mouth his best feature, though he rarely smiled at her unless it was to bare his teeth and snarl.
Uncle Jolley had liked his looks, and had told Pandora so in his early stages of matchmaking. A hobby she’d made sure he’d given up quickly. Well, he hadn’t given it up precisely, but she’d ignored it all the same.
Being rather short and round himself, perhaps Jolley had appreciated Donahue’s long lean frame, and the narrow intense face. Pandora might have liked it herself, except that Michael’s eyes were often distant and detached.
At the moment he looked like one of the heroes in the action series he wrote—leaning negligently against the wall and looking just a bit out of place in the tidy suit and tie. His dark hair was casual and not altogether neat, as though he hadn’t thought to comb it into place after riding with the top down. He looked bored and ready for action. Any action.
It was too bad, Pandora thought, that they didn’t get along better. She’d have liked to have reminisced with someone about Uncle Jolley, someone who appreciated his whimsies as she had.
There was no use thinking along those lines. If they’d elected to sit together, they’d have been picking little pieces out of each other by now. Uncle Jolley, smirking down from his portrait, knew it very well.
With a half sigh she blew her nose again and tried to listen to Fitzhugh. There was something about a bequest to whales. Or maybe it was whalers.
Another hour of this, Michael thought, and he’d be ready to chew raw meat. If he heard one more whereas… On a long breath, Michael drew himself in. He was here for the duration because he’d loved the crazy old man. If the last thing he could do for Jolley was to stand in a room with a group of human vultures and listen to long rambling legalese, then he’d do it. Once it was over, he’d pour himself a long shot of brandy and toast the old man in private. Jolley had had a fondness for brandy.
When Michael had been young and full of imagination and his parents hadn’t understood, Uncle Jolley had listened to him ramble, encouraged him to dream. Invariably on a visit to the Folley, his uncle had demanded a story then had settled himself back, bright-eyed and eager, while Michael wove on. Michael hadn’t forgotten.
When he’d received his first Emmy for Logan’s Run, Michael had flown from L.A. to the Catskills and had given the statuette to his uncle. The Emmy was still in the old man’s bedroom, even if the old man wasn’t.
Michael listened to the dry impersonal attorney’s voice and wished for a cigarette. He’d only given them up two days before. Two days, four hours and thirty-five minutes. He’d have welcomed the raw meat.
He felt stifled in the room with all these people. Every one of them had thought old Jolley was half-mad and a bit of a nuisance. The one hundred fifty-million-dollar estate was different. Stocks and bonds were extremely sane. Michael had seen several assessing glances roaming over the library furniture. Big, ornate Georgian might not suit some of the streamlined life-styles, but it would liquidate into very tidy cash. The old man, Michael knew, had loved every clunky chair and oversize table in the house.
He doubted if any of them had been to the big echoing house in the past ten years. Except for Pandora, he admitted grudgingly. She might be an annoyance, but she’d adored Jolley.
At the moment she looked miserable. Michael didn’t believe he’d ever seen her look unhappy before—furious, disdainful, infuriating, but never unhappy. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have gone to sit beside her, offer some comfort, hold her hand. She’d probably chomp it off at the wrist.
Still, her shockingly blue eyes were red and puffy. Almost as red as her hair, he mused, as his gaze skimmed over the wild curly mane that tumbled, with little attention to discipline or style, around her shoulders. She was so pale that the sprinkling of freckles over her nose stood out. Normally her ivory-toned skin had a hint of rose in it—health or temperament, he’d never been sure.
Sitting among her solemn, black-clad family, she stood out like a parrot among crows. She’d worn a vivid blue dress. Michael approved of it, though he’d never say so to Pandora. She didn’t need black and crepe and lilies to mourn. That he understood, if he didn’t understand her.
She annoyed him, periodically, with her views on his life-style and career. When they clashed, it didn’t take long for him to hurl criticism back at her. After all, she was a bright, talented woman who was content to play around making outrageous jewelry for boutiques rather than taking advantage of her Master’s degree in education.
She called him materialistic, he called her idealistic. She labeled him a chauvinist, he labeled her a pseudo-intellectual. Jolley had sat with his hands folded and chuckled every time they argued. Now that he was gone, Michael mused, there wouldn’t be an opportunity for any more battles. Oddly enough, he found it another reason to miss his uncle.
The truth was, he’d never felt any strong family ties to anyone but Jolley. Michael didn’t think of his parents very often. His father was somewhere in Europe with his fourth wife, and his mother had settled placidly into Palm Springs society with husband number three. They’d never understood their son who’d opted to work for a living in something as bourgeois as television.
But Jolley had understood and appreciated. More, much more important to Michael, he’d enjoyed Michael’s work.
A grin spread over his face when he heard Fitzhugh drone out the bequest for whales. It was so typically Jolley. Several impatient relations hissed through their teeth. A hundred fifty thousand dollars had just spun out of their reach. Michael glanced up at the larger-than-life-size portrait of his uncle. You always said you’d have the last word, you old fool. The only trouble is you’re not here to laugh about it.
“To my son, Carlson…” All the quiet muttering and whispers died as Fitzhugh cleared his throat. Without much interest Pandora watched her relatives come to attention. The charities and servants had their bequests. Now it was time for the big guns. Fitzhugh glanced up briefly before he continued. “Whose—aaah—mediocrity was always a mystery to me, I leave my entire collection of magic tricks in hopes he can develop a sense of the ridiculous.”
Pandora choked into her tissue and watched her uncle turn beet red. First point Uncle Jolley, she thought and prepared to enjoy herself. Maybe he’d left the whole business to the A.S.P.C.A.
“To my grandson, Bradley, and my granddaughter by marriage, Lorraine, I leave my very best wishes. They need nothing more.”
Pandora swallowed and blinked back tears at the reference to her parents. She’d call them in Zanzibar that evening. They would appreciate the sentiment even as she did.
“To my nephew Monroe who has the first dollar he ever made, I leave the last dollar I made, frame included. To my niece, Patience, I leave my cottage in Key West without much hope she’ll have the gumption to use it.”
Monroe chomped on his cigar while Patience looked horrified.
“To my grand-nephew, Biff, I leave my collection of matches, with the hopes that he will, at last, set the world on fire. To my pretty grand-niece, Ginger, who likes equally pretty things, I leave the sterling silver mirror purported to have been owned by Marie Antoinette. To my grand-nephew, Hank, I leave the sum of 3528. Enough, I believe, for a lifetime supply of wheat germ.”
The grumbles that had begun with the first bequest continued and grew. Anger hovered on the edge of outrage. Jolley would have liked nothing better. Pandora made the mistake of glancing over at Michael. He didn’t seem so distant and detached
