"So you have moved to San Francisco?"
"Yes, now I'm in San Francisco hoping to work as your personal assistant as you locate priceless paintings for the new Montgomery Museum of Art."
"Tell me something you know about art so that I can be suitably impressed by your credentials and hire you," Mr. Montgomery murmurs. Did I mention he is handsome and sexy? With pewter-gray eyes?
"Well, the painting we Kansas farmers like most is American Gothic by Grant Woods."
"That's Grant Wood," he corrects me suavely.
I blush again. I would bite my lower lip but it is really sore from the chewing I did a minute ago. So I chew my fingernail instead. It doesn’t taste very good. Then I remember that I’m chewing on acrylic. I bite my upper lip instead.
“You’re so cute looking right now,” Wilson Montgomery tells me. “I have a bulldog with just that underbite.”
“Oh, er, thank you,” I say, and blush again.
"I think you have the know-how for this position. You will need to work closely with me. However, since I'm a single billionaire of mature sexuality and discerning tastes, I think we will get on just fine. Can you start tomorrow?"
Holy moses! "Um, yes, Mr. Montgomery, sure!" They'll never believe this in Kansas. My inner Superego looks warningly at me. She thinks Wilson Montgomery is a sex addict who intends to harass me into engaging in shocking conduct with him in his huge, sterile-white office. "You're SO wrong on this one," I tell her.
"What?" says Wilson Montgomery. "I consider myself an impeccable judge of character."
"Oh, I'm sure you are," I hasten to reassure him. "I was just talking to my inner Superego, another name for my mom."
"I trademarked the inner mom 28 years ago," he tells me. "But you're okay if you go on referring to her as your Superego.“
As he speaks, my inner Superego changes the password to the Montgomery Enterprises human resources department files, finds my birth certificate, and changes my age.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Montgomery goes on, “I am an impeccable judge of character. For example, I know that you are naive and trusting for a 45-year-old."
My Superego raises her eyebrows, knowing my true age. I glare at her. If he wants to think I'm 45, that’s just fine.
“That’s the end of the first chapter,” Evie explained.
“Mom,” I said curiously. “You mentioned not wanting your identity revealed once this, er, makes the big time. How can you avoid that? Are you writing under your own name?”
“Oh, no,” she said airily.
Patty was laughing. “Dannie, she’s writing as Dorothy Gale, of course!”
Mom looked at Patty, arrested. “Patty, that’s inspired! I had another name picked out, but I like yours better.”
“What name did you plan to use?” I asked.
Evie said, “Let me show you. You know I took Photo Editing for Seniors last year. Well, guess what? I made my own book cover!”
“How on earth? You’re still using Windows 98. I’m surprised you were able to get this word-processed.”
Evie shrugged. “So it’s 10 years out-of-date—“
“More like 20,” I said helpfully.
“You younger gen-ex folks would be surprised. Old School means quality and value,” she informed us. “I made my cover in a wonderful program I got for free when Patty was still in high school. It’s called Photo Deluxe. It’s the bomb.”
“The what?”
“You know, it’s awesome. Amazing. Anyway, here’s my cover.”
She clicked and an image appeared. Fifty Shades of Chicken Soup by—
“Mom!” Patty said, shocked. “You can’t use that pen name!”
“By Danielle Webster,” I read aloud. “Don’t you dare!”
“I’m on the prayer chain. And in the choir. You can’t expect me to use my real name. I have a reputation to maintain. This way we keep it in the family,” Evie said hopefully.
“What, my reputation is mud now, huh?” I said.
“After all the goings-on with Daemon Lucifer and the role-playing with Brian Bunch?” she said tartly. “Your reputation is shredded. Writing erotica could improve it!”
“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” I said. “Write it as Dorothy Gale, Mom. That’s SO much better, and old people will get the allusion.”
“Middle-aged people, too,” Mom corrected me. “All right, Dorothy Gale it is.”
“What is in that bowl of chicken soup?” Patty asked, leaning near the screen and wrinkling her nose.
“It’s a tastefully-photographed naked woman,” Evie said proudly.
“What’s she doing in a bowl of soup?” I asked.
“She’s swimming!”
“Clever, mom,” Patty said approvingly. “You have the noodles covering up all her pink bits.”
“Why is it Fifty Shades of Chicken Soup?” I asked. “It sounds like erotica for someone with an upper respiratory infection.”
Evie said, “Haven’t you heard of the Chicken Soup series? You know, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Chicken Soup for the Parent’s Soul, Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul…”
“Chicken Soup for the Erotica Writer’s Soul,” I added.
Not to be outdone, Patty said, “Chicken Soup for Horny Lutherans…”
“Laugh all you want,” Evie said in a dignified way. “There is a market for positive erotica.”
“There is?” I said.
“Encouraging Erotica!” said Patty in a stroke of genius.
“Exactly!” said Evie, smiling.
“How did you stumble on this idea, Mom?” I asked. I almost said “crackbrained idea” but censored myself in time.
“Well, it’s from the prayer chain,” Mom said.
“What??”
“Yes, the prayer chain,” she said again, nodding. “You know I’ve been talking about how we started a prayer hotline last month. It’s available for people to call in and ask for prayer Monday through Friday from six to nine PM.”
“But what’s the connection?” I asked.
Evie got a bit pink in the face. “I’ve been working the phone before choir starts every Wednesday. And I’ve got regulars already.”
“Lonely older gentlemen,” Patty guessed.
“Exactly! And I’m happy to talk to them, and they really like me. But a few of them want to do more than flirting. I’ve had to stop responding to the double entendres because it just keeps escalating!”
“On a church prayer line!” I marveled.
“I thought Lutherans had ice in their veins,” Patty said.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Evie. “They’re the WORST. So I decided to write some erotica to make older people happy. You know, give them some encouragement that even older people can find true love.”
“Old divorced billionaires need love too,” I said. “Who could have guessed?”
“And I’m going to give you girls every penny that I earn.”
Patty and I tried haltingly to express our gratitude. Fortunately Mom’s lunch arrived just then, and in the commotion at the apartment door, we were able to succumb to a fit of giggles unnoticed.
Friendship Town must have a fantastic baker on staff. Mom skips dessert as a matter of self-discipline, which I’m happy to say I lack completely, so I give her some help in the Clean Plate Club department whenever I visit at mealtimes. She didn’t want her apple pie, so Patty and I attacked it with a fork and a spoon.
“Want to hear the part I just finished?” Evie asked.
“Please!” I said.
“Jill will be so jealous,” Patty said.
“Really?” Evie paused and looked at us. “Do you think I should send her a copy of the file?”
“Mom, are you kidding? She’ll kill me if you don’t!” I assured her.
“Go on eating, and I’ll read this to you. It’ll be just like old times, won’t it?”
“I dunno,” Patty said. “Did you used to read racy stuff to us when we were kids?”
“If
this offends you,” Evie said primly, “just let me know and I’ll stop.”
“Oh please,” I said.
“Well, I’m just warning you. It is not a sweet romance, it’s a spicy romance.”
“Make mine extra crispy,” I said.
“Shush, Dannie. Read, Mom,” said Patty.
“Thank you, Patty,” Mom said.
“Golden child,” I said again.
Evie read aloud.
He reached out and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me hard against him. I could feel his warm excrescence throbbing against the tight prison of his jeans and butting against my thigh like a purring cat butts its head against your leg. He lowered his head and covered my mouth with his, forcing my lips open. Our tongues chased each other back and forth between our cavernous mouths like two cats running up and down a deserted car dealership showroom at midnight.
"Mom," I objected, "that's a bit too much cat imagery."
"Our writing instructor says the best writers create memorable scenes by using extended metaphors."
"Those are similes," Patty said.
"Well, it's an extended simile."
"Why the car dealership?" I asked.
"It's foreshadowing," Evie explained with pride. "The hero’s a billionaire. He made his money in the auto industry."
“What was that word?” I asked. “Excrescence?”
“I just used the word ‘bulge’ so I needed a synonym,” Evie explained.
“Yeah, but ‘excrescence’ sounds icky,” I objected.
Patty took the mouse and searched for the definition. “Mom, you should probably choose another word. This one has to do with tumors.”
“Oh. But didn’t you like the phrase, ‘tight prison of his jeans’?”
“That was amazing,” I reassured Evie.
“When are you putting it up for sale?” Patty wanted to know.
“I’ve got to finish it first,” Evie explained.
“How close are you to finishing?”
“I’ve got eight or nine more chapters.”
“Really?” I said. “How many have you written?”
“Well, two,” Evie said.
“Mom, you said on Facebook that it was almost done!” Patty said, laughing.
“I was trying to get some buzz going,” she said.
“Buzz?”
“Yes, buzz. You need that if you’re going to market a book.”
“So why did you take your update down, then?” I asked. “I never even got to see it.”
“I had too many people saying they were ready to buy it,” Evie explained. “It’s going to take me a couple weeks to finish it, so I took it down.”
“Buzzkill,” I said.
“Don’t you worry, I’ll be finishing it soon. After all, it’s part of my grade in my Senior U class!”
To be continued…
***
A note from Cynthia Cross:
Thank you for downloading and reading Romancing the Billionaire! Please leave a review at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00N89FJCO. Reviews really help independent authors.
For the backstory on Danielle, Patty, Jill and Evie, read The Devil and Danielle Webster, a full-length novel available at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Devil-Danielle-Webster-Cynthia-Cross-ebook/dp/B00L4CW3X0
Romancing the Billionaire: A Danielle Webster Comedy Short Page 2
