Her Man Friday(21)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

"Janey," Lily said when the other woman breezed past her without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. "Have you met Mr. Freiberger? He works for your brother."

Then, not wanting to exclude Schuyler’s mother—well, Lily often wanted to exclude Miranda Kimball from things, but it would be frightfully impolite to do so—she turned her body to include the other woman in the introduction, as well. "Mrs. Kimball," she added, "this is Leonard Freiberger, an employee of Kimball Technologies. Mr. Freiberger, Mrs. Miranda Kimball and Miss Jane Kimball."

"Mrs. Kimball," Mr. Freiberger stated formally, dipping his head first toward Schuyler’s mother in greeting. "How do you do?"

Miranda lifted a hand to press her fingertips lightly against her temple, then sighed with a melodrama that put her daughter’s affectations to shame. Her attire, too, rivaled Janey’s in the Golden Age of Hollywood department—a flowing, silver lame caftan with matching turban, and enormous rings on each of her fingers. Norma Desmond had nothing on Miranda Kimball in the wardrobe department, Lily thought. And not in the insanity department, either.

"I’m afraid I’m not well at all, Mr. Freiberger," Miranda said in a much-put-upon voice. "But thankfully, Montgomery has come to help me with my problems. He’s been very helpful."

Somehow, Lily refrained from expelling a rude snort of disbelief. She couldn’t stop what she knew would come next, however, and steeled herself for Mr. Freiberger’s inescapable query, followed by Miranda’s insipid reply.

"Montgomery?" he asked.

Miranda nodded. "Montgomery Clift."

To his credit, Mr. Freiberger only arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Montgomery Clift is a guest at Ashling? Forgive me, Mrs. Kimball, but I was under the impression that Montgomery Clift was, uh… somewhat incapacitated these days."

"Oh, no, Mr. Freiberger," Miranda assured him. "He’s not incapacitated. He’s dead."

After only a slight hesitation on his part, God bless the man, Mr. Freiberger replied, "And you don’t consider death an incapacitation?"

Miranda tittered prettily. "Oh, no, certainly not. In fact, there’s nothing more liberating. Why, in death, one can travel anywhere."

"And I believe," Lily interjected quickly, before Miranda could start off on the whole astral plane thing, "you’ve already made the acquaintance of Mr. Kimball’s sister, Jane."

Beside Miranda, Janey sighed with much impatience. "Yes, yes, we’ve already met," she agreed shortly, carelessly sweeping a gloved hand down the front of her pale yellow chiffon dress.

Chiffon gown, Lily corrected herself automatically, not dress. Janey never wore dresses—only gowns. Gowns and gloves and big ol’ hats that could put a person’s eye out if they weren’t careful, like the vast, botanically enhanced one she was wearing at the moment. Honestly, Lily thought, she might as well plant shrubbery in that thing.

"He’s one-forty-two," Janey continued with a quick gesture toward Mr. Freiberger, using the same tone of voice she might use if stating that he were currently covered with slugs. "I have nothing to say to him. Nothing at all."

Then she spun around again and made her way to the bar on the other side of the room. With a watery smile, Miranda followed her daughter, which was just as well, Lily thought, because they both became much more tolerable after a cocktail or two. Well, after Lily had a cocktail or two—or ten—anyway.

She couldn’t quite mask her surprise—nor her interest—when she turned back to Mr. Freiberger. "Are you really one-forty-two?" she asked before she could stop herself. "That’s extraordinary."

He eyed her in confusion for a moment. But before she could elaborate, he suddenly nodded his understanding. "Oh, the IQ thing," he said modestly. "I thought she was talking about my weight. Which is actually one-ninety-eight. It’s all solid rock, though," he hastened to add, his voice reflecting his concern that she might find the number excessive where poundage, other than of the mental variety, was concerned.

Solid rock, Lily reiterated to herself. Right. To think that she might need a reminder of such a thing.

"Schuyler’s IQ is one-hundred-and-ninety-seven," Lily said, wondering what made her offer up the information. It wasn’t as if the two men were competing, after all.

But Mr. Freiberger evidently didn’t see it quite that way, because he straightened to an even more impressive height than usual and said, "Oh, yeah? And can he bench press his IQ the way I can mine?"

She smiled, striving for a benign expression. "I have no idea, Mr. Freiberger. I would think not, seeing as how Mr. Kimball prefers swimming and tennis over brute force athletics."

He seemed to deflate some at her suggestion that she found brute force unappealing. But even deflated, Leonard Freiberger was quite an intimidating specimen of manhood.

Unable to help herself—he did look so dejected, after all—Lily added, "I myself, however, think that there may be something to be said for brute force on occasion."

Mr. Freiberger brightened some at that, straightening to his full height once again. "Oh, yeah?"

She managed a brief nod and congratulated herself for not acting on her impulse to leap into his arms and claim him as her very own personal love monkey in the most basic, primitive way imaginable, with her own show of brute force. "So long as it’s performed in moderation, naturally," she added faintly.

"Well, that goes without saying," he agreed.

For some reason, she suddenly began to grow warm again, and decided that it might be wise to discontinue their discussion—at least while other people were present. So instead, she gestured over her shoulder toward the bar and asked, "Would you care for a cocktail before dinner, Mr. Freiberger?"

"That would be nice, thank you, Miss Rigby. Scotch, if you have it."

She smiled again. "Why, Mr. Freiberger. You forget whose home you’re in. Don’t you read the papers? Schuyler Kimball has everything."

Leo watched with much interest as the delectable Miss Rigby spun around and made her way across the dining room—dining room being a deceptive term, as far as he was concerned. Veterans Stadium might have been a more accurate one. With a single, quick assessment, he’d come to the conclusion that the square footage on the room where Schuyler Kimball took his meals was larger than that of Leo’s entire townhouse.

He shook his head in silent disbelief. In addition to having an IQ up there with da Vinci’s, the man had more money than God. Eleven billion dollars. That was what Schuyler Kimball was worth. Certainly Leo had already known that before coming to Ashling, but witnessing the physical evidence of such enormous wealth was more than a little awe-inspiring. The idea that one individual could possess billions of dollars was almost incomprehensible. To think that the man could spend ten billion dollars and still be a billionaire… To think about what ten billion dollars could buy… To imagine how many people could be fed and housed and clothed with ten billion dollars, and Kimball would still be a billionaire…