  She lowered her gaze and adjusted Candy’s jacket. “I wanted to stay with you for a few days.”

  “Stay with Josh.”

  “I don’t want to stay with Josh.”

  “Why?”

  She looked up startled. “Do I need a reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your house is bigger.”

  “Mother,” he said, losing patience. “What are you doing here?”

  “Otis is getting ideas.”

  Ian sighed. Poor Otis Fassel. He was an international trader who had been wooing his mother for the past eight years. “What kind of ideas?”

  “About marriage.”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “I thought we could use a little time apart.”

  “Why don’t you just add to the man’s misery and marry him?”

  Shirley set Candy on the couch then crossed her legs. “I’ll get married again when you do.”

  He began to grin. “Is that a promise?”

  “Why?”

  “Because that might be sooner than you think.”

  Her brows rose in surprise. “You’re thinking of getting married again?”

  He nodded.

  “To whom?”

  A knock on the door interrupted his reply.

  “What?” Ian asked.

  Nelson timidly peeked his head in. “Umm, you have a visitor.”

  Ian glanced at his watch. “She’s early.”

  Nelson looked relieved. “So you are expecting her?”

  “Yes, at eleven not ten.”

  “But since she’s here now…” He let his words trail off hoping Ian would fill them in.

  He leaned back and clasped his hands together. “Yes?”

  “What should I do with her?”

  “Nothing. She can wait.”

  Nelson glanced at the visitor, biting his lip then turned back to Ian. “She doesn’t seem the patient type.”

  “She’ll learn.”

  “But—”

  “Close the door.”

  Nelson hesitated.

  “Now.”

  Nelson reluctantly shut the door.

  Ian leaned forward. “Where were we?”

  Shirley looked at her son. “You were toying with me.”

  “Was I?”

  “How can you talk about marriage? I haven’t heard you were seeing anyone.”

  “The idea came to me recently.”

  She studied him suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. I’m just suggesting that you make peace with Otis. Y
ou won’t have my place to run away to too much longer. I doubt my wife would like it.” He paused. “Actually, I can be certain she wouldn’t.”

  “Who is she?” Shirley said, unable to temper her curiosity. “What does she do? Where did you meet her? Is she—”

  A timid knock interrupted her.

  Ian sighed then said loudly, “What is it, Nelson?”

  Nelson came in wringing his hands together. “Here’s the thing. When it comes to patience, she’s not a fast learner.”

  “Really?” Ian said without surprise.

  “She’s making things awkward.”

  “How awkward?”

  “Merta is in tears.”

  Ian looked thoughtful then slowly stood. “Excuse me,” he said to Shirley and followed Nelson out the door.

  Almost immediately he saw Mariella gesturing to a short balding man, indicating that he needed to straighten a framed painting.

  “Where’s Merta?” Ian asked.

  “In the kitchen,” Nelson said.

  Seconds later Ian stood in the kitchen where he saw Merta sitting in the corner with a box of tissues.

  “Merta?”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose and turned, her red eyes magnified behind her glasses. “Yes, Mr. Cooper?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She opened her mouth but no words emerged.

  “Well?”

  New tears swelled in her eyes.

  Ian’s patience snapped. “Speak, woman. I don’t have all day.”

  She burst into tears.

  Ian took a deep breath then turned to Nelson. “What happened?”

  “After being offered one of Merta’s cookies Ms. Duvall said her cookies were a health hazard and that she should be reported to poison control and listed as a possible risk.”

  Ian nodded. Unfortunately, she was right. He’d heard about Merta’s cookies and his office staff fled when she brought in her latest culinary experiments: pudding with cornstarch, oatmeal-relish cookies and one of her favorites, pickle-banana bread. Of course no one was ever brazen enough to say anything to her face.

  Ian shook his head. “It’s just her opinion, Merta. It shouldn’t bring you to tears.”

  She sniffed and lifted her watery gaze to his face. “Do you like my cookies?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”

  “But you must have,” she insisted. “Every month I prepare a special batch for you. I give them to Nelson to hand to you.”

  Ian glanced at Nelson who averted his gaze. He knew Nelson had probably disposed of them long before they reached his desk. “Oh yes, those.”

  “Would you like one now?” She leaped up from the chair and shoved a tray crowded with brown lumps in front of him.

  Ian took one then glanced up and saw Nelson standing behind Merta, vigorously shaking his head then wrapping his hands around his neck and miming a gagging reflex. “I’ll save this for later. Now wipe your eyes and get back to work.”

  She smiled and left.

  Ian lifted the lump to his nose and sniffed. “This smells like—”

  “And tastes like it, too,” Nelson added.

  Ian wrapped it in a napkin. “I’ll give it to Candy instead.” As he was about to return to his office, he spotted another employee, Leonard Mills, cleaning out the coffeepot. His tie was tossed over his shoulder, his shirt disheveled and his sleeves rolled up. “What are you doing?”

  “Remaking the coffee,” Leonard said, vigorously rinsing the pot out. “Ms. Duvall said it didn’t taste fresh.”

  “Who makes the coffee here?”

  “I do. I make a fresh pot every morning.”

  “It’s still morning. Why are you making another one?”

  “Because she said it didn’t taste fresh.”

  “And you agree with her?”

  Leonard hesitated. “No, but—”

  “Then why are you making a new pot?”

  “Because of the way she said it.”

  “But she doesn’t work here and I’m not paying you to make coffee.”

  “She can be very forceful.”

  “Then tell her to make it herself.”

  He shivered. “I’d rather make more coffee.”

  Ian glanced toward the office, then walked briskly over to the display where Mariella was instructing Serita Brickman, a recent hire in a peasant blouse with a plastic daisy in her hair. “Put it back, Ms. Brickman,” he said.

  Serita sent a nervous glance at Mariella then looked at Ian. “But—”

  Ian enunciated every word. “Put. It. Back.”

  Mariella turned and looked at him. “I don’t think the way you have the display is correct. I thought it was best to have it this way.” She continued adjusting the display. The office fell silent. No one moved.

  Ian kept his gaze on Serita. “I’m glad you are diligent in your task, but leave things as they are unless I instruct you.”

  Mariella moved toward him. “Mr. Cooper—”

  Ian continued to address Serita. “Don’t let anything distract you from your task. Nelson will help you.”

  Mariella stepped in front of him. “Mr. Cooper, I am speaking to you.”

  Ian looked past her. “And when Ms. Duvall arrives, please let me know.” He turned, then disappeared into his office.

  Mariella stared at the closed door, stunned, but within seconds her surprise turned to mortification then rage. She’d never been ignored in her life! People always paid attention to her. Always. He had the arrogance to look right past her. Her. Mariella Duvall. Her rage almost became a tangible creature taking over her body, making her skin burn, her hands tremble and closing her throat against words. However, with superior effort she managed to keep her face composed.

  Nelson’s voice cracked when he spoke. “The coffee’s almost done.”

  Mariella didn’t hear him. She couldn’t. Rage had deafened her and narrowed her vision. All she saw was the closed door. Nobody shut a door in her face and got away with it. Mariella adjusted her jacket and skirt and retrieved her taupe leather portfolio that was sitting in the lounge chair. She marched up to the door and turned the knob. It didn’t move. He’d locked the door. That’s when her rage became fury and she did something she’d never done before. She pounded on the door, and at the top of her lungs shouted, “Open up this instant! I will not be treated this way. Do you hear me?”

  Silence followed.

  She pounded the door again until her fist ached. “Now!”

  When the door didn’t open, Nelson gingerly approached her. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  She spun around and glared at him. “No. You may not. I’m leaving. I will not stand being treated this way.”

  “Should I make another appointment?”

  She paused then said in a low acid-laden voice, “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No, I just thought that after you’d calmed down…” His words trailed off as the fire in her eyes became an inferno.

  “Calm down? Do you think I’m overreacting? Do you know who I am?”

  “No, yes,” he said, quickly backing away. “I mean…I just thought—”

  “Don’t think. Just get out of my way.” She pushed past him and stormed out of the office into the hallway. Tears of anger blurred her vision. She’d come early, barely able to contain her excitement at getting the chance to work for such a prestigious magazine. She’d even written down a list of questions. She took that list out now and tore it into little pieces. She hated him. She never wanted to see him again. She didn’t care how gifted or brilliant he was or what opportunity he could give her. She would never work with someone who could be so rude.

  As she rode the elevator to the ground floor, tears continued to gather in her eyes hot and stinging, but she didn’t let them fall. Ian Cooper would not have her weeping like a dejected lover. He meant nothing to her. She wished Jeremiah was still alive. He cherished her and understood her. He had never treated her this way. He had always loved se
eing her, no matter what time of the day it was. He especially loved it when she would “surprise” him and turn up early to be with him.

  For a moment she felt foolish. Why had she bothered to come in the first place? He probably thought she was one of his father’s women, and wanted to show her up. She wished she had never come. This was only the second time in her life that someone had ignored her in this manner. The first had been her now brother-in-law Alex.

  Following the death of both of her parents, she and her three sisters had found themselves nearly bankrupt, and had to sell their family home. Luckily, a former friend of the family, Alex Carlton, who was now extremely rich, bought the house. Thanks to her quick thinking Mariella and her sisters had devised a plan to get him to marry one of them, allowing them to keep the house and not face financial ruin. While she hadn’t displayed any open attraction to Alex, nor did she particularly have any feelings toward him, she had been his first, but not final choice.

  It hadn’t really bothered her, but for a brief period, one hour to be exact, she felt some of the same emotions she was now feeling, of being “passed over.” She had never shared this with any of her sisters. When you’re beautiful people rarely treat you as though you have feelings that can be hurt. So she pretended that she didn’t have any. Ian Cooper had made her look foolish. She thought of the care she had taken to look good for the interview. It was all a waste. He hadn’t even noticed her.

  Mariella did not bother to sign out at the front desk; she did not want to spend another minute in the building. She stalked outside, into the bright day and glanced around for a taxi and was ready to signal one when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the number and saw that it was her sister Isabella who lived in upstate New York. Mariella considered ignoring it because she didn’t feel like talking, then decided that at least she would be able to share with someone how horrible Ian Cooper was. She moved to the side of the building, shading herself from the glare of the sun.

  “Hello, Izzy,” she said. She searched her bag for her sunglasses and put them on.

  “Hi, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”