Some Enchanted Evening

(Note to Readers: Apologies for the long gap in entries, but Francie, and her creator, have been super-busy. Hopefully things will be back on track now. Remember, if you haven’t read Francie’s story before, or it’s been a while, start from the oldest entry and work your way forward. Enjoy!)

Enchanted? Well, that’s one word to describe the night I met Michael Rhodes. But, I can think of a few more suitable ones – cursed, forsaken, blighted. I could go on, but I donated my thesaurus to the Goodwill. Suffice it to say that Michael Rhodes is the biggest Pain in the – Anyway, you get the idea.

I met Michael about a year ago, not long after the birthday that brought Roxie into my life (now, there was an enchanted evening!). It started with a voicemail on my cell that went something like this, “Miss Fellowes, Michael Rhodes. I need to meet with you to discuss your . . .  ‘services.’ I’ll meet you this Thursday at the New York AC on Central Park South. 7 PM. Give my name when you arrive.”

Actually, that’s exactly how the message went, complete with pause and airquotes on “services.” And it wasn’t like he asked to meet me. No, he ordered me to be at the New York Athletic Club on Thursday at 7 – as if I were some underling he could just order around at will. Strike One! Seriously, if that didn’t say everything I needed to know about Michael Rhodes . . .

So, why did I go to the New York AC that Thursday at 7? To this day, I’m not really sure. I told myself I was going for the sole purpose of telling this arrogant jerk exactly what I thought of his summons. And, that was part of the motivation, certainly.  But, if I’m honest with myself, I know there was more to it than that. Arrogance aside, it seemed like he wanted to hire me, so I couldn’t very well let a business opportunity pass me by. I don’t have to like my clients. After all, I just have to work with them for a short time. It occurred to me that his was a young voice, and (arrogance aside), I hoped it wasn't for himself that he needed my services. At any rate, anyone who was a member of the New York AC was bound to have connections that would prove useful for my business. And. honestly, I was curious. I don’t know – there was something in his voice that was just . . . intriguing. So, one drink at the bar and a fifteen-minute conversation was surely a small sacrifice for the gratification of either satisfying my curiosity, signing a new client, or telling off a jerk.

Oh, if only it were that simple. I got to the club at 6:45 Thursday evening, gave his name, and was shown to a private table at the rear of the lounge. 7PM came and went, and no Michael Rhodes. At 7:15, I asked the waiter if he had called (since I had no way to call him), and the answer was no. Strike Two! I waited another ten minutes, and was just picking up my purse to leave, when a ridiculously handsome man approached my table.

“Miss Fellowes?” he asked, holding out his hand. My mouth went dry and I temporarily forgot that I didn’t like this man. I automatically took his hand and shook it, not saying anything. Yeah, I know, real professional, but I’m telling you – you should have seen this guy. Tall, fit, short but wavy brown hair, and intense green eyes that seemed like they could see through you. I wasn’t quite prepared for that. To be honest, I had been so angry with his arrogance on the phone, I think I had convinced myself that he must be short, fat and bald, with a tendency to sweat profusely. So not.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting across from me. “I got stuck in a meeting downtown and I left your number at the office.”

I recovered myself quickly enough that I don’t think I looked like a total ass, and said, “You couldn’t have called the club?”

To give him his due (and I really hate to), he looked nonplussed by this and said, “Oh, yeah, I guess I could have. Sorry.”

Confident that I had him wrong-footed now, I said, “You mentioned that you wished to discuss my services.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, and then stuck his shiny black leather shoe into it: “First, let me say that I think what you do is unseemly at best and parasitic at worst.”

Strike Three! “Oh, you are so out,” I muttered, rising and grabbing my purse again.

“Excuse me?” he asked, seeming genuinely confused.

I realized that I had, of course, been umpiring in my head, so his confusion about my choice of words was understandable. But, could he really not understand my reaction? “I am not going to sit here and be insulted,” I said, and I began to walk away.

He called to me to wait. I didn’t. I got to the door, and suddenly felt his hand on my arm. I turned, looked at the hand, and then looked at him. He got the message, and let go, but he persisted in trying to get me to stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. At least hear me out. I do need your services. Or at least, my grandmother does.”

I was seething by that point, but I decided to hear what he had to say, and followed him back to the table. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother, “ I offered. Even I heard the slightly sullen tone in my voice. “How much time does she have?”

A wry smile tugged at Michael’s lips, and I felt my heart skip a beat. Stupid hormones. “In my medical opinion,” he replied, “she’s going to live forever. But, she disagrees.”

“Are you her doctor?”

“No, I run her foundation.” My confusion must have been apparent, because he added, “My grandmother is Lila Finley.”

Now I’m certain my jaw dropped at that point. Lila Finley? “The Lila Finley?”

“You’ve heard of her.”

“Of course I’ve heard of her. So has every museum, theatre company and children’s charity in the City. Your grandmother is the most philanthropic woman in New York.”

“Person.”

“What?”

“My grandmother is the most philanthropic person in New York – man or woman.”

“Right, OK.” I took a minute to marshal my thoughts. This was definitely not what I was expecting tonight. “I don’t understand, though, I hadn’t heard she was ill.”

“She’s not.” Michael sighed. “Not really. She’s 75 and she was just diagnosed with a minor heart condition. I think she’s just feeling her mortality a bit.”

I still didn’t understand. “So, why come to me?”

Michael sighed again. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. What I said before – maybe it was a bit harsh, but it’s true. I don’t really believe in what you do.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just trying to be honest here.”

“Yeah, well, let me be honest – I’m about two seconds from walking out, and I won’t turn back this time.”

“Listen, what I think isn’t important.  My grandmother has heard about what you do and she asked me to contact you. She wants to plan her funeral and she wants the best to assist her. Apparently, you’re the best.”

His tone told me quite clearly that he disagreed with the idea that I was the best at anything. Still, he was right – what he thought wasn’t important. His grandmother was the client, not him. And to land a client like Lila Finley would be one hell of a coup. So, why did his disapproval bother me so much?

“I’ve certainly worked with people on their own services before,” I said, trying to keep my focus on professional matters. “But you say your grandmother is not dying. Is that what her doctors say as well?”

“Her doctors feel she needs to take it easy and take care of herself, but no, they don’t feel she is in any imminent danger.”

“Then why—?”

“Because it’s what she wants.”

And in the end, it was that simple. Michael and I discussed terms (and the terms were generous), and I agreed to meet Lila Finley at her Fifth Avenue Penthouse that Saturday afternoon. And over the next few months, I discovered that one – yes, enchanted – evening could change a person’s life forever.