just in time,” said a man teetering on the top rung of a ladder that overlooked the track.
Even though he was older now, she recognized him from the television program. Elliot Trumbull in the flesh. And he was indeed the purveyor of all things fun.
No stuffy business attire for him. He was dressed in a professional racecar driver’s jumpsuit, complete with half a dozen endorsement patches sewn on the sleeves and chest. In one hand, he held a flag; in the other, a bright orange starter pistol. As Ella stood transfixed, he fired the gun into the air—the bullet a blank, she assumed, since it didn’t take out any ceiling tiles—and declared the race under way. On the track, three vehicles about the size of her palm whirred into action.
“They’re sound activated by the pistol,” he told her. “After that, a computer takes over and ultimately decides the race. Care to place a bet on the winning car?”
“Ten bucks on number seventy-seven,” she replied, without stopping to wonder if she had enough money in her purse to cover her wager.
“Why that one?” he wanted to know.
“Because blue’s my favorite color and seven is my lucky number.”
“Sound reasons to pick it then,” he agreed without a trace of his nephew’s mockery in his tone. “I always go with red for the same reason. You must be Ella.”
After climbing down from the ladder, Elliot picked his way over the track to her. She placed his age at late sixties and his weight at one-eighty with most of it centered at his waist. He had a shaggy mustache and a mop of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a decidedly Einstein vibe.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Trumbull.”
She would have shaken his hand, but he took the one she extended and kissed the back of it instead. Make that Einstein meets Sir Galahad.
“Call me Elliot. We don’t stand on formality around here.” His bushy brows pulled together in a frown and he muttered, “At least I don’t. I run a toy company, for the time being, at least. That should be fun, don’t you think?”
“I do,” she agreed.
“Good. At least someone does. Would you like something to drink?” Instead of offering the usual coffee or tea, he said, “My secretary makes the best strawberry malts this side of the Mississippi. Probably the best on either side, come to think of it.”
Ella’s mouth watered at the offer, but she shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“All right. Then, have a seat and we’ll get started.”
The room didn’t have a proper sitting area. Instead, it boasted two white chairs that resembled hollowed-out eggs on clear plastic stands, and a cushioned porch swing that hung from the ceiling on a pair of thick chains. It creaked when Ella sat down and set it into motion.
“Comfortable?”
“Very. My grandmother has a swing like this at her house in New Jersey.”
Elliot beamed. “My grandmother had one, too. I loved that swing. Did some of my best thinking on it as a boy. That’s why I have one here. What do you think of my office?”
She glanced around and couldn’t hold back her smile. “It’s a lot fun.”
“Exactly. Let me ask you something, Ella. Do you think toys are only for children?”
She shook her head. “Aren’t we all children at heart?”
“Not all of us,” Elliot said. Then, “Ah, speak of the devil.”
She glanced over to find Chase looming in the doorway. His expression was one hundred and eighty degrees the opposite of his uncle’s inviting grin. He looked positively grim.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you that before this afternoon’s meeting with the board of directors we need to go over some reports.”
“Meetings and reports,” Elliot muttered before hooking his thumb in Chase’s direction and adding in a not-so-confidential whisper, “All work and no play, that one. I guess some good genes skip a generation.”
She bit back a smile. It was impossible not to find the older man charming, even if his humor came at his nephew’s expense.
Chase remained stoic. “It’s important. When do you think you’ll be finished here?”
“Oh, it will be a while yet.” Instead of pointing out that they had barely gotten beyond introductions, Elliot said, “The cars are only on their third lap.” Then he whistled softly. “Look at your blue car, Ella. It’s pulled ahead of the silver, but my red one is still in the lead.”
“Come see me when you’re done in here.” Chase nodded politely in her direction.
When he turned to leave, however, Elliot said, “I’d like you to stay, Chase. I value your opinion.”
“You already know how I feel about the party, Uncle.”
“Wake, you mean.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Oh, but I am. Professionally speaking anyway.” To Ella, he said matter-of-factly, “My board of directors thinks I’ve lost my marbles. That’s ironic, don’t you think, given that I make toys for a living?”
“I...I...” At a loss for words, she glanced at Chase.
His cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red. “No one is saying that,” he ground out.
“To my face,” Elliot conceded. “But we both know what is being said behind my back.”
“When I find out who started the rumors we’ll sue them for slander,” Chase declared.
“I will be out of a job by then. Owen is only too happy to take my place. He’s my son,” Elliot informed Ella. “He has the head for this business, but not the heart. That apparently skipped a generation, too.”
“Ah.” She nodded, not knowing what else to do.
To Chase, Elliot said, “The writing is on the wall. Don’t think I don’t know it. I may be slowing down, becoming a little forgetful, but I’m not stupid.”
The older man sounded weary, resigned.
In contrast, Chase’s tone was infused with urgency. “That’s why we need to talk, put together a plan of action before this afternoon’s meeting.”
“All right,” Elliot conceded with a sigh. “But after I speak with Ella. Stay, Chase. Please.”
Chase was too tall to sit comfortably in either of the egg-shaped chairs, so he joined Ella on the swing. His feet remained firmly planted on the floor, bringing the swing to a halt. It was time to get down to business.
Calm. Collected. Confident. She chanted the three words in her head as she exhaled slowly and pulled a small notepad from her purse. She’d jotted
