A Season of Miracles

She watched them go, then walked around to her desk and sat, still staring at the door. She groaned aloud and dropped her head into her hands.

The tarot card reader.

The nightmare. The feeling of burning…

And now her family and friends being entirely bizarre.

Like Alice, she might as well have fallen down a hole.

Her world was going mad.

CHAPTER 4

There was a meeting that morning. At eleven a.m., Jillian found herself in the conference room with her grandfather and all her cousins.

It was a family affair, except that Robert Marston and the artist who’d created the sketch Eileen and Theo had discussed, Brad Casey, had also been invited.

Jillian had heard—via Connie, who had heard it from Daniel’s secretary, Gracie Janner—that Douglas, Theo and Daniel had already met earlier. Now the whole family had been brought together.

She didn’t think her grandfather had been planning on this meeting earlier. She’d seen him briefly at the breakfast table that morning, since he’d been finishing up when she’d come down. He looked good—even at his age, he was tall and straight as an arrow—but there had been concern on his features when he’d poured milk over his cornflakes and said, “I heard you had a bad dream last night.”

“Halloween. I guess I’m still impressionable,” she had tossed back lightly.

He hadn’t pressed the point, which had worried her a bit.

Now, he was staring at her down the length of the beautiful hardwood conference table. “I guess everyone knows what’s going on here,” he said, watching her. “Except for you. And Robert.”

She looked around uneasily, feeling a strange sense that maybe everyone really had gone mad and she had been brought here to be told she was to marry Marston or else be thrown to the wolves—whatever form of wolves still lurked in Manhattan, that is.

She didn’t doubt that there were many.

“Douglas, I—”

“It’s about our next ad campaign.”

“What?” she breathed, feeling instantly at sea. Whatever he was getting at, it was nothing she’d been expecting.

“I have to hand it to Eileen and Theo. They saw the possibilities first.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I, Douglas. What’s up?” Marston asked.

He was seated to her left. Cool, smooth, impeccable. A powerful, neatly manicured hand wrapped around his coffee cup.

“Brad, show the sketches, please.”

Brad Casey was a nice guy. Tall, slim, with thinning, long blond hair, he had a gift for taking a spoken concept and translating it onto paper. He flushed uncomfortably as he rose from his position at the far end of the table and lifted the cover from an easel. Jillian gasped.

He had drawn her. In an incredibly flattering way. She was sure she was far more electric in his sketch than she had ever been in life. She was looking at a man, her eyes alive, conveying a warmth that seemed to come from the soul, as he fastened a locket around her throat. The entire image was stunning. It captured something more than the giving of a special gift to a special person. It seemed to evoke the very essence of two people together, living for one another, understanding the gift not so much of a locket, but of love. The very best, and most tender, of human emotions.

“Wow. That’s—that’s outstanding, Brad,” she said softly. “And extremely flattering, by the way. Thank you.”

She made sure to add the last. He was a brilliant artist, but never really convinced of his talent. A capable man, but often very shy.

His flush deepened.

“Well, of course, it is idealized—” Eileen began.

“Jillian glows,” Daniel said.

“Just like Rudolph’s nose,” Griff said cheerfully.

The others stared at him.

“Show the next sketch, Brad,” Douglas advised, breaking the silence.

Brad flipped the page. This time, it was a beach setting. She stood by a palm tree. Branches and fronds dipped over her head; the ocean rolled ahead of her. It was dusk, hues of incredible beauty captured on the page. One hand was on the tree, the other reaching for the man coming toward her.

She almost choked.

It was Robert Marston.

She couldn’t look at him. She felt deeply humiliated, as if he had been paid to come here—for her.

“Grandfather, did you—”

“No. Brad admits to using you as his model, but he didn’t know Robert, so that likeness is purely coincidental,” Douglas informed her.

Marston was studying Brad with his fathomless dark eyes. “Quite a coincidence,” he commented.

“Yes, sir,” Brad said. His eyes touched Jillian’s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. We usually hire models, though we’ve been doing more and more on computer lately, but when I heard what type of feeling they wanted…really, it was me. Just me. And I’m truly sorry.”

It was an incredible speech for Brad Casey, who looked even more desperately miserable than she felt.

“No, no, Brad, what you did is…incredibly flattering, as I said. I’m certainly not angry with you.”

Douglas leaned forward, hands folded on the meeting table, powder-blue eyes steady on hers. “We think it’s incredible. An accidental piece of genius. What better way to promote Llewellyn Enterprises than with a real Llewellyn? We want to make this the centerpiece of a major campaign. Naturally, though, it has to be all right with you. And Robert.”

“They’re wonderful sketches. And if you think that they’ll increase sales, by all means, use them,” she said, though she still felt shaken by the power of the art.

“It’s more than that, Jillian,” Eileen said, sitting forward. “You’d have to be really out there.”

“Really out there…how?” she enquired.

“A campaign, Jill. We want to do a campaign. We want to do some stills, maybe some TV ads. Theo was the first to see it. The sketches are just the beginning.”

Jillian must have been looking at Theo blankly, because he added, “We’re hoping to get you on some of the talk shows.”