Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

  "My dear Mr. Kleczak," Mrs. Hillings had said, "let us take the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This will probably be paid out in installments of, say, fifty thousand on the signing of the contract, twenty-five thousand on the delivery of a complete and satisfactory manuscript—which I think your wife has most adeptly produced, although her editor may ask for further revisions—twenty-five thousand on the hardcover publication of the novel, which would be about one year later, and then fifty thousand on the publication of the paperback edition, which would be slightly less than two years after the contract is signed, I'm sure.

  "And you must remember," she continued in her soft, earnest voice, speaking directly to Ted, "that Hillings & Hillings receives fifteen percent of all earnings on the book. And so, right there, the advance I have predicted I can get for your wife will be reduced to one hundred and twenty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars.

  "And so, Mr. Kleczak, when you consider that it took Patricia eleven years to write the novel and that she will have to wait one year for it to be published in hardcover, and then another year for the paperback, that adds up to an investment of thirteen years." She paused, smiling sympathetically. "And that, I'm afraid, works out to be only around ninety-eight hundred dollars a year in in­come—well below the poverty level in this country." Pause. "And so I am ever so grateful to you, Mr. Kleczak, for not only supporting your family very well over the years, but for enabling your wife to develop her craft. I know she is delighted to be in a position to make a significant financial contribution to her family after all of your support."

  Ted had beamed. Suddenly Patty's new career was a family achievement, a perspective he desperately needed since everything about his wife seemed to be changing after eighteen years.

  And so Ted was comfortable enough now to bandy about the probable sum of her advance like it was the norm, and the kids had learned that adults were always responsive to them when they made a casual reference to their mom the writer. "Mom's agent’s ICA," Patty had overheard Kevin explain to the meter reader re­cently.

  "Ted," Patty said, coming over to the kitchen table to sit next to him and unconsciously pulling his chair back down to all fours with a solid thump, "there would be no book if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hillings. I would have given up years ago." She kissed his cheek. "Honey, the letter said ICA had acted unfairly, without conscience. The other clients are asking for my help. How can I say no?"

  "The other clients are established and have a lot of money." Ted's voice had begun to weaken. "And I think Mrs. Hillings would be the first person to tell you to stay out of this." He brightened, a new idea coming to him. "If she needed your help, wouldn't she have asked you?"

  "No," Patty said.

  He looked uncomfortable again.

  "I hear what you're saying, honey, but I just don't know," Patty murmured, resting her hand on his thigh and dropping her fore­head down on his shoulder.

  "You don't want to get hurt, baby," Ted said, rubbing her back. "You haven't done anything to anyone—and you deserve your day in the sun."

  Patty raised her head. "Then why do I feel so awful?"

  "Oh, baby, you were raised to feel guilty," he said, yawning and giving her a hug. She noticed, for the first time, how bloodshot his eyes were, how hard he was trying to stay awake, even though he was dead on his feet. He had taught all day and traveled to and from a track meet twenty miles away. Patty loved him, she really loved him.

  "I want to go see her, Ted. At least I could do that. She's been in the hospital for over two weeks." He frowned, yawned again, and then nodded. "Okay. Why don't you go see her, if it'll make you feel better."

  And so the Kleczaks went upstairs to bed and fell asleep quickly, with only one of them knowing that Patty had made up her mind to go to the meeting of the clients after visiting Mrs. Hillings in the hospital. Conveniently, Ted had never asked when the meeting was going to be.

  12

  "Hello," Elizabeth said softly, standing by Dorothy's bedside.

  Mrs. Hillings, looking thin and pale against the pillows of her hospital bed, was wearing a beautiful blue silk dressing gown, which matched the blue of her eyes exactly. "Hello, Elizabeth dear," she said, smiling and pushing her hand across the bedcovers toward her.

  "Oh, Dorothy," Elizabeth murmured, feeling close to tears. She leaned over and kissed her.

  "Sit and tell me how you are," Dorothy directed, patting the bed.

  Elizabeth did as she was told. She was fine, home on a holiday to see her family. She had heard the news of Dorothy's illness and had wanted to see her. Henry had very kindly offered her the guest room at their apartment.

  "And how is our friend the countess?"

  "Oh, she's wonderful. She's arriving on Monday." One of the things she had always loved about Dorothy was how she spoke of the subjects of Elizabeth's work as if they were her dearest friends. Of course, by the time Elizabeth finished writing a book, they were.

  "Is she arriving by ship, perhaps?" Dorothy inquired.

  "By air," Elizabeth admitted, laughing, "in a roomy steamer trunk. She always prefers speed to comfort."

  The room was choked with flowers and Elizabeth was glad she had brought a Sony Walkman and an audio tape of Trollope's Barchester Towers for Dorothy instead.

  Elizabeth left when a woman arrived to be interviewed for the position of Mrs. Hillings's household aide after Dorothy's release. Elizabeth thought this was rushing things a bit, but she was glad to see her agent was so optimistic.

  The Hillingses' apartment often took people's breath away. It was located on the east side of Gramercy Park, an old and elegant square which lies between Twentieth and Twenty-first streets, and Park Avenue South and Third Avenue. In the nineteenth century a bright real-estate developer had offered prospective buyers a novel idea: a regal square whose residents would own the green, tree­ shaded park in the middle of it. When each new owner closed on his home, he would receive a set of golden keys to the park. Well over a century later, the eight-foot iron fence still surrounds the park, and after many unsuccessful attempts by business groups to raze the park so Lexington Avenue could continue its commercial assault all the way downtown, Gramercy Park remains largely the way it al­ways has been—beautiful and quiet, the keys to the park still in the possession of residents.

  After the British had overthrown the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam in 1664, they changed the city's name to New York and tried to erase the city's cultural and hereditary ties to Holland by refashioning the names of the geographical areas. The origin of the distinguished Gramercy Park name is in actuality quite humble. The Dutch had named the area Krom Moerasje, "little crooked swamp," which the English later changed to Crommashie Hill. In 1831, when the developer wished to drain the marsh and create an urban paradise, he wisely changed the name to Gramercy Park, thus imbuing the area with entirely mythical ties to England, unless you counted the exquisitely modeled buildings' resemblance to the best squares in London.

  Sometimes being a historian could be a bit of a pain, Elizabeth decided, walking to the Hillingses' building. While other people could simply enjoy the beauty of the square, Elizabeth had to imag­ine what a mess the park must have been in 1863, when federal troops had to camp there during the Draft Riots.

  She entered the Hillingses' building, number 34, one of the two original apartment buildings on the square. While the other houses that dominated the square were of English design, Richard M. Hunt had created his own version of French Empire for number 34. It was a gorgeous, soaring old building with an enormous octagonal turret and an octagonal courtyard in the middle. The bay windows and panels of foliated details were original. So was the Tiffany glass dome in the entryway.

  The doorman greeted Elizabeth and the elevator man took her up to the Hillingses' apartment. Their home took up an entire floor. It was a charming but decidedly unusual place since it, like the building, was octagonal in shape. Elizabeth stepped out of the el­evator into a foyer which was a
ctually in the middle of the apartment. To the left was the living room, which overlooked the park. Through an open archway stood a formal dining room, which also overlooked the park. A swinging door led into the kitchen, which looked inside to the courtyard and which, in turn, had a door back out to the foyer.

  Leaving the foyer again, but taking a right led to a study and a powder room, and across the hall, a guest room and bath looking inside to the courtyard. Farther down the hall (which angled off to the right) there was another very small bedroom across the hall, and then, finally, the hallway ended at the entrance to the Hillingses' suite: a bedroom, which looked out to the East River and was linked to the inside by a dressing room and then a bathroom that looked down on the courtyard.

  Despite the building's French design, the Hillingses' taste in fur­niture ran to English, no doubt due to Mrs. Hillings's English Canadian ancestry. The living room's treasures included an eighteenth-century secretary Elizabeth would have given her right arm to own. The rest of the furniture was mostly Empire: dark ma­hogany sofas, settees, and chairs upholstered in rich, faded orange and red. The paintings were mostly by imitators of Turner and other landscape artists. The Persian rugs in the living room and dining room were gorgeous. They had come from Dorothy's grandmoth­er's house in Westmount, Montreal, and, before that, her grand­mother's grandmother's house in Manchester Square, London.

  What really made the apartment was the obvious time and effort that had gone into the lighting design. At the turn of a few dials, what could have easily been a dark and museum-like atmosphere could be illuminated to varying degrees, from a hushed, romantic retreat to a bright and far more contemporary looking house.

  Today, however, there were few lights on at all. Elizabeth found Henry and Millicent Parks in the dining room with papers strewn around them and a strong afternoon sun streaming in. Henry looked exhausted and thin, but Elizabeth was struck by Millicent's fine color and stalwart presence. Obviously it was she who was helping to keep Henry going.

  After Elizabeth was settled at the table with a cup of tea—which the Hillingses' housekeeper, Sasha, poured for her—the three set to business.

  "Okay now, let's see," Henry said, lifting his refilled cup, read­ing glasses perched on the end of his nose. He swallowed and continued. "The noteworthy attendees who've responded are—by the way, Elizabeth, this absolutely cannot reach Dorothy's ears. The doctor said no stress—none—at least until the angioplasty is done." He sighed, dropping his head in his hand. "I'm beginning to wish I hadn't started any of this."

  "We're not backing out now, Hill," Millicent said. When her friend didn't answer, she looked to Elizabeth. "Talk to him. He thinks you're very bright."

  Elizabeth reached over to give his arm a squeeze. "I think, Henry—no, I know—we're all going to feel much better when we find out why ICA has acted the way it has. Your part is nearly over; it's time for us—your friends—to find out for you. And to straighten it all out."

  Henry took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "What kind of lawyer gets his own company taken from him, Elizabeth? Doe kept asking me if I was sure we should do this deal with ICA. She wondered where we'd be if something happened to Ben." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I should have listened."

  "You had only been doing business with ICA for thirty-eight years, Hill!" Millicent said. "How were you to know that nearly four decades of loyalty and honor could be erased overnight?"

  "Where is Ben now?" Elizabeth asked. "Is he coming?"

  "We haven't the slightest idea where he is," Millicent sniffed.

  "I know where he is," Henry said to her.

  "In Bora Bora!" Millicent cried.

  "I know how to find him if I need him," Henry said.

  "Well I should think you'd consider needing him now!" Milli­cent said. "Does he know about Dorothy's heart attack? Or what hap­pened to Hillings & Hillings?" Elizabeth asked Henry.

  "No," he said. He looked at Millicent. "Leave him out of it, Millicent, I'm warning you. His position is too tenuous to involve him either."

  "Well," Elizabeth said, a bit at a loss still about what exactly it was they were to get involved in, "who is coming to this meeting?"

  "Montgomery Grant Smith is definitely coming," Millicent said.

  "Really?" Henry said, eyes brightening. "Monty is? That's won­derful."

  "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know who Montgomery Grant Smith is," Elizabeth said, taking a biscuit from a plate in the center of the table.

  "He's a right-wing buffoon who has overthrown American radio in your absence," Millicent explained.

  Elizabeth was squinting, looking at Henry. "Didn't he write a play or something once?"

  "Good memory," Henry said. "But that was a long time ago. Monty's a political commentator now—"

  "David Brinkley would have a stroke if he heard you say that," Millicent said.

  "He has an enormously successful daily talk show, national," Henry continued. "He does wonderful satire in political sound bites and he can talk a blue streak to prove just about any point he wants to make. And while his focus is political, there is also an unmistak­able entertainment value to his work."

  "In other words," Millicent confided to Elizabeth, "he's a com­plete jackass."

  "Whose book, Visions for America," Henry added, "has been on the best-seller list for two solid years."

  Millicent laughed. "Are you implying that I'm jealous?"

  Clearly, Elizabeth thought, she was.

  "I do not want you insulting him," Henry told his friend. "He's a very busy man and he must have gone to a great deal of trouble to rearrange his schedule to come."

  "Whatever," Millicent said, looking at the list again. "Now, who else do we have coming? We've got Elizabeth here—La Pro­fesora, I like to think of you as, I hope you don't mind. I once wrote a novel where the heroine was a professor in Mexico."

  "The Teacher," Elizabeth said. "I enjoyed it very much."

  Millicent positively beamed. "Oh, did Dorothy send it to you?"

  "No, I bought it," Elizabeth said. "Though, I must admit, Dor­othy did tell me about it."

  Millicent cocked an eyebrow. "Well isn't it wonderfully kind of you, Elizabeth. Thank you." She looked at the list again, a touch of pink in her cheeks.

  Henry turned to Elizabeth and winked. He had guessed right. If there was anyone who could get along with Millicent, it would be Elizabeth.

  "Oh, Hill," Millicent suddenly said. "I heard from that young lady in New Jersey this morning. But I didn't know what to tell her, because you said you'd had second thoughts about whether or not she should participate."

  "Mrs. Kleczak?" Henry said.

  Millicent nodded. "And she says she'll be at the meeting come hell or high water." Pause. "Well, that's not exactly what she said, but that's what she sounded like."

  "I'm sorry," Elizabeth said, "she is ...?"

  "A very talented young housewife who has written a first-rate romantic suspense novel," Henry said. "Doe was just getting ready to sell the book when... everything happened. ICA has already made a move to sell it."

  "Uh-oh," Elizabeth said. "In that case, Mrs. Kleczak may either be extremely loyal or extremely foolhardy. I can't imagine her in­volvement would go over well with ICA." When she saw how concerned Henry looked, she hastily added, "So I'll make sure to keep an eye out for her, Henry. I'll look after her, I promise."

  He gave her a grateful look, which made Elizabeth wince inside. He looked so old and beaten!

  "Oh, heavens, how could I forget?" Millicent said, looking at the list. "The crazy Cubans are coming."

  "We don't have any Cuban clients," Henry said.

  "Of course you do," Millicent said. "Louise and Jordan Wells."

  "The screenwriters?" Elizabeth asked. "I thought they were from Puerto Rico."

  "They are," Henry sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's just that Mil­licent still hasn't forgiven him for spilling tomato juice on her white rug twenty years ago."<
br />
  "He never properly apologized," Millicent said, defending her­self.

  "Perhaps if you hadn't called him Ricky Ricardo, he would have," Henry said.

  “All I know," Millicent said, shrugging, "is the first time I met him his name was Jorge Ricardo or something and he wrote novels, and the next time he was Jordan, of Jordan and Louise Wells, Hollywood TV writers, and he was spilling tomato juice on my new carpet."

  Henry looked even more exhausted than before.

  Millicent returned to her list, smiling happily. "This will make you feel better, Hill—Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres is coming."

  "But ICA is Georgiana's agent," Henry fretted. "She shouldn't get involved in this."

  "Why not? She's a big client of theirs," Millicent said.

  "Well, there are—well," Henry said, "other considerations."

  "Like what?" Millicent asked. "The mother?"

  "Lilliana Bartlett?" Elizabeth said. "Is she a client of yours?"

  "We represented her autobiography years ago," Henry ex­plained. "That's how we became close family friends. Georgiana lived with us for a couple of years while her mother was, well, not up to taking care of her."

  "What on earth could ICA do to poor Lily that she hasn't already done to herself?" Millicent wanted to know.

  "It is not about Lily and I'd prefer to let the whole subject pass," Henry said carefully, which immediately made Elizabeth wonder what he was holding back about Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres.

  "Let's see," Millicent said, looking at the list, "I think that's it for the big guns. The rest of the people coming have names the press will recognize, but don't have any clout—financially, I mean­, with ICA."

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. "I suspect Montgomery Grant Smith might well be our strongest asset. People expect writers and artists and actors and academics to protest the abuses of big busi­ness, but they're not accustomed to hearing conservatives object to it. And so if we could persuade Mr. Smith to be our official spokes­person..." She let her voice trail suggestively.