With a dramatic sigh, my mother melts into a chair like a character in a Victorian novel, and I half expect her to call for smelling salts. She’s wearing an expression of devastation.
It’s nothing I can help, though.
I sit down just as my uncle and his son breeze through the door, followed by Jacobs, the elderly CEO of our foundation. “We can get started,” Harmon says with the manner of someone who’s terribly important.
At the head of the table, Jacobs opens his leather folder. Then he reads the same spiel he uses at every single meeting. “The agenda shall proceed as follows: I will provide a summary of results for last quarter. Then we will move on to considering proposals for next quarter.”
I zone out for a few minutes while he lists some facts and figures. I picture Charli on her bus with all her teammates. That’s my happy thought. I hear the team has a solid chance against Boston, and that they’re a lock for the playoffs.
When my phone buzzes with a text, Charli is the first person I think of. Even though I know better, I pull it out for a peek.
But the two-word message is from Vera. You’re welcome.
Hmm. I don’t remember asking Vera for anything.
“Neil?”
I sit up straight in my chair. “Sorry. Yes?”
“He’s taking attendance,” my mother says sourly.
“Oh. Present.”
The CEO checks me off. “Paisley Drake?”
“Present,” my sister chirps.
“Charlotte Fern Higgins Drake?” he drones. Then he waits, as if Charli might materialize before us.
It’s like that Ferris Bueller movie. I sigh. “She is otherwise engaged.”
“All right, then.” The CEO lifts his pen. “Let the attendance record show that six of the seven eligible—”
The door opens, and I glance up, expecting to see the receptionist with a cappuccino. But that is not who steps through the door.
Maybe I’m having a very intense hallucination, because there’s a beautiful doppelgänger for Charli standing there in a dead-sexy red suit, red lipstick, and smoky eyes. She’s also wearing silky stockings and shiny black heels.
She’s even wearing a dapper black hat, which she removes as she takes us in. She looks like a female sexpot from the Mad Men era.
She looks like a wet dream.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” Charli announces to a room full of gaping stares. “Where shall I sit?” She puts a hand on her hip and gives me an arch look.
I leap out of my chair as if my ass were on fire. “R-right here. I’ll get another one.”
She gives me a cat-like smile and waltzes around the table to stand before me. “Good afternoon, doll. Where’s my kiss hello?”
Doll. I break out in a wide, stupid smile. And as the whole room watches, I lean in and take that perfect mouth.
Charli’s green gaze hovers beneath me, a smile in her eyes as I press her with a significantly horny (yet PG) kiss. God, how I’ve missed her. It gives me physical pain to straighten up again instead of pulling her into my arms.
With a knowing smile, she reaches a hand up to my face. “Bit of lipstick,” she says naughtily as her thumb slowly cruises my hungry mouth. “There. All set.”
Then she winks.
Good thing my suit jacket conceals my boner. She is wearing some kind of perfume that intensifies her lemony scent. I just want to heft her over my shoulder and carry her out of here.
But first things first. “Sit, wifey.” I offer my chair.
“Thank you,” she says in a saucy voice. “Now somebody pass me a set of papers, please. Let’s do this philanthropy thing! My first board meeting. So exciting.”
I want to shout with laughter, but I rein it in somehow as two executive assistants hurry in. One of them is pushing an extra chair, and the other carries a tray full of coffee cups and—is that a martini?
The drink is set in front of Charli. “Thank you. This looks delicious.”
The CEO clears his throat. “Charlotte Fern Higgins Drake?” he calls.
Charli lifts her cocktail, takes a sip and then sets it down. “Present!” she says when she’s good and ready.
God, I love her.
I really do love her.
That’s going to scare the crap out of her when I admit it.
I take another long glance, drinking her in. On second thought, maybe it won’t scare the crap out of her. Charli looks steady as a rock.
The CEO turns a page in his folder and starts the business part of the meeting. “First major contribution, proposed by Frederic Drake—a hundred thousand dollars to the Stanford Alumni Fund, earmarked for a new parking lot behind the business school. Naming rights guaranteed.”
“I’ll second it,” my uncle says.
Charli holds up the proposal from her packet. “A parking lot? Am I to assume that someone in this room attended Stanford Business School?”
My cousin raises his hand. “I did. It’s a worthy institution in California. You can look it up.”
Charli sips her martini. “And you believe that a parking lot with your name over it is the best possible use of a hundred thousand dollars? I’ll bet they’d name an entire university after you if you used that money to feed hungry children in Yemen. That’s a worthy country on the Arabian Peninsula. You can look it up.”
My mother claps a hand over her mouth, and my sister allows a snort of glee.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “I think Charli’s made a point. I’m not feeling the love for Stanford Business School today. Shall we vote?”
“All in favor!” the CEO says.
Three hands on the opposite side of the table go up. Four hands on our side of the table stay down.
“Motion fails to pass,” the CEO says. “The next resolution concerns fifty thousand dollars for a horse-riding therapy program for disabled children in New York State. Proposal by Paisley Drake.”
“I’ll second it,” my mother says.
Charli skims that page of the packet. “Huh. I think horses are terrifying. But you do you.”
“Shall we vote?” I ask.
“All in favor!” the CEO calls.
Four hands on our side of the table go up. “This is super fun,” Charli says as the other three hands stay down.
“Motion passes,” the CEO says. “Next item—”
“We get it,” my uncle snaps. “You made your point. Now let’s compromise. What do you all want?”
My mother is ready for the question. She pulls a sheet of paper out of her leather folio. “I want full control of my trust. You’ll resign as executor, appointing me. Here is the paperwork.” She pushes it into the center of the table, in reach of my uncle.
My uncle doesn’t reach for it. Not yet. Instead, he pulls another sheet from his folder. Then he points a finger at my wife. “If I sign that, she resigns. Then we’d be even again.”
Charli glances at me. I give her a tiny nod.
She reaches for my uncle’s paper. “On the count of three? I’ll sign if you will.”
Then? She curls her foot around mine under the table and slides her toe up my leg.
Yeah, there is a non-zero chance that this is all a fantastic dream. But I sure hope it’s real.