Millionaire's Woman
She sounded half disapproving, half curious. “There’s no time for fun if you want to succeed in business,” he told her. “You’re competing to stay alive in a ruthless environment. But the reward is huge.”
She accepted a glass of champagne from him but didn’t drink. “Money, you mean?”
He nodded.
Her mouth formed a little moue of distaste, drawing his gaze to her pursed lips, but before she could say anything, a booming voice called his name. Turning, he saw Ethel Palermo bulldozing her way through the crowd, her meek little husband, George, trailing behind. With an inward sigh, he introduced Eleanor, but Ethel paid little attention.
“Is your sister here?” she demanded.
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Hmmph.” Ethel’s snort was full of disapproval. “I talked to her this afternoon. She said she was leaving on a cruise tomorrow and had to finish packing. I reminded her how important it is to support the symphony, and she said she would try to come.”
“Maybe Doreen succumbed to one of her headaches,” Garek said. “She has them frequently, you know.” Most frequently when faced with the thought of spending three hours at the symphony.
“Hmmph.” Ethel adjusted the diamond tiara nestled in her silver, beehive hairdo, then inspected Eleanor with sharp eyes. “Eleanor Hernandez? I’ve never heard of you.”
With an easy smile, Eleanor responded, “There’s no reason you should have.”
To Garek’s surprise, she continued, conversing pleasantly with the older woman. After just a few minutes, Ethel was telling “Ellie” about her three sons—all of them ungrateful slobs—her daughter—a constant source of disappointment—and her ten grandchildren—all amazingly beautiful, intelligent and talented. When Ethel revealed that the oldest showed a remarkable talent for art, Ellie mentioned her gallery experience and talked about ways to encourage the child.
“Although talent is often inherited, it must be nurtured,” she said seriously. “Are you or your husband creative?”
Ethel nodded. “I’ve always liked art. And George plays the violin.”
Ellie turned to George, a smile lighting her face. “You do? My father also played. What did you think of the soloist?”
“I thought his improvisation was weak. It lacked passion.”
“Oh, no! The passion was there. It was just very restrained—very subtle.”
“Subtle?” A spark lit up George’s normally glazed blue eyes and his nasal twang grew more pronounced. “Nonexistent, I thought…”
Perhaps it was just a fluke, Garek thought as he listened to George happily dissecting the performances of the whole orchestra, that Ellie had managed to charm the most difficult couple in Chicago.
But the same thing happened with the Branwells, the biggest snobs west of the Mississippi, and again with the Mitchells, a couple whose doomsday conversation would scare even the most determined optimist.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said in a neutral tone of voice when they were alone for a moment.
“Yes, I am.”
“You certainly handled the Palermos well. I’ve seen veteran society hostesses tottering off in a daze after an encounter with them.”
“Oh?” She rearranged her shawl over her arms. “I found them very interesting.”
“Interesting?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his tone. “George and Ethel Palermo?”
She tilted her chin a little. “Yes—why not? George is virtually an expert on the symphony, and Ethel had a lot of interesting insights on her family.”
“And the Branwells and the Mitchells? Did you find them interesting, as well?”
She nodded, then looked at someone behind him. He turned to see Jack Phillips, an old business acq
uaintance, approaching—along with a tall, thin blonde dressed in black satin.
“Garek, darling!” Amber Bellair cooed. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Garek shrugged and performed the introductions.