Mistress of the Game
Lexi asked to see the letter.
“I didn’t know you and Gabe were that close.” She felt unaccountably jealous.
“We were friends. But I never would have expected anything like this. To be blunt, it’s not as if I need the money. Gabe knew that.”
“One always needs the money, Robert,” said Paolo firmly. “I intend to become shamefully extravagant in my old age. Don’t force me to leave you for someone younger and richer, chéri.”
Robbie laughed. Lexi couldn’t.
I’ve been asked to come to the reading of his will.
His will.
He really is dead.
Robbie hated lawyers’ offices. They reminded him of sitting opposite Lionel Neuman as a teenager, the old man’s rabbit face twitching as Robbie renounced his inheritance. What dark days those had been. And how happy he was now. Walking away from Kruger-Brent was the best decision he’d ever made. Even so, attorneys still scared him, and Frederick Jansen was no exception. One look at Jansen’s severe, dark suit and craggy face crisscrossed with lines, like a clay bust left too long in the sun, and Robbie felt like a naughty kid again. It didn’t help that the five other men in the room had all worn suits. Robbie, in jeans and an L.A. Philharmonic T-shirt, felt like a fool.
“The bulk of Mr. McGregor’s assets were held in a family trust.” Jansen droned on. The legalese washed over Robbie: “intestate…tax efficient structures…trustees making provision…distinguishing between bequests and wishes…” A few words took root in his brain, among them charitable endowments. When Gabe wrote his will, he’d expected to be survived by his children. In the event that he was not, his wealth was to be divided among a select group of charities, including the Templeton/ Cozmici AIDS Foundation.
“Sorry. If I could just interrupt you for a moment.”
The lawyer looked at Robbie as if he were asking permission to deflower his daughter.
“How much, er…how much exactly would our foundation be in line for?”
Frederick Jansen’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Was this man a fool? Had he not read paragraph six, point d, subsection viii?
“The percentage of Mr. McGregor’s tax-deductible bequest-”
“Sorry again.” Robbie held up his hand, his heart hammering. “I’m not very good with percentages. If you could give me an overall number. You know. Ballpark.”
“Ballpark?” Frederick Jansen’s jowls quivered with distaste. He couldn’t imagine what had possessed his client to leave so much money to this vulgar, American queer. “Mr. Templeton, as is explicit in the document before you, your foundation stands to receive a lump sum in the region, the ballpark, if you will, of twenty-five million U.S. dollars. Now, if we could be allowed to move on with the reading?”
The lawyer repositioned his reading glasses and resumed his monologue, but Robbie was no longer listening. Twenty-five million! It was an astonishingly generous bequest from a man with his own charity to support. If there was a heaven, Gabe McGregor must undoubtedly be in it.
“Excuse me, Mr. Jansen.” A nervous, plain-looking mouse of a woman appeared in the doorway. Robbie thought: Poor thing. I wouldn’t be this fella’s secretary for all the tea in China. “There’s a gentleman here to see you.”
Frederick Jansen’s sour expression soured still further.
“Sarah. I made it perfectly clear I was not to be interrupted under any circumstances.”
“Yes, sir. But-”
“ Any circumstances! Are you deaf?”
“No, sir. But the thing is, sir…”
She got no further. A man appeared in the doorway. Frederick Jansen’s mouth fell open. The papers slipped from his hands and fluttered slowly to the floor, like feathers.
“Hello, Fred.” Gabe smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Frederick Jansen knew Gabriel McGregor as a client. The other suits in the room had all dealt with him through their businesses or charities. Only Robbie knew Gabe as a friend. Jumping to his feet, he threw his arms around him.
“You sure know how to make an entrance! I suppose this means I won’t get my twenty-five mil?”
Robbie joked in order to break the tension and to hide his own shock. Gabe looked terrible. He’d always been so big, a great, friendly bear of a man. The man standing in front of Robbie now had visibly shrunk. He must have lost fifty pounds. His face looked sunken and aged. But the biggest shock of all was his hair. The thick blond mop of old was gone. Gabe’s hair had turned completely white.
“Let’s just say you won’t get it yet. Listen, Robbie, can you do me a favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“I’m pretty sure some people in the lobby recognized me when I came in.”
Robbie thought, I wouldn’t bank on it.
“The press’ll be here in a minute. I can’t go home. Any chance I could hide out with you and Paolo for a while?”
“Of course. As long as…” Robbie hesitated, not sure how to put it. “You’re sure it wouldn’t bring back too many painful memories?”
Gabe and Tara had stayed at Robbie’s compound last summer with their children. It had been a magical vacation for all of them.
Gabe was touched by Robbie’s concern. “It’s okay. The memories aren’t painful. They’re all I have.”
“Fine, then. In that case, let’s get out of here.”
Robbie had a hundred and one questions he wanted to ask Gabe. Me and the rest of the world . But they could wait. The main thing was to get him home and fed, away from the prying eyes of the media.