It Had to Be You Part 1

It Had to Be You.

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips.

1.

Phoebe Somerville outraged everyone by bringing a French poodle and a Hungarian lover to her father's funeral. She sat at the gravesite like a fifties movie queen with the small white poodle perched in her lap and a pair of rhinestone-studded cat's-eye sungla.s.ses shielding her eyes. It was difficult for the mourners to decide who looked more out of place-the perfectly clipped poodle sporting a pair of matching peach satin ear bows, Phoebe's unbelievably handsome Hungarian with his long, beaded ponytail, or Phoebe herself.

Phoebe's ash blond hair, artfully streaked with platinum, swooped down over one eye like Marilyn Monroe's in The SevenYear Itch. The SevenYear Itch. Her moist, full lips, painted a delicious shade of peony pink, were slightly parted as she gazed toward the shiny black casket that held what was left of Bert Somerville. She wore an ivory suit with a silky, quilted jacket, but the outrageous gold metallic Her moist, full lips, painted a delicious shade of peony pink, were slightly parted as she gazed toward the shiny black casket that held what was left of Bert Somerville. She wore an ivory suit with a silky, quilted jacket, but the outrageous gold metallic bustier bustier beneath was more appropriate to a rock concert than a funeral. And the slim skirt, belted with loops of gold chain (one of which sported a dangling fig leaf) was slit at the side to the middle of her shapely thigh. beneath was more appropriate to a rock concert than a funeral. And the slim skirt, belted with loops of gold chain (one of which sported a dangling fig leaf) was slit at the side to the middle of her shapely thigh.

This was the first time Phoebe had been back in Chicago since she'd run away when she was eighteen, so only a few of the mourners present had ever met Bert Somerville's prodigal daughter. From the stories they'd heard, however, none of them were surprised that Bert had disinherited her. What father would want to pa.s.s on his estate to a daughter who'd been the mistress of a man more than forty years her senior, even if that man had been the noted Spanish painter, Arturo Flores? And then there was the embarra.s.sment of the paintings. To someone like Bert Somerville, naked pictures were naked pictures, and the fact that the dozens of abstract nudes Flores had executed of Phoebe now graced the walls of museums all over the world hadn't softened his judgment.

Phoebe had a slender waist and slim, shapely legs, but her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips were plump and womanly, a throw-back to an almost forgotten time when women had looked like women. She had a bad girl's body, the sort of body that, even at thirty-three, could just as well have been displayed with a staple through the navel as hanging on a museum wall. It was a bimbo's body-never mind that the brain inside was highly intelligent, since Phoebe was the sort of woman who was seldom judged by anything except appearances.

Her face wasn't any more conventional than her body. There was something off-kilter about the arrangement of her features, although it was difficult to say exactly what since her nose was straight, her mouth well formed, and her jaw strong. Perhaps it was the outrageously s.e.xy tiny black mole that sat high on her cheekbone. Or maybe it was her eyes. Those who had seen them before she'd slipped on her rhinestone sungla.s.ses had noted the way they tilted upward at the corners, too exotic, somehow, to fit with the rest of her face. Arturo Flores had frequently exaggerated those amber eyes, sometimes painting them larger than her hips, sometimes superimposing them over her wonderful b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Throughout the funeral, Phoebe seemed cool and composed, despite the fact that the July air was heavy with humidity. Even the rushing waters of the nearby DuPage River, which ran through several of Chicago's western suburbs, didn't provide any relief from the heat. A dark green canopy shaded both the gravesite and the rows of chairs set up for the dignitaries in a semicircle around the black ebony casket, but the canopy wasn't large enough to shelter everyone attending, and much of the well-dressed crowd was standing in the sun, where they'd begun to wilt, not only from the humidity but also from the overpowering scent of nearly a hundred floral arrangements. Luckily, the ceremony had been short, and since there was no reception afterward, they could soon head for their favorite watering holes to cool off and secretly rejoice in the fact that Bert Somerville's number had come up instead of their own.

The shiny black casket rested above the ground on a green carpet that had been laid directly in front of the place where Phoebe was sitting between her fifteen-year-old half sister, Molly, and her cousin Reed Chandler. The polished lid held a star-shaped floral spray of white roses embellished with sky blue and gold ribbons, the colors of the Chicago Stars, the National Football League franchise Bert had bought ten years earlier.

When the ceremony ended, Phoebe cradled the white poodle in her arms and rose to her feet, stepping into a shaft of sunlight that sparked the gold metallic threads of her bustier bustier and set the rhinestone frames of her cat's-eye sungla.s.ses afire. The effect was unnecessarily dramatic for a woman who was already quite dramatic enough. and set the rhinestone frames of her cat's-eye sungla.s.ses afire. The effect was unnecessarily dramatic for a woman who was already quite dramatic enough.

Reed Chandler, Bert's thirty-five-year-old nephew, got up from his chair next to her and walked over to place a flower on the casket. Phoebe's half sister Molly followed self-consciously. Reed gave every appearance of being grief-stricken, although it was an open secret that he would inherit his uncle's football team. Phoebe dutifully placed her own flower on her father's coffin and refused to let the old bitterness return. What was the use? She hadn't been able to win her father's love while he was alive, and now she could finally give up the effort. She reached out to give a comforting touch to the young half sister who was such a stranger to her, but Molly pulled away, just as she always did whenever Phoebe tried to get close to her.

Reed returned to her side, and Phoebe instinctively recoiled. Despite all the charity boards he now served on, she couldn't forget what a bully he had been as a child. She quickly turned away from him, and in a breathless, slightly husky voice that fit her chicky-boom body almost too perfectly, she addressed those around her.

"So nice of you to attend. Especially in this awful heat. Viktor, sweetie, would you take Pooh?"

She held out the small white poodle to Viktor Szabo, who was driving the women crazy, not just because of his exotic good looks, but because there was something hauntingly familiar about this gorgeous hunk of a Hungarian. A few of them correctly identified him as the model who posed, hair undone, oiled muscles bulging, and zipper open, in a national advertising campaign for men's jeans.

Viktor took the dog from her. "Of course, my darling," he replied in an accent that, although noticeable, was less p.r.o.nounced than that of any of the Gabor sisters, who had lived in the States many decades longer than he had.

"My pet," Phoebe purred, not at Pooh, but at Viktor.

Privately Viktor thought Phoebe was pushing it a bit, but he was Hungarian and inclined to be pessimistic, so he blew a kiss in her direction and regarded her soulfully while he settled the poodle in his arms and arranged his posture best to display his perfectly sculpted body. Occasionally he moved his head so that the light caught the sparkle of silver beads discreetly woven into the dramatic ponytail that fell a quarter of the way down his back.

Phoebe extended a slim-fingered hand whose long, peony-pink nails were tipped with crescents of white toward the portly U.S. Senator who had approached her and regarded him as if he were a particularly delectable piece of beefcake. "Senator, thank you so much for coming. I know how busy you must be, and you're a perfect honey."

The senator's plump, gray-haired wife shot Phoebe a suspicious look, but when Phoebe turned to greet her, the woman was surprised at the warmth and friendliness in her smile. Later, she would notice that Phoebe Somerville seemed more relaxed with the women than the men. Curious for such an obvious s.e.xpot. But then it was a strange family.

Bert Somerville had a history of marrying Las Vegas showgirls. The first of them, Phoebe's mother, had died years before while trying to give birth to the son Bert craved. His third wife, Molly's mother had lost her life in a small plane accident thirteen years earlier on the way to Aspen, where she was planning to celebrate her divorce. Only Bert's second wife was still living, and she wouldn't have walked across the street to attend his funeral, let alone fly in from Reno.

Tully Archer, the venerable defensive coordinator of the Chicago Stars, left Reed's side and approached Phoebe. With his white hair, grizzled eyebrows, and red-veined nose, he looked like a beardless Santa Claus.

"Terrible thing, Miss Somerville. Terrible." He cleared his throat with a rhythmic hut-hut hut-hut. "Don't believe we've met. Unusual not to have met Bert's daughter, all the years we've known each other. Bert and I go way back, and I'm going to miss him. Not that the two of us always agreed on things. He could be d.a.m.ned stubborn. But, still, we go way back."

He continued shaking her hand and rambling on without ever making eye contact with her. Anyone who didn't follow football might have wondered how someone who seemed on the verge of senility could possibly coach a professional football team, but those who had seen him work never made the mistake of underestimating his coaching abilities.

He loved to talk, however, and when he showed no intention of running out of words, Phoebe interrupted. "And aren't you just a dear dear to say so, Mr. Archer. An absolute to say so, Mr. Archer. An absolute sugarplum sugarplum."

Tully Archer had been called many things in his life, but he had never been called a sugarplum, and the appellation left him temporarily speechless, which might have been what she intended because she immediately turned away only to see a regiment of monster men lined up to offer their condolences.

In shoes the size of tramp steamers, they shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Thousands of pounds of beef on the hoof with thighs like battering rams, they had thick, monstrous necks rooted in bulging shoulders. Their hands were clasped like grappling hooks in front of them as if they expected the national anthem to begin playing at any moment, and their freakish, oversized bodies were stuffed into sky blue team blazers and gray trousers. Beads of perspiration from the midday heat glimmered on skin that ranged in color from a glistening blue-black to a suntanned white. Like plantation slaves, the National Football League's Chicago Stars had come to pay homage to the man who owned them.

A slit-eyed, neckless man who looked as if he should be leading a riot at a maximum security prison stepped up. He kept his eyes so firmly fixed on Phoebe's face that it was obvious he was forcing himself not to let his gaze drift lower to her spectacular b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I'm Elvis Crenshaw, nose guard. Real sorry about Mr. Somerville."

Phoebe accepted his condolences. The nose guard moved on, glancing curiously at Viktor Szabo as he pa.s.sed.

Viktor, who stood only a few feet from Phoebe, had struck his Rambo pose, a feat not all that easy to carry off considering the fact that he had a small white poodle cradled in his arms instead of an Uzi. Still, he could tell the pose was working because nearly every woman in the crowd was watching him. Now, if he could only catch the attention of that s.e.xy creature with the marvelous derriere, his day would be perfect.

Unfortunately, the s.e.xy creature with the marvelous derriere had stopped in front of Phoebe and had eyes only for her.

"Miz Somerville, I'm Dan Calebow, head coach of the Stars."

"Well, hel-lo, hel-lo, Mr. Calebow," Phoebe crooned in a voice that sounded to Viktor like a peculiar cross between Bette Midler and Bette Davis, but then he was Hungarian, and what did he know. Mr. Calebow," Phoebe crooned in a voice that sounded to Viktor like a peculiar cross between Bette Midler and Bette Davis, but then he was Hungarian, and what did he know.

Phoebe was Viktor's best friend in the entire world, and he would have done anything for her, a devotion he was proving by agreeing to act out this macabre charade as her lover. At this moment, however, he wanted nothing more than to whisk her away from harm. She didn't seem to understand that she was playing with fire by toying with that hot-blooded man. Or maybe she did. When Phoebe felt cornered, she could haul an entire army of defensive weapons into action, and seldom were any of them wisely chosen.

Dan Calebow hadn't spared Viktor a glance, so it wasn't difficult for the Hungarian to categorize him as one of those maddening men who was completely close-minded on the subject of an alternative lifestyle. A pity, but an att.i.tude Viktor accepted with his characteristic good nature.

Phoebe might not recognize Dan Calebow, but Viktor followed American football and knew that Calebow had been one of the NFL's most explosive and controversial quarterbacks until he had retired five years ago to take up coaching. In midseason last fall Bert had fired the Stars' head coach and hired Dan, who had been working for the rival Chicago Bears' organization, to fill the position.

Calebow was a big, blond lion of a man who carried himself with the authority of someone who had no patience for self-doubt. A bit taller than Viktor's own six feet, he was more muscular than most professional quarterbacks. He had a high, broad forehead and a strong nose with a small b.u.mp at the bridge. His bottom lip was slightly fuller than his top, and a thin white scar marked the point midway between his mouth and chin. But his most fascinating feature wasn't either that interesting mouth, his thick tawny hair, or the macho chin scar. Instead, it was a pair of predatory sea-green eyes, which were, at that moment, surveying his poor Phoebe with such intensity that Viktor half expected her skin to begin steaming.

"I'm real sorry about Bert," Calebow said, his Alabama boyhood still evident in his speech. "We surely are going to miss him."

"How kind of you to say so, Mr. Calebow."

A faintly exotic cadence had been added to the husky undertones of Phoebe's speech, and Viktor realized she had introduced Kathleen Turner to her repertoire of s.e.xy female voices. She didn't usually shift around so much, so he knew she was rattled. Not that she'd let anyone see it. Phoebe had a reputation as a s.e.xpot to uphold.

Viktor's attention returned to the Stars' head coach. He remembered reading that Dan Calebow had been nicknamed "Ice" during his playing days because of his chilling lack of compa.s.sion for his opponent. He couldn't blame Phoebe for being unsettled in his presence. This man was formidable.

"Bert surely did love the game," Calebow continued, "and he was a good man to work for."

"I'm certain he was." Each prolonged syllable she uttered was a breathlessly delivered promise of s.e.xual debauchery, a promise Viktor knew all too well Phoebe had no intention of keeping.

He realized how nervous she was when she turned and held her arms out to him. Guessing correctly that she wanted Pooh as a distraction device, he stepped forward, but just as she took the animal, a maintenance truck that had entered the cemetery backfired, startling the poodle.

Pooh gave a yap and leapt free of her arms. The dog had been restrained too long, and she began a wild dash through the crowd, yapping shrilly, her tail wagging so wildly the pom-pom looked as if it might fly off at any moment and whistle through the air like Oddjob's hat.

"Pooh!" Phoebe cried, taking off after her just as the small white dog b.u.mped against the slender metal legs that supported a towering arrangement of gladiolus.

Phoebe wasn't the most athletic of creatures under the best of circ.u.mstances. Further hampered by her tight skirt, she couldn't reach the dog in time to prevent disaster. The flowers teetered and toppled backward, knocking into the wreath jammed next to them, which, in turn, upset a ma.s.sive spray of dahlias. The arrangements were packed so closely together that it was impossible for one to fall without knocking into another, and flowers and water began to fly. The mourners who were standing nearby jumped away in an effort to protect their clothing and knocked into more of the floral tributes. Like dominoes, one basket tipped against another, until the ground began to look like Merlin Olsen's worst nightmare.

Phoebe whipped off her sungla.s.ses to reveal her exotically tilted amber eyes. "Stay, Pooh! Stay, dammit! Viktor!" Viktor!"

Viktor had already rushed to the opposite side of the casket in an effort to head off the rampaging poodle, but in his haste he knocked over several chairs, which, in turn, flew into another group of floral arrangements, setting off a separate chain reaction.

A Gold Coast socialite, who fancied herself an expert on small dogs since she owned a shiatsu, made a leap for the frenzied poodle only to draw up short when Pooh dropped her tail, bared her teeth, and snapped at her like a canine Terminator. Although Pooh was generally the most congenial of dogs, the socialite had the misfortune to be wearing Calvin Klein's Eternity, a fragrance Pooh had detested ever since one of Phoebe's friends, who had been drenched in it, had called her a mutt and kicked her under the table.

Phoebe, whose side-slit skirt was showing far too much of her thigh for respectability, shot between two defensive linemen. They watched with open amus.e.m.e.nt as she gestured toward the poodle. "Pooh! Here, Pooh!"

Molly Somerville, mortified by the spectacle her half sister was making, tried to hide herself in the crowd.

As Phoebe dodged a chair, the heavy gold fig leaf dangling from the links of her belt b.u.mped against the part of her that fig leaves had been designed to shield. She began to grab for it before she was permanently bruised, only to have the slippery leather soles of her pumps. .h.i.t a batch of wet lilies. Her feet shot out from under her, and, with a whoosh of expelled breath, she fell.

At the sight of her mistress sliding across the ground on her rear, Pooh forgot about the menacingly perfumed socialite. Incorrectly interpreting Phoebe's actions as an invitation to play, the dog's yips grew delirious with excitement.

Phoebe tried unsuccessfully to scramble to her feet, giving both the Mayor of Chicago and several members of the rival Bears' organization a generous view of the top of her thigh. Pooh dashed between the legs of a pompous network sportscaster and shot under the graveside chairs just as Viktor came toward her from the other side. The dog loved to play with Viktor, and her yips grew more fervent.

Pooh made a quick jog, but braked sharply as she realized she was blocked by overturned flower baskets and a large patch of sodden gra.s.s-a formidable barrier for an animal who hated getting her paws wet. Cornered, she leapt up onto one of the folding chairs. When it began to teeter, she gave a nervous yip and jumped to another and from there up onto a smooth, hard surface.

The crowd gave a collective gasp as white roses and streamers of sky blue and gold ribbon went flying. Everyone fell silent.

Phoebe, who had just managed to get to her feet, froze. Viktor cursed softly in Hungarian.

Pooh, always sensitive to the humans she loved, c.o.c.ked her head to the side as if she were trying to understand why everybody was looking at her. Sensing that she had done something very wrong, she began to tremble.

Phoebe caught her breath. It wasn't good for Pooh to get nervous. She remembered the last time it had happened and took a quick step forward. "No, Pooh!"

But her warning came too late. The trembling dog was already squatting. With an apologetic expression on her small, furry face, she began to pee on the lid of Bert Somerville's casket.

Bert Somerville's estate had been built in the 1950s on ten acres of land in the affluent Chicago suburb of Hinsdale, located in the heart of DuPage County. In the early twentieth century the county had been rural, but as the decades slipped by, its small towns had grown together until they formed a giant bedroom for the executives who boarded the Burlington Northern commuter trains that took them into the Loop each day, and also for the engineers who worked in the high-tech industries that sprang up along the East West Tollway. Gradually, the brick wall that bordered the estate had been enclosed by shady residential streets.

As a child Phoebe had spent little time living in the stately Tudor home that sat among the oaks, maples, and walnut trees of the western suburbs. Bert had kept her in a private Connecticut boarding school until summer, when he sent her to an exclusive girls' camp. During her infrequent trips home, she had found the house dark and oppressive, and as she climbed the curving staircase to the second floor two hours after the funeral, she decided that nothing had happened to make her alter her opinion.

The condemning eyes of an elephant illegally bagged during one of Bert's African safaris stared down at her from the maroon-flocked wallpaper at the top of the staircase. Her shoulders slumped dispiritedly. Gra.s.s stains soiled her ivory suit, and the sheer nylons that sheathed her legs were dirty and torn. Her blond hair stuck out in every direction, and she'd long ago eaten off her peony-pink lipstick.

Unbidden, the face of the Stars' head coach came back to her. He was the one who had picked Pooh off the casket by the scruff of her neck. Those green eyes of his had been cold and condemning as he'd handed the dog over to her. Phoebe sighed. The melee of her father's funeral was another screwup in a life already full of them. She had wanted everyone to know she didn't care that her father had disinherited her, but as usual, she had gone too far and everything had backfired.

She paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, wondering if her life might have been different if her mother had lived. She no longer thought very much about the showgirl mother she couldn't remember, but as a lonely child she had woven elaborate fantasies about her, trying to conjure up in her imagination a tender, beautiful woman who would have given her all the love her father had withheld.

She wondered if Bert had ever really loved anyone. He'd had little use for women in general, and none at all for an overweight, clumsy little girl who didn't have a high opinion of herself to begin with. For as long as she could remember, he had told her she was useless, and she now suspected that he might have been right.

At the age of thirty-three, she was unemployed and nearly broke. Arturo had died seven years ago. She had spent the first two years after his death administering the touring exhibits of his paintings, but after the collection went on permanent display in Paris's Musee d'Orsay, she'd moved to Manhattan. The money Arturo had left her when he'd died had gradually disappeared, helping to pay the medical expenses of many of her friends who had died from AIDS. She didn't regret a penny. For years she'd worked in a small, but exclusive, West Side gallery that specialized in the avant-garde. Just last week, her elderly employer had closed the doors for the last time, leaving her at loose ends while she looked for a new direction in her life.

The thought flickered through her mind that she was getting tired of being outrageous, but she was feeling too fragile to cope with introspection, so she finished making her way to her sister's bedroom and knocked on the door. "Molly, it's Phoebe. May I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Molly, may I come in?"

More seconds ticked by before Phoebe heard a muted, sullen, "I guess."

She mentally braced herself as she turned the k.n.o.b and stepped inside the bedroom that had been hers as a child. During the few weeks each year when she had lived here, the room had been cluttered with books, food sc.r.a.ps, and tapes of her favorite music. Now it was as pin-neat as its occupant.

Molly Somerville, the fifteen-year-old half sister Phoebe barely knew, sat in a chair by the window, still dressed in the shapeless brown dress she'd worn to the funeral. Unlike Phoebe, who had been overweight as a child, Molly was rail thin, and her heavy, jaw-length dark brown hair needed a good trim. She was also plain, with pale, dull skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun and small, unremarkable features.

"How are you doing, Molly?"

"Fine." She didn't look up from the book that lay open in her lap.

Phoebe sighed to herself. Molly made no secret of the fact that she hated her guts, but they'd had so little contact over the years that she wasn't certain why. When Phoebe had returned to the States after Arturo's death, she'd made several trips to Connecticut to visit Molly at school, but Molly had been so uncommunicative she'd eventually given up. She'd continued to send birthday and Christmas presents, however, along with occasional letters, all of which went unacknowledged. It was ironic that Bert had disinherited her from everything except what should have been his most important responsibility.

"Can I get you anything? Something to eat?"

Molly shook her head and silence fell between them.

"I know this has been tough. I'm really sorry."

The child shrugged.

"Molly, we need to talk, and it would be easier on both of us if you'd look at me."

Molly lifted her head from her book and regarded Phoebe with blank, patient eyes, giving Phoebe the uneasy feeling that she was the child and her sister the adult. She wished she still smoked, because she was in desperate need of a cigarette.

"You know that I'm your legal guardian now."

"Mr. Hibbard explained it to me."

"I think we need to talk about your future."

"There's nothing to talk about."

She pushed a wayward blond curl behind her ear. "Molly, you don't have to go back to camp if you don't want to. You're more than welcome to fly to New York with me tomorrow for the rest of the summer. I've subleased an apartment from a friend who's in Europe. It has a great location."

"I want to go back."

From the pallor of Molly's skin, Phoebe didn't believe her sister enjoyed camp any more than she had. "You can if you really want to, but I know what it's like to feel as if you don't have a home. Remember that Bert sent me to school at Crayton, too, and packed me off to camp every summer. I hated it. New York is fun during the summer. We could have a great time and get to know each other better."

"I want to go to camp," Molly repeated stubbornly.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"I'm sure. You have no right to keep me from going back."

Despite the child's hostility and the headache that was beginning to form at her temples, Phoebe was reluctant to let the issue pa.s.s so easily. She decided to try a new tack and nodded toward the book in Molly's lap. "What are you reading?"

"Dostoyevski. I'm doing an independent study on him in the fall."

"I'm impressed. That's pretty heavy reading for a fifteen-year-old."