Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

  Millicent looked at Henry. "My, but she is a bright girl." She turned to Elizabeth. "It's lovely that we have so very much in common."

  Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, it is," she said graciously.

  13

  Elizabeth and Millicent were in perfect agreement; 101 Fifth Avenue was a grand old office building. In the beginning, back in 1947, after Henry decided he hated being a tax lawyer and Dorothy said she needed more to do than sit at home crying because the twins never stopped crying, the Hillingses had leased a tiny office on the second floor.

  "I loved it then," Millicent said, "because for six months I was their only client." She laughed. "I wish you could have been there, Elizabeth. Hill sat behind a small desk, all dressed up. Dorothy sat in a chair next to him in her Sunday best—and the twins sat behind them in their playpen screaming bloody murder. What a lovely agency!"

  It was a particularly funny image for Elizabeth because the only Hillings & Hillings establishment she had ever known was the elegant penthouse offices that took up the entire eleventh floor. She laughed, enjoying Millicent's memory.

  Suddenly Millicent looked at her watch. "We had better go over this once more." Elizabeth nodded quickly. "I go up to the eleventh floor," she began.

  "See if you can tell who's in charge up there," Millicent said. "Tell them you've been out of the country for a long time and you stopped by to surprise the Hillingses and let them know you are back for a nice, long stay."

  "And whom do you suppose I'm going to find up there?" she asked, looking up at the offices.

  "That's what we need you to find out, my girl."

  Elizabeth nodded. "All right then, I best be on my way. Where will you be?"

  "The Book Friends Cafe. It's just around the corner on Eigh­teenth and they have lovely tea."

  "Hello," she said, holding her hand out to the man standing in the doorway of the offices. "I'm Elizabeth Robinson, a client of Hillings & Hillings, and I'm afraid I'm a bit confused as to who you are, exactly."

  "James Stanley Johnson," the young man said, shaking her hand. He was in an expensively cut pin-striped suit, but his jacket was off, his silk tie was loose, his collar unbuttoned, and the expensive white linen sleeves of his shirt were rolled up over his wrists to show a Rolex watch. He was balding, wore wire-rim glasses, tasseled loaf­ers, and was looking very hot, tired, and harassed. Certainly he was a contrast to the Hillings & Hillings staff Elizabeth had always known, the energetic young people at various apprenticeship levels who were always dashing about with friendly efficiency.

  Elizabeth waited a moment and then asked with a nice smile, "And what do you do here, James Stanley Johnson?"

  "Uh," he said, standing there, clearly uncertain as to what to say.

  "May I come in?" Elizabeth asked him.

  "Uh," he said again.

  "Miz Ballicutt wants to see you," a gruff male voice said.

  James Stanley Johnson, using his body to shield the view from Elizabeth, said over his shoulder, "I'll be there in a minute."

  Elizabeth took the opportunity to push the door open and walk into what used to be the gracious reception area of Hillings & Hillings. Today it looked like the set of "Romper Room" gone mad. Books were pulled down from the shelves and boxes and papers were everywhere. The man who had spoken to James Stan­ley Johnson wore dirty gray overalls and looked more like a garage mechanic than an office worker.

  "You can't go in there," James Stanley Johnson said as Elizabeth started toward the hall.

  "Of course I can," she said, walking on, "the Hillingses won't mind." She hurried down the hall, inwardly flinching at what she saw on the way to the Hillingses' connecting offices: file cabinets had been flung open; desk drawers were pulled onto the floor; files, papers, and computer disks were everywhere. Given that the Hill­ingses had always been sticklers for neatness and organization, it was a rather horrifying sight.

  Elizabeth turned the corner and charged into Mrs. Hillings's office, nearly colliding with a woman standing in the middle of the room. She was a very tall redhead, dressed in a sleek dark suit, who whirled around to glare at Elizabeth. But only for a moment, be­cause she recognized her and a smile quickly replaced the frown. "You're Elizabeth Robinson, aren't you?" she said, holding out her hand. "I am an enormous fan of your work."

  "I'm sorry, I missed your name," Elizabeth said, not yet shaking hands.

  "Marion Ballicutt," the woman said, "legal counsel to Interna­tional Communications Artists—and so, I am, in effect, your legal counsel as well."

  "Oh, on the television series," Elizabeth said, taking her hand, "I'm very pleased to meet you."

  "And that's my associate, James Johnson," she gestured to the distressed-looking man standing in the doorway behind Elizabeth.

  "We've met," Elizabeth said, walking across the office, looking around. "If you don't mind my asking, what on earth are you people doing? The Hillingses will have a stroke when they see this mess."

  "We're trying to spare Mrs. Hillings any more stress," Marion said smoothly. "That's why we're consolidating files while she's not here."

  How easy the words come, Elizabeth thought. But then, Marion Ballicutt was a lawyer. "And what do you do, James?" Elizabeth suddenly asked, turn­ing to face him. "Are you also an attorney?"

  He looked first at Marion and then Elizabeth. "I'm ICA's senior accountant," he said quietly.

  "Ah," Elizabeth said, perching on the edge of the windowsill, "doing the books." She looked down at Fifth Avenue and then asked, "And where's everybody else? Henry and Dorothy and Sally and Reb and Blakey and Sid and Jessie?" Only then did she turn around.

  Marion was trying to figure out where Elizabeth's questions were heading. "With the merger," she said carefully, "these offices will no longer be necessary."

  Elizabeth frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "Look," she said, "I hate to be a bother, but since I am a best-selling writer for Hillings & Hillings, you'll have to excuse me if I seem a trifle annoyed. I've been overseas for quite some time, and as far as I knew, when I stopped in today I was stopping in to see my long-time agent and friend Dorothy Billings, and instead I find a lawyer and an accountant tearing her office apart and talking about a merger."

  James looked at Marion. Marion gazed steadily at Elizabeth. "You mean you haven't heard about the merger?"

  "Merger with whom?"

  "ICA," James said.

  "I don't know what the devil you're talking about," Elizabeth lied. "ICA represented us on the movie deal, I know, and my tele­vision program, but this ..." She wrinkled her forehead. "Should I call Ben Rothstein and talk to him?"

  Marion continued to gaze steadily at Elizabeth, meeting her eye. "Mr. Rothstein has retired," she said evenly, "as have the Hill­ingses. Bow long have you been away, exactly?"

  "Long enough, clearly." Elizabeth was looking around again, trying to figure out what was really

  going on here.

  "But all of the Hillingses' clients were sent letters about the merger," Marion said. "Someone had to have signed for yours."

  "Well, I don't know about that," Elizabeth said, lying again. "But I do know that I am finishing a new book and I would certainly appreciate knowing what in God's name is going on around here."

  "Yes, of course," Marion said.

  Elizabeth gestured to a chair. "So perhaps you would be so kind, Marion, as to explain the situation to me. Because if you are, indeed, the legal counsel for ICA, and ICA has taken over Billings & Billings, you should be looking after my interests—isn't that right? And so I would appreciate a full and immediate accounting of what, exactly, is going on."

  "Of course," she said, not missing a beat, "let me give you my card." She pulled one out of her blazer pocket and handed it to Elizabeth. "You should call my office for an appointment, I'm afraid, because I'm due in court within the hour. Otherwise I would be delighted to talk with you now. What bad luck."

  Right, Elizabeth thought, taking her card.

  M
arion Ballicutt and James Stanley Johnson stood there, wait­ing for her to get up. She didn't. "So why don't you talk to me instead, James?" Elizabeth suggested.

  “No," Marion Ballicutt said, "we're leaving now. James has to get back to lCA."

  "Oh, I see." After a moment, Elizabeth smiled and added, "Well, then, I'll just wait so I can walk out with you, because I certainly don't have any place I need to be."

  Elizabeth tore into the Book Friends Cafe and spotted Millicent at a table near the back. With her was a very big man—a little older than herself, perhaps—who was shoveling bites of apple pie and vanilla ice cream into his mouth as she arrived.

  "Elizabeth!" Millicent said, looking relieved. "This is Mont­gomery Grant Smith, the radio talk-show host whom I told you about. I called Hill after we parted and Mr. Smith was there, so I told him he might as well come over." Judging from the expression on Millicent's face, clearly she believed this to have been a mistake.

  Montgomery Grant Smith carefully put his fork down, patted his mouth with his napkin, and hauled himself out of the creaking wooden chair. He was at least six feet three and big.

  "Hello," Elizabeth said, shaking his hand, "it's very nice to meet you."

  "Probably the first and last time any academic ever said that to me," Smith said, shaking her hand. "Please," he said, gesturing to an empty chair. Elizabeth thanked him and sat down. "May I order you something?" he asked, sitting next to her.

  "Tea, please, Earl Grey," she said. "But may I have a sip of your water in the meantime?"

  "It's all yours," he said, sliding it over to her. "So what's going on up there?"

  Elizabeth swallowed and put the glass down. "There was a law­yer named Marion Ballicutt who says she's legal counsel for ICA, and an ICA accountant named James Stanley Johnson—"

  "Quite a day for the pompous," Millicent said. "He sounds like a relative of yours, Montgomery Grant Smith."

  Montgomery Grant Smith ignored Millicent, took out a pen and index card from his inside jacket pocket, and scribbled down the names Elizabeth had mentioned.

  "It looks like they're going through the files," Elizabeth con­tinued. "There's some sort of a workman up there with them. I haven't a clue who he is, but he's a rather mean looking fellow in dirty overalls, the sort one sees at a rundown gas station."

  "Were they packing files, or just looking through them?" Smith asked her, shoveling the last of his sweets in his mouth and drop­ping his fork.

  "I'm not sure, but the place is a mess. I think they've left for the day now. When I made it clear that I was going to stay as long as they did, they all suddenly had appointments, so I waited to go out with them."

  Montgomery Grant Smith considered this a moment and sud­denly heaved himself up from his chair. "I'll see you ladies tomor­row," he said, placing a ten-dollar bill on the table. "There's somebody I've got to talk to about this."

  "I hope your day is as pleasant as you are," Millicent told him.

  Montgomery Grant Smith looked at her. "Likewise, ma'am, I'm sure." Then he looked under the table, muttering, "Good, no pock­etbook this time." To Elizabeth, he bowed, "Ladies," and then he hurried outside where they watched him flag a cab.

  "What was that about a pocketbook?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I cannot possibly imagine," Millicent said haughtily, catching the waiter's eye. "Waiter, bring this young lady a pot of Earl Grey tea, hot, and a scone, please."

  14

  It seemed to Henry Hillings that he had just laid down for a nap when the phone rang. Disoriented, he fumbled, first to find the telephone and then to pick it up. "Hello?"

  "Darling, you're exhausted, I knew it."

  "Doe?" he said.

  "Hi, dear," she said brightly. "I thought I should call you and tell you that I have definitely taken a turn for the better and the doctor quite agrees. I feel much, much better."

  "That's wonderful," he said.

  "Elizabeth's been here all afternoon and evening."

  Evening? Henry looked at the clock. Good God, he had fallen asleep. It was nearly six.

  “We went for a walk around the hospital and it was simply marvelous, just to get a breath of fresh air—"

  "But, Doe, you mustn't overdo—"

  "Well that's just the point, darling, I did overdo and I'm calling to tell you that I'm going to go to bed very early and so you must not come tonight."

  The thought of staying in tonight and having dinner and a quiet glass of wine and then going to bed sounded too good to be true. Lord, he was tired. And so he did not protest as he told his wife he loved her, and that she should call him anytime if she wanted to talk, and that he would see her in the morning.

  "Oh, and, darling?" she said. "That woman Bernadette came again and Elizabeth liked her, too, so I told her she had the job."

  "Oh, that's great, Doe," Henry said. "But let's not rush things."

  "I'm not rushing things," Dorothy said, "I just want to get out of here as soon as I can."

  "I'm not worried about getting you out, darling," Henry as­sured his wife. "I just want to make sure there's someone to help me tie you down when you decide to rebuild the house or something while you're supposedly waiting to get your strength back." They both laughed and said good night.

  Almost as soon as Henry hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was Joshua Lafayette. "Henry," Josh said in his firm young lawyer's voice, "I've got good news and bad news."

  "Did Monty find you?" Henry asked him.

  "That's the good news. He was not only here, but he's hired a private investigator to watch your offices. Evidently Elizabeth Rob­inson was up there today—"

  "Yes, I know all about that," Henry said. "What is the bad news?"

  "Montgomery Grant Smith absolutely refuses to work with Millicent Parks. He came barreling in here today insisting that Millicent is a doddering old lefty and that somebody has to take charge before she wrecks everything. On top of everything else, he claims she tripped him with her pocketbook on some podium in Chicago a few years ago." Pause. "He fell into someone's lunch?”

  And who does Monty think should take charge of the clients' meeting?" Henry asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Montgomery Grant Smith, of course," Josh said. "And I don't mind telling you, Henry, I'm not sure even I can put up with that kind of arrogance."

  "Monty's?" Henry asked.

  "Montgomery Grant Smith's and Millicent Parks's," Josh said. "Henry, you have to do something. I see disaster written all over those two."

  "Elizabeth? Is that you?" Henry called later that night when he heard the front door close.

  "Yes," she called. And in a moment, she appeared in the study doorway, smiling. "She really is on the mend, Henry. It's a won­derful sight to behold. I think she'll sail through this angioplasty procedure."

  "Let us hope so," he sighed, smiling.

  "But now she's worried about you," Elizabeth added. "And I must admit, I am a bit concerned myself about the strain you've been under."

  "I am too, Elizabeth, and that's why I wish to speak to you. Sit down, please."

  Some three hours later, Elizabeth was on the telephone, leaving a message on Montgomery Grant Smith's hotel voice mail.

  "Hello, Montgomery, this is Elizabeth Robinson calling," she said. "If you get in before, say, midnight, would you please call me at the Hillingses'?" She repeated one of the Gramercy Park apartment's three phone numbers and hung up. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned to look at Henry. "You under­stand that I am a teacher by nature, not a general?" she asked him.

  "Oh, of course, Elizabeth," Henry said, straightening the pile of papers he had gone over with her. "And that I don't know half of these people, even by reputa­tion?"

  "I understand that."

  "And that the legal parts of things—

  Joshua will handle," Henry said. "You call him whenever you need him. He'll be there every step of the way."

  "And Montgomery—"

  "You will use
him, but keep him in check. I'm sure you can manage it, Elizabeth, I have every confidence. Millicent, too."

  "Henry," she said, looking at him.

  "Yes?" He looked old. And so very tired.

  Elizabeth went over and wrapped her arms around him. "I love you," she said. "But you must swear to me that you will absent yourself entirely from all this and get some rest. You cannot go on like this."

  "You have my word," he said. He hesitated and then kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Elizabeth, from the bottom of my heart. With you around, I know I need not worry."

  Elizabeth could only hope to God he was right. Functioning in the everyday world was certainly not her strong point.

  15

  It had been a most unsatisfactory day for Monty, full of unpleas­ant surprises. The first was how terrible Henry Hillings looked. When Monty saw him at the Gramercy Park apartment his imme­diate thought had been, He's going to die if he keeps this up. Henry's cheeks were hollow, he had violet bags under his eyes, and his pallor seemed nearly as gray as his hair. And so right then and there Monty realized he had no choice but to straighten this mess out for the Hillingses, which meant staying in New York for as long as it took.

  Millicent Parks was the second unpleasant surprise. He had restrained himself from murdering her three years ago when she tripped him on the podium at that book and author luncheon and sent him crashing down onto Susan Isaacs' lunch, but he wasn't so sure he could restrain himself now. So if he was to straighten out this Hillings & Hillings-ICA mess, the first thing he needed to do was send that Parks woman back to wherever she had come from.

  As for the professor woman, Elizabeth Robinson, he wasn't sure what to make of her. She certainly looked more like Katharine Hepburn than any kind of historian Monty had ever met. His hopes for her ability to work with him, however, were not high; she was good-looking, an academic, a writer, and rich, and so he did not have to ask what her politics would likely be.